Shots. Gunfire! Bullets snapped above them, around them, digging up the earth in front of them. Emilio switched off the torch and grabbed Evan's hand. 'It is not much longer now. I know the way and I will not let go of you.'
'If we ever get away from here, you're going to have the biggest fishing boat in El Descanso!'
'No, señor, I will move my family to the hills. These men will come after me, after my nifios.'
'How about a ranch?' The moon abruptly emerged from beyond the rushing, low-flying clouds, revealing the island's dock barely two hundred feet away. The gunfire had ceased; it started up again, but again the earth seemingly blew apart, an isolated galactic mass in frenzy. 'It happened!' shouted Kendrick as they neared the base of the dock.
'Señor?' cried the Mexican, terrified at the ear-shattering, unexpected detonation, panicked by the ball of smoke and the branches of fire that rose beyond the house on the hill. This island will go into the sea! What happened?'
'The second tank blew! I couldn't predict, I could only hope.'
A single gunshot. From the dock. Emilio was hit! He doubled over grabbing his upper thigh as the blood spread through his trousers. A man with a rifle moved out of the moonlit shadows fifty feet away, raising a hand-held intercom to his face. Evan crouched, his whole body now a festering boil, and raised his left hand to steady his right and the Colt automatic. He fired twice, one or both of his shots hitting the target. The guard reeled, dropping both the rifle and the radio; he fell on the thick wood planks and was still.
'Come on, amigo!' cried Kendrick, gripping Emilio's shoulder.
'I cannot travel I have no leg!'
'Well, I'm not going to die with you, you bastard! I've got a couple of loved ones, too, over there. Get off your ass or swim back to El Descanso and your niños!'
‘¿Como?' shouted the Mexican furiously as he struggled to rise.
That's better. Get angry! We've both got a lot to be angry about.' His arm around Emilio's waist, his barely functioning shoulder and legs supporting the Mexican, the two men walked out on the dark dock. The big boat on the right!' yelled Evan, grateful that the moon had gone back behind the clouds. 'You know about boats, amigo?'
'I am a fisherman!'
'Boats like this?' asked Kendrick, propelling Emilio over the side on to the deck, laying the .45 on the gunwale.
'You don't catch fish on these boats, you catch turistas.'
'There's another definition—’
'Es igua!… Still, I have run many boats. I can try… The other boats, señor! They will come out and find us for they are much faster than this beautiful one.'
'Could any of them make it to the mainland?'
'Never. They cannot take heavy swells, and burn fuel too quickly. Thirty, forty kilometres and they must come back. This is the barca for us.'
'Give me your Sterno!' yelled Evan, hearing shouts up on the main path. The Mexican yanked the small tin out of his right pocket as Kendrick removed his two and prised up the lids with the carving knife. 'Open yours, if you can!'
'I have. Here, señor. I go up to the bridge.'
'Can you make it?'
'I have to… El Descanso.'
'Oh, Christ! A key! For the engine?
'In these private docks it is customary to leave the key on board in case storms or heavy winds make it necessary to move—’
'Suppose they didn't?'
'All fishermen go out with many drunken captains. There are panels to open and wires to cross. Get the lines, señor!'
'Two ranches,' said Evan as Emilio hobbled to the bridge ladder.
Kendrick turned, grabbing the Colt automatic from the gunwale and digging out the solid fuel of the Sterno with his fingers. He ran down the dock throwing handfuls over the canvas of each huge speedboat, heaving each empty can into each boat. At the last boat he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of matches, crouching in pain and frantically striking one after another on the wooden planks of the dock and lobbing them into the globs of scattered jelly until the flames leaped up from all the coverings. At each speedboat he fired the automatic into the hulls near the water lines, the powerful weapon blowing large holes in whatever the light alloy was that permitted the boats their excessive speed.
Emilio had done it! The deep-throated roar of the fishing yacht's engines broke through the water… Shouts! Men were racing down the steep path from the manor house on the hill, the fires beyond it now a steady glow.
'Señor! Quickly… the lines!'
The ropes on the pylons! Kendrick ran to the thick pole on the right and struggled with the knotted line; it pulled free and slipped into the water. He lurched, barely able to stay on his feet, and reached the second pylon, yanking in panic until it, too, came loose.
