The Icarus Agenda (93 page)

“You’re a regular comedian.… Go on over and open the door, there’s no key.”

“No
key
?”

“Surprises you, doesn’t it?” laughed the mafioso. “Me, too, until that guard explained. Everything’s
electronica
. I’ve got a little widget, like a garage opener, and when I press a button a couple of steel bars slide out of the frame and back into the door. They work inside, too.”

“With time I might have figured that out for myself.”

“You’re cool, Congressman.”

“Not as cool as I should have been,” said Kendrick, walking down the path to the door and opening it. His eyes were greeted by the rustic splendor of a well-appointed New England mountain retreat, in no way reminiscent of southern California or northern Mexico. The walls consisted of bulging logs cemented
together, two thick windows on each of the four walls, a break in the center of the rear wall obviously for a bathroom. Every convenience had been considered: a kitchen area was located at the far right, complete with a mirrored bar; on the far left was a king-sized bed and, in front of it, seating quarters with a large television set and several quilted armchairs. The builder in Evan concluded that the small house belonged more properly in a snow-laden Vermont than in the waters somewhere south and west of Tijuana. Still, it was bucolically charming and he had no doubt that many guests on the island enjoyed it. But it had another purpose. It was also a prison cell.

“Very pleasant,” said Bollinger’s guard, walking into the large single room, his weapon constantly but unobtrusively leveled at Kendrick. “How about a drink, Congressman?” he asked, heading for the recessed mirrored bar. “I don’t know about you, but I could use one.”

“Why not?” replied Evan, looking around the room designed for a northern climate.

“What’s your pleasure?”

“Canadian and ice, that’s all,” said Kendrick, moving slowly from area to area, examining the interior construction of the cabin, his practiced eye seeking flaws that might lead to a way out. There were none; the place was airtight, escape-proof. The window sashes were secured, not with recessed magnesium nails but with bolts concealed by layered plaster; the front door had internal hinges, impossible to reach without a powerful drill, and finally, walking into the bathroom, he saw that it was windowless, the two vents small grilled apertures four inches wide.

“Great little hideaway, isn’t it?” said the mafioso, greeting Evan with his drink as he emerged from the bathroom.

“As long as you don’t miss sightseeing,” replied Kendrick, his eyes aimlessly straying over to the kitchen area. Something was odd, he considered, but again nothing specific came to him. Aware of the guard’s weapon, he passed the mirrored bar and went to a dark-stained oval oak table, where presumably meals were served. It was perhaps six or seven feet in front of a long counter in the center of which a stove had been inserted beneath a line of cabinets. The sink and the refrigerator, separated by another counter, were against the right wall. What was it that bothered him? Then he saw a small microwave oven built in below the last cabinet on the left; he looked back at the stove. That was it.

Electric. Everything was
electric
, that was the oddity. In the
vast majority of rustic cabins, propane gas was piped in from portable tanks outside to eliminate the need for electricity for such appliances as stoves and ovens. The maxim was to keep the amperage as low as possible, not so much because of expense but for convenience, in case of electrical malfunctions. Then he thought of the lamps on the pier and the amber ground lights along the paths. Electricity. An abundance of
electricity
on an island at least twenty, if not fifty, miles away from the mainland. He was not sure what it all meant, but it was something to think about.

He walked out of the designated kitchen zone and over to the living room area. He looked down at the large television set and wondered what kind of antenna was required to pull signals across so many miles of open water. He sat down, now only barely aware of his armed escort, his mind on so many other things, including—painfully—Khalehla back at the hotel. She had expected him hours ago. What was she doing? What
could
she do? Evan raised his glass and drank several swallows of the whisky, grateful for the warming sensation that spread quickly through him. He looked over at Bollinger’s guard, who stood casually by the stained oak table, his weapon confidently on top of it, but on the edge, near his free right hand.

“Your health,” said the man from the Mafia, raising the glass in his left hand.

