The Icarus Agenda (78 page)

“Good
Christ
!” exclaimed Sundstrom. “Are you suggesting that Vice President Bollinger is responsible for these terrorist attacks, these
killings
?”

“Not directly, no, sir. It could be more on the order of King Henry’s remarks within the royal court regarding Thomas Becket. ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ The King gave no order, no instructions, he simply asked a pointed question, probably while laughing, but his knights didn’t miss the point. And the point here is that powerful people were instrumental in getting those killers into the country and supplied once they were here.”

“It’s
incredible
!” said Mandel, gripping his glasses, his voice a whisper.

“Just a minute,” interrupted Gideon Logan, his large head at an angle, his eyes still riveted on the Czech. “You’ve also suggested that Vanvlanderen’s stroke might have been something else. What makes you suspect that, and if you’re right, how is it related to the Palestinians?”

“My initial suspicions about his stroke came when I learned that within an hour of the body’s arrival at the mortuary Mrs. Vanvlanderen gave the order for immediate cremation, claiming that they had a mutual pact for the procedure.”

“Said procedure eliminating any chance for an autopsy.” Attorney Lowell nodded her head, clarifying the obvious. “What’s the Palestinian connection, Milos?”

“To begin with, the timing. A healthy sportsman with no history of hypertension is suddenly dead less than twenty-four hours after the attacks on Kendrick’s homes. Then, of course, learning further about Mrs. Vanvlanderen’s extensive Middle East contacts—that was prompted by our brief discussion about her during the last meeting. These are things the federal investigators will piece together within a matter of days, and, if valid, find probable cause to relate them to the massacres.”

“But if Vanvlanderen
was
dealing with the terrorists, why was he killed?” asked a bewildered Sundstrom. “He was the one holding the strings.”

“I’ll answer that, Eric,” said Margaret Lowell. “The best way
to put evidence out of reach is to destroy it. The courier is killed, not the one who sends the message. That way the instigator can’t be traced.”

“Too much, too
much
!” cried Jacob Mandel. “Such high levels of our government can be such
garbage
?”

“We know they can be, my friend,” answered Samuel Winters. “Otherwise we ourselves would not be doing what we’re doing.”

“The tragedy of it,” said the financier, shaking his head in sorrow. “A nation of such promise so racked from within. They’ll change all the rules, all the laws. For
what
?”

“For themselves,” replied Gideon Logan quietly.

“What do you think will happen, Milos?” asked Margaret Lowell.

“If there’s any substance to my speculations and the blackout runs its course, I believe a cover story will be created completely omitting any reference to government officials making contact with terrorists. Scapegoats, dead ones, will be found. Washington can’t afford to do otherwise; foreign policy would be in shambles.”

“And Bollinger?” Once again Sundstrom sat back in his chair.

“Officially, if the scapegoats are sufficiently convincing, he could be taken, as you say here, off the hook.… That’s officially, not where we are concerned.”

“That’s an interesting statement, if not an illuminating one, Mr. Varak,” said Winters. “Would you mind clarifying?”

“Not at all, sir. Although I must return to Chicago, I’ve made arrangements with certain personnel at the telephone company in San Diego to provide me with records of every call placed to Bollinger’s residence, his office and each member of his staff. They will state all initiating numbers and times, including pay phones and their locations. Unless I’m mistaken, we’ll have enough ammunition, if only circumstantial, to persuade the Vice President to gracefully remove himself from the ticket.”

The last limousine sped out of the drive as Samuel Winters hung up the telephone in the ornate, tapestried living room and joined Varak at the large front window.

“Which one
is
it?” said the Czech, staring out at the disappearing vehicle.

“I think you’ll know before it’s morning in California.… The helicopter will be here in a few minutes. The jet’s cleared for takeoff at four-thirty in Easton.”

“Thank you, sir. I trust we haven’t made all these arrangements for nothing.”

“Your case was very strong, Milos. Whoever it is won’t dare place a call. He
or
she will have to appear in person. Is everything set at the hotel?”

