The Icarus Agenda

by Robert Ludlum

  The yacht circled in what appeared tobe a cove, then in fits and starts—with sputtering forward and reverse screws—banked into a dock perhaps a hundred feet in length, with three additional boats, each smaller, faster, more powerful, bobbing on the other side. Shaded wire-meshed lights illuminated the watery berth as two figures raced out of darkness from the base of dry ground, stationing themselves beside the appointed pylons. As the boat was expertly maneuvered into its tire-protected resting place, lines were thrown fore and aft, the stern line whipped over by the mafioso, the weapon in his left hand, the bow line by the lone crewman. “Off!” he yelled at Kendrick as the yacht bounced gently into the dock.

  “I’d like to personally thank the captain for a safe and pleasant trip—”

  “Very funny,” said the Secret Service man, “but save it for the movies and get the hell off. You’re not going to see anybody.”

  “You want to bet, Luigi?”

  “You want your balls on the deck? And the name’s not Luigi.”

  “How about ‘Reginald’?”

  “Off!”

  Evan walked down the island pier toward the sloping ground and an ascending stone path, the mafioso behind him. He passed between two signs, both hand-painted: white lettering on stained brown wood, each done tastefully, professionally. The sign on the left was in Spanish, the one on the right in English.

  PASAJE A CHINA

  PROPIEDAD PRIVADA

  ALARMAS

  PASSAGE TO CHINA

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  ALARMS

  “Hold it there,” ordered the Secret Service man. “Don’t turn around. Look straight ahead.” Kendrick heard the sound of running feet on the dock, then quiet voices, the distinguishable words spoken in English but with Hispanic accents. Instructions were being given. “Okay,” continued the mafioso. “Go up the path and take the first right.… Don’t turn around!”

  Evan obeyed, although he walked with difficulty up the sharp incline; the long constricting trip on the yacht had severely numbed his legs. He tried to study the surroundings in the semidarkness, the shaded lights from the dock only barely compensated by small amber lamps lining the stone path. The foliage was lush and thick and damp; trees everywhere rose to heights of twenty, perhaps thirty, feet, with heavy vines that appeared to spring from one trunk to another, arms enveloping arms and bodies. Clusters of bushes and overgrowth had been cut back and down with precision, forming identical waist-high walls on both sides of the path. Order had been imposed on the wild. Then his vision was sharply reduced by the steep ascent and the growing darkness away from the pier, and sounds became the focus. What assaulted his ears were not unlike the sounds of the incessant staccato eruptions of the rapids during his runs in the white water, but these had a beat of their own, a pulse that controlled their own particular thunder.… Waves, of course. Waves crashing against rocks and never very far away, or perhaps amplified by echoes bouncing up from stone and reverberating through the wild greenery.

  The ground-level amber lights divided into two sets of parallel lines, one heading straight ahead and up, the other to the right; Kendrick turned into the latter. Heading across, the path leveled off, a ridge cut out of the hill, when suddenly there was an alarming increase in visibility. Black shafts and swelling shadows became dark trunks and spotted palms and tangled blue-green underbrush. Directly ahead was a cabin, lights shining through two windows flanking a central door. It was not, however, an ordinary cabin, and at first Evan did not know why he thought so. Then as he drew closer he understood. It was the windows; he had never seen any like them, and they accounted for the burst of light when the source appeared to be minimal. The beveled glass was at least four inches thick, like two huge rectangular prisms magnifying the interior light many times its candlepower. And there was something else that accompanied this imaginative feat of design. The windows were impenetrable … from both sides.

  “That’s your suite, Congressman,” said the Secret Service man who provided extraofficial services. “ ‘Your own villa’ describes it better, doesn’t it?”

  “I really couldn’t accept such generous accommodations. Why don’t you find me something a little less pretentious?”

  “You’re a regular comedian.… Go on over and open the door, there’s no key.”

  “No key?”

  “Surprises you, doesn’t it?” laughed the mafioso. “Me, too, until that guard explained. Everything’s electronica. I’ve got a little widget, like a garage opener, and when I press a button a couple of steel bars slide out of the frame and back into the door. They work inside, too.”

  “With time I might have figured that out for myself.”

  “You’re cool, Congressman.”

  “Not as cool as I should have been,” said Kendrick, walking down the path to the door and opening it. His eyes were greeted by the rustic splendor of a well-appointed New England mountain retreat, in no way reminiscent of southern California or northern Mexico. The walls consisted of bulging logs cemented together, two thick windows on each of the four walls, a break in the center of the rear wall obviously for a bathroom. Every convenience had been considered: a kitchen area was located at the far right, complete with a mirrored bar; on the far left was a king-sized bed and, in front of it, seating quarters with a large television set and several quilted armchairs. The builder in Evan concluded that the small house belonged more properly in a snow-laden Vermont than in the waters somewhere south and west of Tijuana. Still, it was bucolically charming and he had no doubt that many guests on the island enjoyed it. But it had another purpose. It was also a prison cell.