“Why not?” Without returning the courtesy, Kendrick drank, again feeling the quick, warming effects of the whisky.…
No!
It was too quick, too harsh, not warming but
burning
! Objects in the room suddenly pulsed in and out of focus; he tried to get up from the chair, but he could not control his legs or his arms! He stared at the obscenely grinning mafioso and started to shout but no sound came. He heard the glass shattering on the hard wood floor and felt a terrible weight pressing down on him. For the second time that night the darkness came as he kept falling, falling into an infinite void of black space.

The Secret Service man crossed to an intercom console built into the wall next to the mirrored bar. Frowning in thought, he pressed the three numbers he had been given on the boat.

“Yes, Cottage?” answered a soft male voice.

“Your boy’s asleep again.”

“Good, we’re ready for him.”

“I’ve got to inquire,” said the well-spoken
capo
. “Why did we bring him to in the first place?”

“Medical procedure, not that it’s any of your business.”

“I wouldn’t take that attitude, if I were you. We are owed and you’re the debtors.”

“All right. Without a medical history there are acceptable and unacceptable limits of dosage.”

“Two moderate applications rather than a single excessive one?”

“Something like that. Our doctor is very experienced in these things.”

“If he’s the same one, keep him out of sight. He’s on Kendrick’s death list.… And send down your Hispanics, I’m not contracted for hauling bodies.”

“Certainly. And don’t concern yourself about that doctor. He was on another list.”

“MJ, he’s still not back and it’s three-fifteen in the morning!” cried Khalehla into the phone. “Have you
learned
anything?”

“Nothing that makes sense,” replied the director of Special Projects, his voice thin and weary. “I haven’t called you because I thought you were getting some rest.”

“Don’t lie to me, Uncle Mitch. You’ve never had a problem telling me to work all night. That’s
Evan
out there!”

“I know, I know.… Did he mention anything to you about meeting someone in Balboa Park?”

“No, I don’t think he knows what it is or where it is.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. My grandparents live here, remember?”

“Do you know a place called the Balthazar?”

“It’s a coffeehouse for hotheads, Arab hotheads to be exact, students mostly. I was there once and never went back. Why do you ask?”

“Let me explain,” said Payton. “After your call several hours ago, we reached Bollinger’s house—as Kendrick’s office, of course—saying we had an urgent message for him. We were told he’d left around nine o’clock, which contradicted your information that he hadn’t returned by eleven; at best it’s a thirty-minute drive from the Vice President’s home to your hotel. So I contacted Gingerbread—Shapoff—who’s terribly good in these situations. He tracked everything down, including the driver of Evan’s limousine.… Our congressman asked to be let off at Balboa Park, so Gingerbread did his thing and ‘rustled up the neighborhood,’ as he phrased it. What he learned can be put in two enigmatic conclusions. One: a man fitting Evan’s description was seen walking in Balboa Park. Two: a number of people
inside the Balthazar have stated that this same man wearing dark glasses entered the establishment and stood for a long time by the cardamom-coffee machines before going to a table.”

“
Mitch
,” screamed Khalehla. “I’m looking at his dark glasses now! They’re on the bureau. He sometimes wears them during the day so he won’t be recognized, but never at night. He says they draw attention at night and he’s right about that. That man
wasn’t
Evan. It’s a setup. They’re holding him somewhere!”

“Hardball,” said Payton quietly. “We’ll have to get into the game.”

Kendrick opened his eyes as a person does who is unsure of where he is or what condition he is in or even whether he is awake or still asleep. There was only bewilderment, clouds of confusion swirling about in his head, and a numbness caused by frightening uncertainty. A lamp was on somewhere, its glow washing the beamed ceiling. He moved his hand, lifting his right arm off the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room. He studied both hand and arm, then suddenly, swiftly he raised his left arm. What had
happened
? He swung his legs off the bed and unsteadily stood up, equal parts of terror and curiosity gripping him. Gone were the thick corduroy trousers and the coarse black denim shirt. He was dressed in his own clothes! In his navy blue suit, his congressional suit, as he frequently and humorously referred to it, the suit he had worn to Bollinger’s house! And his white oxford broadcloth shirt and his striped regimental tie, all freshly cleaned and laundered. What had happened? Where
was
he? Where was the well-appointed rustic cabin with the all-electric appliances and the recessed mirrored bar? This was a large bedroom he had never seen before.

