“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 the 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 defense.”
“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 toward 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 contact 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-colored 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 one is 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 permeate the elevator. 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 purse 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 purse 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. Scumrotten, 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 an
d 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.
“You’re very good, Scum-rotten, I’ll give you that.”
“We are not enemies, Miss Rashad.”
“Somehow I find that hard to believe.” The elevator telephone rang from the box below the panel, its bell echoing off the four walls of the small enclosure. “You’re not getting out of here,” added Khalehla.
“Wait,” said the blond man as the ringing persisted. “You saw Mrs. Vanvlanderen.”
“She told you that. So what?”
“She couldn’t have,” broke in the European. “I’ve never met her but I have taped her. She had visitors later. They talked about you—she and two other men, one named Grinell.”
“I never heard of him.”
“They’re both traitors, enemies of your government, of your country, to be precise, as your country was conceived.” The telephone kept up its insistent ringing.
“Fast words, Mr. No Name.”
“No more words!” cried the blond man, reaching under his jacket and withdrawing a thin large black automatic. He flipped both weapons around, gripping the barrels, the handles extended toward Khalehla. “Here. Take them. Give me a chance, Miss Rashad!”
Astonished, Khalehla held the guns and looked into the eyes of the European. She had seen that plea in too many eyes before. It was not the look of a man afraid to die for a cause, but furious about the prospect of not living to pursue it. “All right,” she said slowly. “I may or I may not. Turn around, your arms against the wall! Farther back, your weight on your hands!” The telephone was now a steady, deafening ring as the field officer from Cairo expertly ran her fingers over the body of the blond man, concentrating on the armpits, the indented shell of his waist, and his ankles. There were no weapons on him. “Stay there,” she ordered as she reached down and pulled out the telephone from the box. “We couldn’t open the panel for the phone!” she exclaimed.
“Our engineer is on his way, madam. He was on his dinner break but we’ve just located him. We apologize profusely. However, our indicators show no fire or—”
“I think we’re the ones to apologize,” interrupted Khalehla. “It was all a mistake—my mistake. I pushed the wrong button. If you’ll just tell me how to make it work again, we’ll be fine.”
“Oh? Yes, yes, of course,” said the male voice, suppressing his irritation. “In the telephone box there’s a switch.…”
The lobby doors opened and the European immediately spoke to the formally dressed manager, who was waiting for them. “There is a business associate I was to meet here quite some time ago. I’m afraid I overslept—a long, trying flight from Paris. His name is Grinell, have you seen him?”
“Mr. Grinell and the distraught Mrs. Vanvlanderen left a few minutes ago with their guests, sir. I assume it was a memorial service for her husband, a fine, fine gentleman.”
“Yes, he, too, was an associate. We were to be at the service but we never got the address. Do you know it?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Would anybody? Would the doorman have heard any instructions to a taxi?”
“Mr. Grinell has his own limousine—limousines, actually.”
“Let’s go,” said Khalehla quietly, taking the blond man’s arm. “You’re becoming a little obvious,” she continued as they walked toward the front entrance.
“I may have failed, which is far more important.”
“What’s your name?”
“Milos. Just call me Milos.”
“I want more than that. I’ve got the fire, remember?”
“If we can reach an acceptable accommodation, I’ll tell you more.”
“You’re going to tell me one hell of a lot more, Mr. Milos, and there won’t be any more of those fast maneuvers of yours. Your gun is in my purse, and mine is under my coat aimed at your chest.”
“What do we do now, Miss Supposedly Retired Central Intelligence Officer from Egypt?”
“We eat, you nosy bastard. I’m starved, but I’ll pick up every morsel of food with my left hand. If you make a wrong move across the table, you’ll never be able to have children, and not just because you’re dead. Am I clear?”
“You must be very good.”
“Good enough, Mr. Milos, good enough. I’m half Arab and don’t you forget it.”
They sat across from each other in a large circular booth selected by Khalehla in an Italian restaurant two blocks north of the hotel. Varak had detailed everything he had heard over the earphones from the Vanvlanderen suite. “I was shocked. I never thought for an instant that Andrew Vanvlanderen would act unilaterally.”
