The Icarus Agenda

by Robert Ludlum

  They were five.

  And they were human.

  “The President will be reelected by an overwhelming majority two years from this November,” said the white-haired man with an aquiline aristocratic face at the head of the conference table. “We hardly needed our projections to determine this. He has the country in the palm of his hand, and short of catastrophic errors, which his more reasonable advisers will prevent, there’s nothing anyone can do about it, ourselves included. Therefore we must prepare for the inevitable and have our man in place.”

  “A strange term, ‘our man,’ ” commented a slender, balding seventy-odd-year-old with sunken cheeks and wide, gentle eyes, nodding his head. “We’ll have to move quickly. And yet again things could change. The President is such a charming person, so attractive, so wanting to be liked—loved, I imagine.”

  “So shallow,” broke in a broad-shouldered, middle-aged black, quietly, with no animosity in his voice, his impeccably tailored clothes signifying taste and wealth. “I have no ill feeling toward him personally, for his instincts are decent; he’s a decent man, perhaps a good man. That’s what the people see and they’re probably right. No, it’s not him. It’s those mongrels behind him—so far behind he most likely doesn’t know they exist except as campaign contributors.”

  “He doesn’t,” said the fourth member at the table, a rotund middle-aged man with a cherubic face and the impatient eyes of a scholar below a rumpled thatch of red hair; his elbow-patched tweed jacket labeled him an academic. “And I’ll bet ten of my patents that some profound miscalculation will take place before his first term is over.”

  “You’d lose,” said the fifth member at the table, an elderly woman with silver hair and dressed elegantly in a black silk dress with a minimum of jewelry. Her cultured voice was laced with those traces of inflection and cadence often described as Middle Atlantic. “Not because you underestimate him, which you do, but because he and those behind him will consolidate their growing consensus until he’s politically invincible. The rhetoric will be slanted, but there won’t be any profound decisions until his opposition is rendered damn near voiceless. In other words, they’re saving their big guns for the second term.”

  “Then you agree with Jacob that we have to move quickly,” said the white-haired Samuel Winters, nodding at the gaunt-faced Jacob Mandel on his right.

  “Of course I do, Sam,” replied Margaret Lowell, casually smoothing her hair, then suddenly leaning forward, her elbows firmly on the table, her hands clasped. It was an abruptly masculine movement in a very feminine woman, but none at the table noticed. Her mind was the focal point. “Realistically, I’m not sure we can move quickly enough,” she said rapidly, quietly. “We may have to consider a more abrupt approach.”

  “No, Peg,” broke in Eric Sundstrom, the red-haired scholar on Lowell’s left. “Everything must be perfectly normal, befitting an upbeat administration that turns liabilities into assets. This must be our approach. Any deviation from the principle of natural evolution—nature being unpredictable—would send out intolerable alarms. That ill-informed consensus you mentioned would rally round the cause, inflamed by Gid’s mongrels. We’d have a police state.”

  Gideon Logan nodded his large black head in agreement, a smile creasing his lips. “Oh, they’d stomp around the campfires, pulling in all the good-thinking people, and burn the asses off the body politic.” He paused, looking at the woman across the table. “There are no shortcuts, Margaret. Eric’s right about that.”

  “I wasn’t talking melodrama,” insisted Lowell. “No rifle shots in Dallas or deranged kids with hang-ups. I only meant time. Do we have the time?”

  “If we use it correctly, we do,” said Jacob Mandel. “The key factor is the candidate.”