“Yes. My driver at the airport in San Diego will have the keys to the service entrance and the suite. I’ll use the freight elevator.”

“Tell me,” said the aristocratic white-haired historian. “Is it possible the scenario you presented to us this afternoon could be right?
Could
Andrew Vanvlanderen actually have made contact with the Palestinians?”

“No, sir, it’s
not
possible. His wife would never permit it. She’d have killed him herself if he tried. Those kinds of complicated arrangements could be traced, with difficulty, of course, but she’d never take the chance. She’s too professional.”

In the distance, over the waters of Chesapeake Bay, the chopping sounds of a helicopter’s rotors could be heard. They grew louder.

Khalehla dropped her purse on the floor, threw the two boxes and the three shopping bags on the bed and followed them, shoving the bags aside as her head hit the bulge of the pillows. She had asked “Gingerbread” Shapoff to drop her off at a department store so she could buy some clothes, since those she owned were in Cairo or Fairfax or in a Bahamian police car or on a U.S. Air Force jet.

“Fiddle-dee-dee,” she said in a weary imitation of Scarlet O’Hara as she stared at the ceiling. “I’d like to think about
everything
tomorrow,” she continued to herself out loud, “but, goddamnit, I can’t.” She sat up and reached for the hotel telephone, and dialed the appropriate numbers to reach Payton in Langley, Virginia.

“Yes?”

“MJ, don’t you ever go home?”

“Are
you
home, my dear?”

“I don’t know where it is any longer, but I’ll let you in on a secret, Uncle Mitch.”

“Uncle …? Good heavens, you must want a pony ride. What is it?”

“Home may end up being with a certain mutual friend of ours.”

“My, you
have
made progress.”

“No, he did. He even talked about twenty or thirty years.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. A real home and babies and things like that, I guess.”

“Then let’s bring him out alive, Adrienne.”

Khalehla shook her head, not in the negative but to bring herself back to the reality at hand. “The ‘Adrienne’ did it, MJ. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re entitled to our glimpses of happiness, and you know I want it all for you.”

“It never happened for you, though, did it?”

“It was my choice, Field Officer Rashad.”

“Gotcha, pal, or should I
sir
?”

“Say whatever you like, but listen to me. The first report is in from the clinic—the prisoner. They’re apparently traveling as priests, Maronite priests on Israeli passports. That boy doesn’t know very much; he’s an also-ran who was somehow permitted to be part of the team because of Kendrick. He was crippled while he was with our congressman in Oman.”

“I know, Evan told me. They were in a police truck heading down to the Jabal Sham. To their executions, they thought.”

“Things get fuzzy here … that youngster was told very little and rightly so, he’s completely unstable. From what our chemists can piece together, however, the two teams were to make contact near an airport—‘Command One’ joining ‘Command Two,’ which presumably means the Fairfax crowd was to hook up with the Colorado unit out
there
.”

“That’s a lot of arranging, MJ, a lot of mileage. They’ve got savvy travel agents working on their itineraries.”

“Very savvy and very hidden. One might almost say bureaucratically obscured.”

“Speaking of which, I’m two floors above the grieving widow.”

“Her office has been alerted. She’s been told to expect your call.”

“Then I’ll straighten up and go to work. Incidentally, I had to buy a few things to dress the part, but I’ll be damned if I’ll pay for them. Let’s say they’re not me; they’re a little on the severe side.”

“I thought, considering Mrs. Vanvlanderen’s past associations, you might be somewhat more chic.”

“Well, they’re not
that
severe.”

“I didn’t think so. Call me when it’s over.”

Khalehla hung up the phone, looked at it for a moment, then reached down for her purse on the floor. She opened it and took out a sheet of notepaper on which she had written Evan’s telephone number in Mesa Verde. Seconds later she dialed.

“The Kendrick residence,” said a woman’s voice Khalehla recognized as belonging to one of the nurses.

“May I speak with the Congressman, please? This is Miss Adrienne of the State Department.”

“Sure, hon, but you’ll have to hang on while I get him. He’s outside saying good-bye to that nice young Greek.”

“Who?”