'Stop them! Kill them!' It was the frenzied voice of Crayton Grinell, chairman of the board of a government within the government. Men swarmed on to the base of the island dock, their weapons suddenly on open fire, the fusillades shattering. Evan dived off the pier and into the stern of the yacht as Emilio swung the boat to the left, engines at full power, and curved out of the cove into the darkness of the sea.
A third and final immense detonation burst over the hill beyond the manor house. The distant night sky became a yellow cloud, then jagged streaks of white and red intruded; the last tank had blown apart. The island of the murderous government within a government was immobilized, isolated, incommunicado. No one could leave. They had done it!
'Señor!' screamed Emilio from the bridge.
'What?' yelled Kendrick, rolling on the deck, trying but unable to rise, his body jolting everywhere in torment, the blood from his wound forming bulges of floating liquid inside his shirt.
'You must come up here!'
'I can't!'
'You must! I am shot. The pecho—the chest!'
'It's your leg!'
'No!… From the dock. I am falling, señor. I cannot handle the wheel.'
'Hold on!' Evan yanked his shirt out of his trousers; pools of blood poured on to the deck. He crawled over to the shellacked ladder and, calling upon reservoirs of strength he could not believe existed, pulled himself up rung by rung to the bridge. He breached the upper deck and looked over at the Mexican. Emilio was holding on to the wheel, but his body had sunk below the bridge's windows. Kendrick grabbed the railing and got to his feet, barely able to steady himself. He lurched over to the wheel, appalled by the darkness and the swell of the waves that rocked the boat. Emilio fell to the floor, his hand springing away from the circular rudder. 'What can I do?' yelled Evan.
'The… radio,' choked the Mexican. 'I haul nets and I am not a captain, but I have heard them in bad weather… There is a channel for urgencia, numero diedseis!'
'What?'
'Sixteen!'
'Where's the radio?'
'On the right of the wheel. The switch is on the left. Pronto!'
'How do I call them?'
'Take out the microfono and press the button. Say you are premero de mayo!'
'May Day?'
'¡Si!… Madre de Dios…' Emilio collapsed on the bridge deck, unconscious or dead.
Kendrick lifted the plastic-coiled microphone out of its cradle, snapped on the radio and studied the digital readout below the console. Unable to think, the boat battered by swells he could not see, he kept tapping the keyboard until the number 16 appeared and then pressed the button.
'This is Congressman Evan Kendrick!' he screamed. 'Am I reaching anyone?' He released the button.
This is Coast Guard, San Diego,' came the flat reply.
'Can you patch me into a telephone line at the Westlake Hotel? It's an emergency!'
'Anybody can say anything, sir. We're not a phone service.'
'I repeat. I'm Congressman Evan Kendrick from the ninth district of Colorado and this is an emergency. I'm lost at sea somewhere west or south of Tijuana!'
'Those are Mexican waters—’
'Call the White House! Repeat what I've just t
old you… Kendrick of Colorado!'
'You're the guy who went to that Oman…?'
'Get your orders from the White House!'
'Keep your radio open, I'll take your co-ordinates for the RDF-'
'I don't have time and I don't know what you're talking about.'
'It's the radio directional finder—'
'For Christ's sake, Coast Guard, patch me through to the Westlake and get your orders! I have to reach that hotel.'
'Yes, sir, Commando Kendrick!'
'Whatever works,' mumbled Evan to himself as the sounds from the console speaker erupted in different tones until there was the hum of a telephone ringing. The switchboard answered. 'Room Fifty-One! Hurry, please.'
'Yes?' cried the strained voice of Khalehla.
'It's me!' shouted Kendrick, pressing the button for transmission, then instantly releasing it.
'For God's sake, where are you?'
'In the ocean somewhere, forget it! There's an attorney, a lawyer Ardis used for herself, and he's got a ledger that spells out everything! Find him! Get it!'
'Yes, of course, I'll reach MJ right away. But what about you? Are you—’
Another voice intruded, the deep commanding tones unmistakable. 'This is the President of the United States. Find that boat, find that man, or all your asses are in a sling!'
The swells tossed the boat like an insignificant bauble in a furious sea. Evan could no longer hold on to the wheel. The mists returned and he collapsed over the body of the fisherman from El Descanso.