  “Then let’s get to him,” interrupted the white-haired Samuel Winters. “As you all know, our colleague Mr. Varak has completed his search and is convinced he’s come up with our man. I won’t bore you with his many eliminations except to say that if there’s not complete unanimity among us, we’ll examine them—every one. He’s studied our guidelines—the assets we seek and the liabilities we wish to avoid; in essence, the talents we’re convinced must be there. In my judgment he’s unearthed a brilliant, if totally unexpected, prospect. I won’t talk for our friend—he does that very well for himself—but I’d be remiss if I did not state that in our numerous conferences he’s shown the same dedication to us that his uncle, Anton Varak, was said to have given to our predecessors fifteen years ago.” Winters paused, his penetrating gray eyes leveled in turn at each person around the table. “Perhaps it takes a European deprived of his liberties to understand us, understand the reasons for our being. We are the inheritors of Inver Brass, resurrected in death by those who came before us. We ourselves were to be selected by those men should their attorneys determine that our lives continued in the way they envisaged. When the sealed envelopes were given to each of us, each of us understood. There were no further advantages we sought from the society we live in, no benefits or positions coveted beyond those we already possess. Through whatever abilities we had, aided by luck, or inheritance, or the misfortune of others, we had reached a freedom granted to few in this terribly troubled world. But with this freedom comes a responsibility and we accept it, as did our predecessors years ago. It is to use our resources to make this a better country, and through that process hopefully a better world.” Winters leaned back in the armchair, his palms upturned as he shook his head, his voice tentative, even questioning. “Lord knows, no one elected us, no one anointed us in the name of divine grace, and certainly no bolts of lightning struck down from the heavens revealing any Olympian message, but we do what we do because we can do it. And we do it because we believe in our collective, dispassionate judgment.”

  “Don’t be defensive, Sam,” interrupted Margaret Lowell gently. “We may be privileged, but we’re also diverse. We don’t represent any single color of the spectrum.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that, Margaret,” said Gideon Logan, his eyebrows arched in mock surprise as the members of Inver Brass laughed.

  “Dear Gideon,” replied Lowell. “I never noticed. Palm Beach at this time of year? You’re positively sunburned.”

  “Someone had to tend to your gardens, madame.”

  “If you did, I’m no doubt homeless.”

  “Conceivably, yes. A consortium of Puerto Rican families has leased the property, madame, a commune, actually.” Quiet laughter rippled across the table. “I’m sorry, Samuel, our levity isn’t called for.”

  “On the contrary,” Jacob Mandel broke in. “It’s a sign of health and perspective. If we ever walk away from laughter, especially over our foibles, we have no business here.… If you’ll forgive me, the elders in the European pogroms taught that lesson. They called it one of the principles of survival.”

  “They were right, of course,” agreed Sundstrom, still chuckling. “It puts a distance, however brief, between people and their difficulties. But may we get to the candidate? I’m absolutely fascinated. Sam says he’s a brilliant choice, but totally unexpected. I would have thought otherwise, given—as Peg said—the time factor. I thought he’d be someone in the wings, on the political wings of a Pegasus, if you will.”

  “I really must read one of his books someday,” interrupted Mandel again, again softly. “He sounds like a rabbi but I don’t understand him.”

  “Don’t try,” said Winters, smiling kindly at Sundstrom.

  “The candidate,” repeated Sundstrom. “Do I gather that Varak has readied a presentation?”

  “With his usual regard for detail,” answered Winters, moving his head to his left, indicating the glowing red light on the walled console behind him. “Along the way he’s unearthed some rather extraordinary information relative to events that took place a year ago, almost to the day.”

  “Oman?” asked Sundstrom, squinting above the light of his brass lamp. “Memorial services were held in over a dozen cities
last week.”

  “Let Mr. Varak explain,” said the white-haired historian as he pressed an inlaid button on the surface of the table. The low sound of a buzzer filled the room; seconds later the library door opened and a stocky blond man in his mid- to late thirties walked into the shadowed light and stood in the frame. He was dressed in a tan summer suit and a dark red tie; his broad shoulders seemed to stretch the fabric of his jacket. “We’re ready, Mr. Varak. Please come in.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Milos Varak closed the door, shutting out the dim light of the hallway beyond, and proceeded to the far end of the room. Standing in front of the lowered silver screen, he nodded courteously, acknowledging the members of Inver Brass. The glare of the brass lamps that reflected off the glistening table washed over his face, heightening the prominent cheekbones and the broad forehead below the full head of neatly combed straight blond hair. His eyelids were vaguely sloped, bespeaking a Slavic ancestry influenced by the tribes of Eastern Europe; the eyes behind them were calm, knowing, and somehow cold. “May I say it is good to see all of you again?” he said, his English precise, in his voice the accent of Prague.