“I think he’s Greek. He knows a lot of people the Congressman knew over in Arabia or wherever he was.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The priest. He’s a young priest from—”

“
Get Evan away!
” screamed Khalehla, lurching to her feet. “Yell for the guards! The
others
are
out
there! They want to
kill
him!”

It had been so simple, thought Ahbyahd, watching from the woods across from the despised enemy’s huge house. A sincere and pleasant young priest whose papers were in order and, of course, who had no weapons on him, bearing greetings from friends of the great man. Who could refuse him a brief audience, this innocent religious from a distant land unaware of the formalities attached to calling upon great men? His initial rejection had been countermanded by the enemy himself; the rest was up to a highly inventive believer. What remained was up to all of them. They would not fail.

Their young comrade was walking out of the house! He was shaking hands with the loathsome “Amal Bahrudi” under the watchful eyes of the guards in business suits and carrying automatic weapons. The believers could only estimate the size of the guard force; it was a minimum of twelve men, conceivably more inside. With the love of Allah the first assault would remove a large block of them, killing most and severely wounding the rest beyond functioning.

Their comrade was being escorted down the circular drive to
the automobile, courteously parked on the road beyond the tall hedges. Only moments now. And the beloved Allah looked favorably upon them! Three more guards appeared, bringing the total in front of the house to seven. Do your work, our brother! Drive
accurately
!

The comrade reached the automobile; he bowed his head politely, making the sign of the cross, and once again shook hands, now with his single escort concealed from the others by the hedges. He then opened the door and briefly coughed, supporting himself on the back of the seat as his right arm reached down over the fabric. Suddenly, with the swiftness and assurance of a true believer, he spun around gripping a double-edged blade in his hand and plunging it into the guard’s throat before the government man could see what was happening. Blood erupting, the guard fell as the terrorist grabbed the weapon and the body simultaneously, dragging the corpse across the road and into the overgrowth at the edge of the woods. He looked over in Ahbyahd’s direction, nodded, and raced back to the car. Ahbyahd, in turn, snapped his fingers and signaled the brothers behind him hidden among the trees. The three men crept forward, dressed, as the white-haired one, in paramilitary clothing and gripping light-framed submachine guns, grenades clipped to their field jackets.

The English-speaking killer behind the wheel started the engine, shifted the car into gear, and drove slowly, casually, toward the left entrance of the circular drive. Then abruptly, with the motor suddenly roaring at its highest pitch, he swung the vehicle sharply to the right and into the entrance while he reached below the dashboard and flipped a switch. Opening the door, he aimed the car over the large front lawn toward the milling guards talking with the Congressman and leaped out of the racing automobile onto the gravel. As he hit the ground he heard a woman’s screams through the cacophony of the thundering engine and the roars of the government patrols. One of the nurses had come running out the front door yelling incoherently; at the sight of the driverless onrushing automobile, she turned and screamed again, now at Kendrick, who was nearest the stone entrance.

“
Get away!
” she shrieked, repeating words she had obviously heard only moments before. “They want to
kill
you!”

The Congressman raced toward the heavy door, grabbing the woman by the arm and propelling her in front of him as the guards opened fire at the empty metal monster surging crazily
out of control, veering now into the side of the house toward the sliding glass doors of the veranda. Inside, Evan crashed his shoulder into the door, slamming it shut. That action and the thick steel-reinforced panel of the door saved their lives.

The explosions came like thunderous successive combustions from some massive furnace, shattering windows and walls, firing curtains and drapes and furniture. Out in front of the house the seven guards from the Central Intelligence Agency fell, pierced by shards of glass and metal sent flying by ninety pounds of dynamite lashed to the undercarriage of the automobile’s engine. Four were dead, heads and bodies riddled; two were barely alive, blood streaming out of eyes and chests. One, his left hand no more than a bleeding stump, had summoned rage, his weapon on automatic fire as he lurched across the lawn toward the priestly-collared terrorist, who was laughing insanely, his submachine gun spitting fire. Both men killed each other in the chill of the brisk Colorado day under the blinding Colorado sunlight.