Slowly, regaining balance, he moved about the strange surroundings, a part of him wondering if he was living a dream or had just lived one previously. He saw a pair of tall, narrow French doors; he walked rapidly over and opened them. They led out to a small balcony large enough for a couple to have coffee on but no more than that—a miniature round table and two wrought-iron chairs had been placed for such a ritual. He stood in front of the waist-high railing and looked out over the darkened grounds, dark except for a practically nonexistent moon and the parallel lines of amber lights that branched off in various directions … and something else. Far in the distance, lit up by the dim wash of floodlights, was a fenced area not
unlike an immense wire cage. Within it there appeared to be blocks of massive machinery, some of it jet-black and glistening, others chrome or silver, equally shimmering in the dull, cloud-covered moonlight. Evan concentrated on the sight, then turned his head to listen; there was a steady uninterrupted hum, and he knew he had found the answer to a question that had confused him. He did not have to see the signs that read,
DANGER High Voltage;
they were there. The wire-enclosed machinery were components of a huge generator undoubtedly fed by giant underground tanks of fuel, and fields of photovoltaic cells to alternately capture the solar energy of the tropical sun.

Below the balcony was a sunken brick patio, the drop twenty-five feet or more, which meant a twisted ankle or a broken leg if a person tried to leave that way. Kendrick studied the exterior walls; the nearest drainpipe was at the corner of the structure, far out of reach, and there were no vines that could be scaled, only sheer stucco.… Blankets?
Sheets!
Tied firmly together, he could handle a drop of eight to ten feet! If he
hurried
 … He suddenly stopped all movement, ended all thoughts of racing into the room and to the bed, as a figure appeared walking down an amber-lighted path on the right, a rifle strapped over his shoulder. He raised his arm, a signal. Evan looked to the left; a second man was signaling back, patrols acknowledging each other. Kendrick pulled his watch up to his eyes, trying to read the second hand in the dull night light. If he could time the sentries’ coordinates, have everything
prepared
 … Again he was forced to stop what plans his desperation created. The bedroom door opened, and the reality that was, was now confirmed.

“I thought I heard you moving around,” said the Secret Service man from the ranks of the Mafia.

“And I should have realized the room was bugged,” said Evan, coming in from the balcony.

“You keep getting things wrong, Congressman. This is a guest room in the main house. You think these people would listen in on their guests’ private conversations or their perfectly natural indulgences together?”

“I think they’d do anything. Otherwise, how did you know I was up?”

“Easy,” answered the mafioso, crossing to the bureau against the far right wall and picking up a small flat object from the top. “One of these. They’re provided for people with infants. My sister in New Jersey won’t go anywhere without them—they
come in pairs. Plug it in one room, then plug it in another room and you can hear the child screaming. Let me tell you, her children scream a lot. You can hear them in Manhattan.”

“Very enlightening. When did I get my clothes back?”

“I don’t know. The Hispanics took care of you, not me. Perhaps you were raped and don’t know it.”

“Again, enlightening.… Have you any idea what you’ve done, what you’re involved in? You’ve abducted a not-unknown holder of government office, a member of the House of Representatives.”

“Good Lord, you make it sound like snatching the maître d’ at Vinnie’s Pasta Palace.”

“You’re not amusing—”

“
You
are,” interrupted the guard, removing his automatic from a shoulder holster. “You’re also on call, Congressman. You’re wanted downstairs.”

“Suppose I refuse the invitation?”

“Then I blow a hole through your stomach and kick a corpse down the stairs. Whichever, I really don’t care. I’m being paid for a service, not a guaranteed delivery. Take your choice, hero.”

The room was a naturalist’s nightmare. The heads of slain animals hung from the white stucco walls, their false eyes, eagerly inserted, reflecting the panic of impending death. Skins of leopard, tiger and elephant were the upholstery, neatly stretched and brass-tacked over chairs and couches. If nothing else, it was an assertion of the power of man’s bullet over unsuspecting wildlife, and not so much imposing as sad, as sad as the hollow triumphs of the victors.