The Icarus Agenda

by Ludlum, Robert

  Crayton Grinell was a slender man of medium height and a perpetually grey face made prominent by sharp features. When greeting someone, for the first time or the fiftieth, whether a waiter or a board chairman, the forty-eight-year-old attorney who specialized in international law greeted that person with a shy smile that conveyed warmth. The warmth and the modesty were accepted readily until one looked into Grinell's eyes. It was not that they were cold, for they were not, yet neither were they particularly friendly; they were expressionless, neutral, the eyes of a cautiously curious cat. 'Ardis, my dear Ardis,' said the lawyer, walking into the foyer and holding the widow, gently patting her shoulder as one might console a faintly disagreeable aunt who had lost a far more agreeable husband. 'What can I say? What can anyone say? Such a loss for us all, but how much more so for you.'

  'It was sudden, Cray. Too sudden.'

  'Of course it was, but we must all look for something positive in our sorrows, mustn't we? You and he were spared a prolonged and agonizing illness. Since the end must come, it's better if it's quick, isn't it?'

  'I suppose you're right. Thank you for reminding me.'

  'Not at all.' Disengaging himself, Grinell looked over at Sundstrom, who was standing in the large sunken living room. 'Eric, how good to see you,' he said solemnly, walking across the foyer and down the marble steps to shake hands with the scientist. 'Somehow it's right that we both should be with Ardis at a time like this. Incidentally, my men are outside in the hallway.'

  'Fucking bitch!' Sundstrom mouthed the words, his breath a whisper as the grieving Mrs. Vanvlanderen closed the door, the sound of the closing and the noise of her heels on the marble covering the mumble uttered by her former lover.

  'Would you care for a drink, Cray?'

  'Oh, no thank you.'

  'I think I will,' said Ardis, heading for the bar.

  'I think you should,' agreed the attorney.

  'Is there anything I can do? At the legal end here, or with arrangements, anything at all?'

  'I imagine you'll be doing it, the legal things, I mean. Andy-boy had lawyers all over the place, but I gathered you were his main man.'

  'Yes, I was, and we've all been in touch during the day. New York, Washington, London, Paris, Marseilles, Oslo, Stockholm, Bern, Zurich, West Berlin—I'm handling everything personally, of course.'

  The widow stood motionless, a decanter halfway to her glass, staring at Grinell. 'When I said all over the place, I didn't think that far all over the place.'

  'His interests were extensive.'

  'Zurich…?' said Ardis, as if the name of the city had slipped out unintentionally.

  'It's in Switzerland,’ broke in Sundstrom harshly. 'And let's cut the crap.'

  'Eric, really—'

  'Don't “Eric, really” me, Cray. That bullheaded horse's ass did it. He contracted the Palestinians and paid them out of Zurich… Remember Zurich, sweetie'? … I told you in Baltimore, Cray. He did it!'

  'I couldn't get a confirmation on the assaults in Fairfax or Colorado,' said Grinell calmly.

  'Because they never happened!' yelled the widow, her right hand trembling as she poured a drink from the heavy crystal decanter.

  'I didn't say that, Ardis,' objected the lawyer softly. 'I merely said I couldn't get a confirmation. However, I did get a later call, no doubt placed by a well-paid drunk who was handed a phone after the number was dialled, thus eliminating the identity of the source. The words he obviously repeated are all too familiar. “They're following the money,” he said.'

  'Oh, Jesus!' exclaimed Mrs. Vanvlanderen.

  'So now we have two crises,' continued Grinell, walking to a white marble telephone on a red-lined marble table against the wall. 'Our weak, ubiquitous Secretary of State is on his way to Cyprus to sign an agreement that could cripple the defence industry, and one of our own is linked to Palestinian terrorists… In a way, I wish to heaven I knew how Andrew did it. We may be far clumsier.' He dialled as the widow and the scientist watched. 'The switch from Design Six to Design Twelve, Mediterranean, is confirmed,' said the attorney into the phone. 'And prepare the medical unit, if you will, please.'