  “It’s good to see you, Milos,” countered Jacob Mandel, saying the name with the proper Czech pronunciation, which was “Meelos.” The others followed with brief utterances.

  “Varak.” Sundstrom leaned back in his chair.

  “You look well, Milos.” Gideon Logan nodded.

  “He looks like a football player.” Margaret Lowell smiled. “Don’t let the Redskins see you. They need linebackers.”

  “The game is far too confusing for me, madame.”

  “For them, too.”

  “I’ve told everyone about your progress,” said Winters, adding softly, “as you believe your progress to be. Before revealing the identity of the man you’re submitting to us, would you care to review the guidelines?”

  “I would, sir.” Varak’s eyes roamed around the table as he collected his thoughts. “To begin with, your man should be physically attractive but not ‘pretty’ or feminine. Someone who meets the maximum requirements of your image-makers—anything less would present too many obstacles for the time we have. Therefore, a man men identify with the masculine virtues of this society and women find appealing. Nor should he be an ideologue unacceptable to vocal segments of the electorate. Further, he must give the appearance of being what you call ‘his own man,’ above being bought by special interests and with a background to support that judgment. Naturally, he should have no damaging secrets to hide. Finally, the superficial is a most vital aspect of the search. Our man must have those appealing personal qualities that can help propel him into the political spotlight through accelerated public exposure. A figure of real or projected warmth and quiet humor, with documented acts of courage in his past, but nothing he would exploit to overshadow the President.”

  “His people wouldn’t accept that,” said Eric Sundstrom.

  “In any event, they won’t have a choice, sir,” answered Varak, his voice softly convincing. “The manipulation will take place in four stages. Within three months our basically anonymous man will rapidly become visible; within six months he will be relatively well known; and at the end of the year he will have a recognition quotient on a par with the leaders of the Senate and the House, the same demographics targeted. These may be considered phases one through three. The fourth phase, several months before the conventions, will be capped by appearances on the covers of Time and Newsweek as well as laudatory editorials in the major newspapers and on the networks. With the proper financing in the required areas, all this can be guaranteed.” Varak paused, then continued. “Guaranteed, that is, with the proper candidate, and I believe we’ve found him.”

  The members of Inver Brass stared at their Czech coordinator in mild astonishment, then cautiously looked at one another.

  “If we have,” offered Margaret Lowell, “and he comes down off the mountain, I’ll marry him.”

  “So will I,” said Gideon Logan. “Mixed marriages be damned.”

  “Forgive me,” interrupted Varak. “I did not mean to romanticize the prospect. He’s quite a normal person, the qualities I attributed to him are mostly a result of the confidence born of his wealth, which he earned by extremely hard work and taking risks in the right places at the right times. He’s comfortable with himself and others because he seeks nothing from others and knows what he is capable of himself.”

  “Who is he?” asked Mandel.

  “May I show him to you?” said Varak, speaking respectfully without replying as he took a remote control unit from his pocket and stepped away from the screen. “It’s possible some of you might recognize him, and I shall have to take back my remark about his anonymity.”

  A bolt of light shot out from the console and the face of Evan Kendrick filled the screen. The photograph was in color, accentuating Kendrick’s deep tan as well as the stubble of a beard and the strands of light brown hair that crept down over his ears and the back of his neck. He was squinting into the sun, looking across water, his expression at once studious and apprehensive.

  “He looks like a hippie,” said Margaret Lowell.