“You mean without his wife putting ‘a bullet in his head’ and calling one of the others to ‘deep-six’ him in Mexico?”
“Exactly. She would have done it, you know. He was stupid.”
“I disagree, he was very bright, considering his purpose. Everything that was done to and for Evan Kendrick led to a logical jaremat tháar, Arabic for a vengeance kill. You provided that, Mr. Milos, starting with the first moment you met Frank Swann at the State Department.”
“Never with that intention, I assure you. I never thought it was remotely possible.”
“You were wrong.”
“I was wrong.”
“Let’s go back to that first moment—in fact, let’s go back over the whole damn thing!”
“There’s nothing to go back over. I’ve said nothing of substance.”
“But we know far more than you think. We just had to unravel the string, as my superior put it … A reluctant freshman congressman is manipulated onto important congressional committees, positions that others would sell their daughters for. Then because of mysteriously absentee chairmen, he’s on national television, which leads to more exposure, topped by the explosive, worldwide story about his covert actions in Oman, and ending up with the President awarding him the highest medal a civilian can get. The agenda is pretty clear, isn’t it?”
“It was organized quite well, in my opinion.”
“And now there’s about to be launched a national campaign to place him on the party ticket, in effect making him the next Vice President of the United States.”
“You know about that?”
“Yes, and it’s hardly a spontaneous act on the part of the body politic.”
“I trust it will appear so.”
“Where are you coming from?” asked Khalehla, leaning over, picking at her veal dish with the left hand, her right out of sight under the table.
“I must tell you, Miss Rashad, that it pains me to watch you eating so awkwardly. I’m not a threat to you and I won’t run.”
“How can I be sure of either? That you’re not a threat and that you won’t run?”
“Because in certain areas our interests are the same, and I am willing to work with you on a limited basis.”
“My God, what arrogance! Would Your Eminence be so kind as to describe these areas and the limits of your generous assistance?”
“Certainly. To begin with, the safety of the Secretary of State and exposing those who would have him killed as well as knowing why, although I think we can assume the reason. Then the capture of the terrorists who attacked Congressman Kendrick’s houses with considerable loss of life, and confirming
the Vanvlanderen connection—”
“You know about Fairfax and Mesa Verde?” Varak nodded. “The blackout’s total.”
“Which brings us to the limits of my participation. I must remain far in the background and will not discuss my activities except in the most general terms. I will, however, if it’s necessary, refer you by code name to certain individuals in the government who will attest to my dependability in security matters here and abroad.”
“You don’t think much of yourself, do you?”
Milos smiled cautiously. “I really don’t have an opinion. However, I come from a country whose government was stolen from the people, and made up my mind years ago what I would do with my life. I have confidence in the methods I’ve developed. If that’s arrogance, so be it, and I apologize, but I don’t think of it that way.”
Khalehla slowly pulled her right hand out from under the table and with her left picked up the purse at her side. She shoved her automatic into it and leaned back, shaking her hand to restore circulation. “I think we can dispense with the hardware, and you’re right, it’s terribly awkward trying to cut meat with a left-handed fork while your other wrist is paralyzed.”
“I was going to suggest that you order something simpler, perhaps an antipasto, or a dish you might eat with your fingers, but I didn’t feel it was my place.”
“Do I detect a sense of humor behind that severe expression?”
“An attempt, perhaps, but I don’t feel very humorous at the moment. I won’t until I know the Secretary of State has arrived safely on Cyprus.”
“You alerted the proper people; there’s nothing more you can do. They’ll take care of him.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Then to business, Mr. Milos,” said Khalehla, returning to her meal, again slowly, her eyes on Varak. “Why Kendrick? Why did you do it? Above all, how did you do it? You tapped into sources that were supposedly untappable! You went in where no one should be able to go and ripped out secrets, stole a theft-proof file. Whoever gave you those should be taken out and put in the field so he’d know what it’s like to have no protection, to be naked without weapons in the dark streets of a hostile city.”
The Icarus Agenda Page 64