  The Icarus Agenda

  Chapter 35

  Varak raced around the corner to the service entrance and took the freight elevator up to his floor. He then walked rapidly to his rooms, unlocked the door and rushed to the sophisticated vertical recording equipment against the wall, somewhat startled to see that so much tape had been used. He ascribed it to various telephone calls received by Ardis Vanvlanderen. He flipped the switch that allowed dual transmission, tape and direct audio, put on the earphones and sat down to listen.

  She left about an hour and a half ago.

  She? Who?

  A woman named Rashad, a counter terrorist expert. She's with a cross-over unit…

  The Czech glanced at the spool of exposed tape. There were at least twenty-five minutes of recorded conversation on it! What was the former operations officer from Egypt doing in San Diego? It made no sense to Milos. She had resigned from the Agency; he had confirmed it. The quiet but official word out of Cairo and Washington was that she had been 'open to compromise'. He had assumed it was the Oman operation and entirely accepted her vanishing. She had to fade—but she had not! He listened further to the conversation taking place in the Vanvlanderen suite. Sundstrom was speaking.

  He did it, didn't he, Ardis? That financial megalomaniac couldn't stand the possibility that a small group of benevolent misfits might replace his man with another who could cut off his pipeline to millions and probably would.

  Then Ardis Vanvlanderen.

  Eight hundred million, that's what he said. Eight hundred million for him alone, billions for all the rest of you… I didn't know a thing!

  Varak was stunned. He had made two enormous errors! The first concerned the covert activities of Adrienne Khalehla Rashad, and difficult as it was for him to accept this error, he could do so, for she was an experienced intelligence officer. The second he could not accept! The false scenario he had presented to Inver Brass had been true! It had never occurred to him that Andrew Vanvlanderen would act independently of his wife. How could he? Theirs was a La Rochefoucauld marriage, one of convenience, of mutual benefit, certainly not of affection, to say nothing of love. Andy-boy had broken the rules. A bull in financial heat had crashed open the gates of his corral and raced into the slaughterhouse. Varak listened.

  Another voice, another name. A man named Crayton Grinell. The tape rolled as the Czech concentrated on the words being spoken. Finally:

  So now we have two crises. Our weak, ubiquitous Secretary of State is on his way to Cyprus to sign an agreement that could cripple the defence industry… The switch from Design Six to Design Twelve, Mediterranean, is confirmed.

  Varak tore off the earphones. Whatever remained to be heard in the Vanvlanderen suite would be recorded. He had to move quickly. He got out of the chair and rushed across the room to the telephone. He picked it up and pressed the numbers for Cynwid Hollow, Maryland.

  'Yes?'

  'Sir, it's Varak.'

  'What is it, Milos? What have you learned?'

  'It's Sundstrom—’

  'What?'

  'That can wait, Dr Winters, something else cannot. The Secretary of State is flying to Cyprus. Can you find out when?'

  'I don't have to find out, I know. So does everyone else who watches television or listens to the radio. It's quite a breakthrough—’

  'When, sir?'

  'He left London about an hour ago. There was the usual statement about bringing the world closer to peace and that sort of thing—’

  'In the Mediterranean,’ interrupted Varak, controlling his voice. 'It will happen in the Mediterranean.'

  'What will?'

  'I don't know. A strategy called Design Twelve, that's all I heard. It will happen on the ground or in the air. They want to stop him.'

  'Who does?'

  'The contributors. A man named Grinell, Crayton
Grinell. If I tried to break in and find out, they might take me. There are men outside the door and I cannot jeopardize the group. I certainly would never willingly disclose information, but there are drugs—’

  'Yes, I know.'

  'Reach Frank Swann at the State Department. Tell the switchboard to raise him wherever he is and use the phrase “crisis containment”.'

  'Why Swann?'

  'He's a specialist, sir. He ran the Oman operation for State.'

  'Yes, I know that, but I might have to tell him more than I care to… There may be a better way, Milos. Stay on the line, I'm going to put you on hold.' Each ten seconds that went by seemed like minutes to Varak, then they were minutes! What was Winters doing? They did not have minutes to waste. Finally the spokesman for Inver Brass was back on the phone. 'I'm going to switch us to a conference call, Milos. Another will be joining us, but it's understood that neither of you is required to identify yourself. I trust this man completely and he accepts the condition. He's also in what you term “crisis containment” and has far greater resources than Swann.' There were two clicks over the line and Winters continued. 'Go ahead, gentlemen. Mr. A, this is Mr. B.'