  “The circumstances might explain your reaction,” answered Varak. “This was taken last week, the fourth week of an annual journey he makes down the rivers of white water in the Rocky Mountains. He goes alone without company or a guide.” The Czechoslovakian proceeded to advance the slides, giving each a beat of several seconds. The photographs showed Kendrick in various scenes of riding the rapids, on several occasions strenuously balancing his PVC craft and careening between the treacherous intrusion of jagged rocks, surrounded by sprays of wild water and foam. The mountain forests in the background served to emphasize the perilous smallness of man and his transport against the unpredictable massiveness of nature.

  “Wait a minute!” cried Samuel Winters, now peering through tortoiseshell glasses. “Hold that one,” he continued, studying the photograph. “You never said anything about this to me. He’s rounding the bend heading toward the base camp below the Lava Falls.”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Then he must have passed through the Class Five rapids above.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Without a guide?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s crazy! Several decades ago I rode those waters with two guides and I was frightened to death. Why would he do it?”

  “He’s been doing it for years—whenever he came back to the United States.”

  “Came back?” Jacob Mandel leaned forward.

  “Until five years ago he was a construction engineer and developer. His work was centered in the eastern Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf. That part of the world is as far removed from the mountains and the rivers as one can imagine. I think he simply found a certain relief with the change of scenery. He’d spend a week or so on business, then head out to the Northwest.”

  “Alone, you say,” said Eric Sundstrom.

  “Not in those days, sir. He’d frequently bring along a female companion.”

  “Then he’s obviously not a homosexual,” observed the only female member of Inver Brass.

  “I never meant to imply that he was.”

  “Neither did you mention anything about a wife or a family, which I’d think would be an important consideration. You simply said he now travels alone on what are obviously holidays.”

  “He’s a bachelor, madame.”

  “That could be a problem,” inserted Sundstrom.

  “Not necessarily, sir. We have two years to address the situation, and given the probability factors a marriage during an election year might have a certain appeal.”

  “With the most popular President in history in attendance, no doubt,” said Gideon Logan, chuckling.

  “It’s not beyond possibility, sir.”

  “My God, you’re covering the bases, Milos.”

  “A moment, please.” Mandel adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses. “You say
he worked in the Mediterranean five years ago.”

  “He was in production then. He sold the company and left the Middle East.”

  “Why was that?”

  “A tragic accident occurred that took the lives of nearly all his employees and their entire families. The loss profoundly affected him.”

  “Was he responsible?” continued the stockbroker.

  “Not at all. Another firm was charged with using inferior equipment.”

  “Did he in any way profit from the tragedy?” asked Mandel, his gentle eyes suddenly hard.

  “On the contrary, sir, I checked that out thoroughly. He sold the company for less than half its market value. Even the attorneys for the conglomerate that bought him out were astonished. They were authorized to pay three times the price.”

  The eyes of Inver Brass returned to the large screen and the photograph of a man and his craft careening around a wild bend in the rapids.

  “Who took these?” asked Logan.

  “I did, sir,” replied Varak. “I tracked him. He never saw me.”

  The slides continued, and suddenly there was an abrupt change. The “prospect” was no longer seen in the rugged clothes of the white water rapids or in day’s-end fatigues and T-shirts around a campfire, cooking alone over the flames. He was now photographed clean-shaven, his hair cut and combed, and dressed in a dark business suit, walking up a familiar street, an attaché case in his hand.

  “That’s Washington,” said Eric Sundstrom.

  “Now it’s the steps leading up to the Rotunda,” added Logan with the next slide.

  “He’s on the Hill,” interjected Mandel.

  “I know him!” said Sundstrom, the fingers of his right hand pressing into his temples. “I know the face, and there’s a story behind that face but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Not the story I’m about to tell you, sir.”

  “All right, Milos.” Margaret Lowell’s voice was adamant. “Enough’s enough. Who the hell is he?”