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 43
He was aware of violently swaying weightlessness, then of hands grabbing him, and a harsh wind buffeting him, finally of a deafening roar above him. He opened his eyes to blurred figures frantically moving around him, unbuckling straps… then a sharp puncture in his flesh, on his arm. He tried to rise but was restrained as men carried him to a flat, padded surface inside a huge, vibrating metal cage.
'Easy, Congressman!' shouted a man in a white Navy uniform that gradually came into focus. 'I'm a doctor and you're pretty bashed up. Don't make things more difficult for me because the President himself will officiate at my court martial if I don't do my job.'
Another puncture. He could not take any more pain. 'Where am I?'
'A logical question,' replied the medical officer, emptying a syringe into Kendrick's shoulder. 'You're in a big whirly-bird ninety miles off the coast of Mexico. You were on your way to China, man, and those seas are rugged.'
'That's it!’ Evan tried to raise his voice, but could barely hear himself.
'What's “it”?' The doctor leaned down as a medical aide above him held a bottle of plasma.
'Passage to China—an island called Passage to China! Seal it off!'
'I'm a doctor, not a member of the Seals—’
'Do as I tell you!… Radio San Diego, get planes out there, boats out there! Take everyone!'
'Hey man, I'm no expert, but these are Mexican waters—'
'Goddamn it, call the White House!… No! Contact a man named Payton at the CIA… Mitchell Payton, CIA! Tell him what I just told you. Say the name Grinell!'
'Wow, this is heavy,' said the young doctor, looking up at a third man at the foot of Kendrick's padded resting place. 'You heard the congressman, Ensign. Go up to the pilot. An island called Passage to China, and a man named Payton at Langley, and someone else called Grinell! Hop to it, guy, this is the President's boy!… Hey, is this anything like what you did to the Arabs?'
'Emilio?' asked Evan, dismissing the question. 'How is he?"
The Mex?'
'My friend… the man who saved my life.'
'He's here right beside you; we just got him up.'
'How is he?'
'Worse off than you—much worse. At best it's sixty-forty against him, Congressman. We're flying back to the base hospital as fast as we can.'
Kendrick elbowed himself up and looked at the prone, unconscious figure of Emilio, barely two feet away behind the doctor. The Mexican's arm was on the deck of the helicopter, his face ashen, close to a mask of death. 'Give me his hand,' ordered Evan. 'Give it to me!'
'Yes, sir,' said the doctor, reaching over and pulling Emilio's hand up so Kendrick could grasp it.
'El Descanso!' roared Evan. 'El Descanso and your family—your wife and the nifios! You goddamned son of a bitch, don't die on me! You fucking know-nothing fisherman put some juice in your stomach!'
'¿Como?' The Mexican's head thrashed back and forth as Kendrick tightened his grip.
'That's better, amigo. Remember, we're angry! We stay angry. You hang in there, you bastard, or I'll kill you myself. Comprende?'
His head turned towards Evan, Emilio partially opened his eyes, a smile creasing his lips. 'You think you could kill this strong fisherman?'
'Try me!… Well, maybe I couldn't, but I can get you a big boat.'
'You are loco, señor,' coughed the Mexican. '… Still, there is El Descanso.'
'Three ranches,' said Kendrick, his hand falling away under the effect of the Navy doctor's hypodermic needle.
One by one the graceful limousines drove through the dark streets of Cynwid Hollow to the big house on Chesapeake Bay. Whereas on previous occasions there had been four such vehicles, on this night there were but three. One was missing; it belonged to a company founded by Eric Sundstrom, traitor of Inver Brass.
The members sat around the large circular table in the extraordinary library, a brass lamp in front of each. All the lamps on the table were lit but one, and that was the one in front of a fifth empty chair. Four pools of light shone down on the polished wood; the fifth source was extinguished, implying no honour in death, instead, perhaps, a reminder of human frailty in an all too human world. On this night there was no humorous small talk, no badinage to remind them that they were mortal and not above the common touch despite their awesome wealth and influence. The empty chair was enough.
'You have the facts,' said Samuel Winters, his aquiline features in the flow of light. 'Now I ask you for your comments.'