  'I understand you have something to tell me, Mr. A.'

  'Yes, I do,' replied Varak. 'The circumstances are not relevant but the information is verified. The Secretary of State is in imminent danger. There are people who do not want him to attend the conference in Cyprus and they intend to stop him. They're employing a plan or a tactic called “Design Twelve, Mediterranean”. The individual who gave the order is named Grinell, a Crayton Grinell of San Diego. I know nothing about him.'

  'I see… Let me phrase this as delicately as I can, Mr. A. Are you in a position to tell us the current whereabouts of this Grinell?'

  'I have no choice, Mr. B. The Westlake Hotel. Suite 3C. I have no idea how long he'll be there. Hurry, and send firepower. He's guarded.'

  'Will you do me the courtesy, Mr. A, of remaining on the line for a moment or two?'

  'So you can trace this leg of the call?'

  'I wouldn't do that. I've given my word.'

  'He'll keep it,' interrupted Samuel Winters.

  'It's difficult for me,' said the Czech.

  ‘I’ll be quick.'

  A single click was heard and Winters spoke. 'You really didn't have a choice, Milos. The Secretary is the sanest man in the administration.'

  'I'm aware of that, sir.'

  'I can't get over Sundstrom! Why?'

  'No doubt a combination of reasons, not least of which are his patents in space technology. Others may build the hardware but the government is the primary buyer. Space is now synonymous with defence.'

  'He can't want more money! He gives most of it away.'

  'But if the market slows down, so does production and therefore the experimentation—the last is a passion with him.'

  Another click. 'I'm back, Mr. A,' said the third party. 'Everyone's alerted over in the Mediterranean, and arrangements have been made to pick up Grinell in San Diego, as quietly as possible, of course.'

  'Why was it necessary for me to remain on the phone?'

  'Because, quite frankly, if I hadn't been able to make the arrangements in San Diego,' said Mitchell Payton, 'I was going to appeal to your patriotism for further assistance. You're obviously an experienced man.'

  'What kind of assistance?'

  'Nothing that would compromise our understanding with regard to this call. Only to follow Grinell should he leave the hotel and call our go-between with the information.'

  'What made you think I'm in a position to do that?'

  'I didn't. I could only hope, and there were several things to do quickly, mainly the Mediterranean.'

  'For your information, I'm not in such a position,' lied Varak. 'I'm nowhere near the hotel.'

  'Then I may have made two mistakes. I mentioned “patriotism”, but by the way you speak, this may not be your country.'

  'It is my country now,' said the Czech.

  'Then it owes you a great deal.'

  'I must go.' Varak hung up the phone and walked rapidly back to the tape machine. He sat down and clamped the earphones over his head, his eyes straying to the reel of tape. It had stopped. He listened. Nothing. Silence! In desperation he snapped a succession of switches up and down and left and right. There was no response with any of them… no sound. The voice-activated recorder was not functioning because the Vanvlanderen suite was empty! He had to move! Above everything he had to find Sundstrom! For the sake of Inver Brass, the traitor had to be killed.

  Khalehla walked down the wide corridor towards the elevators. She had called MJ and after discussing the horror of Mesa Verde, played him the entire conversation with Ardis Vanvlanderen that she had recorded on the miniaturized equipment concealed in her black notebook. Both were satisfied; the grieving widow had left her grief behind in a sea of hysteria. It was apparent to both of them that Mrs. Vanvlanderen had known nothing about her dead husband's contract with the terrorists, but had learned about it after the fact. The sudden appearance of an intelligence officer from Cairo with the upside-down information she carried had been enough to send Ardis the manipulator right through the roof of her skull. Uncle Mitch had been true to form.

  'Take five, Field Officer Rashad.'

  'I'd like to take a shower and have a quiet meal. I don't think I've eaten since the Bahamas.'

  'Order room service. We'll stand for one of your outrageous bills. You've earned it.'

  'I hate room service. All those waiters who deliver food for a single female preen as though they're the answer to her sexual fantasies. If I can't have one of my grandmother's meals—’

  'You can't.'