'I have only one,' Gideon Logan stated firmly, his large black head in shadows. 'We can't stop, the alternative is too devastating. The unleashed wolves will take over the government—what they haven't usurped already.'
'But there's nothing to stop, Gid,' corrected Margaret Lowell. 'Poor Milos set everything in motion in Chicago.'
'He hadn't finished, Margaret,' said Jacob Mandel, his gaunt face and frame in his accustomed chair next to Winters. 'There's Kendrick himself. He must accept the nomination, be convinced that he should take it. If you recall, the subject was brought up by Eric, and now I wonder why. He might have left well enough alone, for it could be our Achilles' heel.'
'Sundstrom was consumed, as always, by his insatiable curiosity,' said Winters sadly. 'The same curiosity that, when applied to space technology, made him betray us. Having said that, however, it doesn't answer Jacob's question. Our congressman could walk away.'
'I'm not sure Milos thought it was so serious a problem, Jacob,' reflected Attorney Lowell, leaning forward, her elbow on the table, her extended fingers against her right temple. 'Whether he actually said it or not is immaterial, but he certainly implied that Kendrick was an intensely, if unfashionably, moral man. He loathes corruption so he went into politics to replace a corrupter.'
'And he went to Oman,' added Gideon Logan, 'because he believed that with his expertise he could help with no thought of reward for himself—that was proved to us.'
'And that was what persuaded all of us to accept him,' said Mandel, nodding. 'Everything dovetailed. The extraordinary man in a very ordinary field of political candidates. But is it enough? Will he agree even if there's the national ground swell that Milos had so well orchestrated?'
'The assumption was that if genuinely summoned, he would respond to the call,' said Winters flatly. 'But is it an accurate assumption?'
'I think it is,' replied Margaret Lowell.
'I do
, too.' Logan nodded his large head and moved forward into the reflected pool of light from the table. 'Still Jacob has a point. We can't be sure, and if we're wrong, it's Bollinger and business as usual, and the wolves take over next January.'
'Suppose Kendrick was confronted with the alternative of your wolves, with proof of their venality, their entrenched behind-the-scenes power that's permeated the entire Washington structure?' asked Winters, his voice no longer a monotone but very much alive. 'Under those circumstances, do you think he will answer the call?'
The huge black entrepreneur leaned back into the shadows, his large eyes squinting. 'From everything we know… yes, yes, I do.'
'And you, Margaret?'
'I agree with Gid. He is a remarkable man—with a political conscience, I believe.'
'Jacob?'
'Of course, Samuel, but how is it to be done? We have no documentation, no official records—good heavens, we burn our own notes. So apart from the fact that he'd have no reason to believe us, we can't reveal ourselves and Varak's gone.'
'I have another to take his place. A man who, if necessary, can make certain Evan Kendrick is given the truth. The whole truth if he doesn't know it already.'
Stunned, all eyes were on the spokesman for Inver Brass. 'What the hell are you saying, Sam?' cried Margaret Lowell.
'Varak left instructions in the event of his death, and I gave him my word not to open them unless he was killed. I kept my word because in all honesty I didn't care to know the things he might tell me… I opened them last night after Mitchell Payton's call.'
'How will you handle Payton?' asked Lowell suddenly, anxiously.
'We're meeting tomorrow. None of you has anything to fear; he knows nothing about you. We'll either reach an accommodation or we won't. If we don't, I've lived a long and productive life—it will be no sacrifice.'
'Forgive me, Samuel,' said Gideon Logan impatiently, 'but we all face those decisions—we wouldn't be at this table if we didn't. What were Varak's instructions?'
'To contact the one man who can keep us—or conceivably the collective you—completely and officially informed. The man who was Varak's informer from the beginning, the one without whom Milos could never have done what he did. When our Czech uncovered the discrepancy in the State Department's logs sixteen months ago, the omission that had Kendrick listed as entering the State Department but with no record of his departure, Varak knew where to look. What he found was not only a willing informer but a dedicated one… Milos is, of course, irreplaceable, but in this day of high technology, our new co-ordinator is among the most rapidly rising young officials in government. There isn't a major department or agency in Washington that's not vying for his services, and the private sector has offered him contracts reserved for former presidents and secretaries of state at least twice his age.'
The Icarus Agenda Page 73