  'Okay. Then I know a few good restaurants—’

  'Go ahead. By midnight I'll have a list of every telephone number our distraught widow has called. Eat well, my dear. Get energy. You may be working all night.'

  'You're too generous. May I call Evan, who with any luck could be my intended?'

  'You may but you won't get him. Colorado Springs sent a jet to take him and Emmanuel to the hospital in Denver. They're airborne.'

  'Thanks again.'

  'You're welcome, Rashad.'

  'You're too kind, sir.'

  Khalehla pressed the button for the elevator, hearing the rumble in her stomach. She had not eaten since the meal on the Air Force jet, and that had been somewhat destroyed by the nervous enzymes produced by Evan's condition—the vomiting and all it signified… Dear Evan, brilliant Evan, dumb Evan. The risk-taker with more morals than suited his approach to life; she wondered briefly if he would have that same integrity if he had failed. It was an open question; he was a compulsively competitive man who looked somewhat arrogantly down from his perch of not having failed. And it was not hard to understand how he had fallen under the spell, or shell, of Ardis Montreaux in Saudi Arabia ten or twelve years ago. That girl must have been something, a flashy lady on a fast track with a face and a body to go with the course. Yet he had fled from the spider—that was her Evan.

  She heard the ping of the bell and the elevator doors parted. Happily, it was empty; she stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby. The panels closed and the machine started its descent only to slow down immediately. She looked up at the lighted numbers over the doors; the elevator was stopping at the third floor. It was simply a coincidence, she thought. MJ was sure that Ardis Vanvlanderen, proprietor of Suite 3C, would not dare leave the hotel.

  The doors opened, and while her eyes remained disinterestedly straight ahead, Khalehla was relieved to peripherally see that the passenger was a lone man with light-coloured hair and what appeared to be immense shoulders that filled out his jacket to the point of almost stretching the fabric. Yet there was something strange about him, she thought. As one can when alone with a single human being in a small enclosure, she could sense a high level of energy emanating from her unknown companion. There was an atmosphere of anger or anxiety that seemed to permeat
e the small area. Then she could feel him looking at her, not the way men usually appraised her—furtively, with glances; she was used to that—but staring at her, the unseen eyes steady, intense, unwavering.

  The doors closed as she casually grimaced to herself; it was the expression of someone who may have forgotten something. Again casually, she opened her bag as if to check for the possibly missing item. She exhaled audibly, her face relaxed; the item was there. It was. Her gun. The elevator began its descent as she glanced at the stranger.

  She froze! His eyes were two orbs of controlled white heat, and the short, neatly combed hair was light blond. He could be no one else!. The blond European… he was one of them! Khalehla lurched for the panel as she yanked out her automatic, dropping her bag and pressing the emergency button. Beyond the doors, the alarm sounded as the elevator jerked to a stop and the blond man stepped forward.

  Khalehla fired, the explosion deafening in the tight enclosure, the bullet passing over the intense stranger's head as it was meant to.

  'Stop where you are!' she commanded. 'If you know anything about me, you know my next shot will go right into your forehead.'

  'You are the Rashad woman,' said the blond man, his speech accented, his voice strained.

  'I don't know who you are, but I know what you are. Scum-rotten, that's what you are! Evan was right. All these months, all the stories about him, the congressional committees, the coverage over the world. It was to set him up for a Palestinian kill! It was as simple as that!'

  'No, you are wrong, wrong,' protested the European as the alarm bell outside kept up its abrasive ringing. 'And you must not stop me now! A terrible thing is about to happen and I've been in touch with your people in Washington.'

  "Who? Who in Washington?'

  'We don't give names—’

  'Bullshit!'

  'Please, Miss Rashad! A man is getting away.'

  'Not you, Blondie—'

  Where the blows came from and how they were delivered with such speed Khalehla would never know. For an instant there had been a blurring motion on her left, then a surging hand, as fast as any human hand she had ever seen, stung her right arm, followed by a counterclockwise twist of her right wrist, wrenching the weapon away. Where she might have expected her wrist to be broken it merely burned, as if briefly scalded by a splash of boiling water. The European stood in front of her holding the gun. 'I did not mean to harm you,' he said.