  “Very pleasant,” said Bollinger’s guard, walking into the large single room, his weapon constantly but unobtrusively leveled at Kendrick. “How about a drink, Congressman?” he asked, heading for the recessed mirrored bar. “I don’t know about you, but I could use one.”

  “Why not?” replied Evan, looking around the room designed for a northern climate.

  “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Canadian and ice, that’s all,” said Kendrick, moving slowly from area to area, examining the interior construction of the cabin, his practiced eye seeking flaws that might lead to a way out. There were none; the place was airtight, escape-proof. The window sashes were secured, not with recessed magnesium nails but with bolts concealed by layered plaster; the front door had internal hinges, impossible to reach without a powerful drill, and finally, walking into the bathroom, he saw that it was windowless, the two vents small grilled apertures four inches wide.

  “Great little hideaway, isn’t it?” said the mafioso, greeting Evan with his drink as he emerged from the bathroom.

  “As long as you don’t miss sightseeing,” replied Kendrick, his eyes aimlessly straying over to the kitchen area. Something was odd, he considered, but again nothing specific came to him. Aware of the guard’s weapon, he passed the mirrored bar and went to a dark-stained oval oak table, where presumably meals were served. It was perhaps six or seven feet in front of a long counter in the center of which a stove had been inserted beneath a line of cabinets. The sink and the refrigerator, separated by another counter, were against the right wall. What was it that bothered him? Then he saw a small microwave oven built in below the last cabinet on the left; he looked back at the stove. That was it.

  Electric. Everything was electric, that was the oddity. In the vast majority of rustic cabins, propane gas was piped in from portable tanks outside to eliminate the need for electricity for such appliances as stoves and ovens. The maxim was to keep the amperage as low as possible, not so much because of expense but for convenience, in case of electrical malfunctions. Then he thought of the lamps on the pier and the amber ground lights along the paths. Electricity. An abundance of electricity on an island at least twenty, if not fifty, miles away from the mainland. He was not sure what it all meant, but it was something to think about.

  He walked out of the designated kitchen zone and over to the living room are
a. He looked down at the large television set and wondered what kind of antenna was required to pull signals across so many miles of open water. He sat down, now only barely aware of his armed escort, his mind on so many other things, including—painfully—Khalehla back at the hotel. She had expected him hours ago. What was she doing? What could she do? Evan raised his glass and drank several swallows of the whisky, grateful for the warming sensation that spread quickly through him. He looked over at Bollinger’s guard, who stood casually by the stained oak table, his weapon confidently on top of it, but on the edge, near his free right hand.

  “Your health,” said the man from the Mafia, raising the glass in his left hand.

  “Why not?” Without returning the courtesy, Kendrick drank, again feeling the quick, warming effects of the whisky.… No! It was too quick, too harsh, not warming but burning! Objects in the room suddenly pulsed in and out of focus; he tried to get up from the chair, but he could not control his legs or his arms! He stared at the obscenely grinning mafioso and started to shout but no sound came. He heard the glass shattering on the hard wood floor and felt a terrible weight pressing down on him. For the second time that night the darkness came as he kept falling, falling into an infinite void of black space.

  The Secret Service man crossed to an intercom console built into the wall next to the mirrored bar. Frowning in thought, he pressed the three numbers he had been given on the boat.

  “Yes, Cottage?” answered a soft male voice.

  “Your boy’s asleep again.”

  “Good, we’re ready for him.”

  “I’ve got to inquire,” said the well-spoken capo. “Why did we bring him to in the first place?”

  “Medical procedure, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I wouldn’t take that attitude, if I were you. We are owed and you’re the debtors.”

  “All right. Without a medical history there are acceptable and unacceptable limits of dosage.”

  “Two moderate applications rather than a single excessive one?”

  “Something like that. Our doctor is very experienced in these things.”

  “If he’s the same one, keep him out of sight. He’s on Kendrick’s death list.… And send down your Hispanics, I’m not contracted for hauling bodies.”

  “Certainly. And don’t concern yourself about that doctor. He was on another list.”

  “MJ, he’s still not back and it’s three-fifteen in the morning!” cried Khalehla into the phone. “Have you learned anything?”

  “Nothing that makes sense,” replied the director of Special Projects, his voice thin and weary. “I haven’t called you because I thought you were getting some rest.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Uncle Mitch. You’ve never had a problem telling me to work all night. That’s Evan out there!”

  “I know, I know.… Did he mention anything to you about meeting someone in Balboa Park?”

  “No, I don’t think he knows what it is or where it is.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course. My grandparents live here, remember?”

  “Do you know a place called the Balthazar?”

  “It’s a coffeehouse for hotheads, Arab hotheads to be exact, students mostly. I was there once and never went back. Why do you ask?”

  “Let me explain,” said Payton. “After your call several hours ago, we reached Bollinger’s house—as Kendrick’s office, of course—saying we had an urgent message for him. We were told he’d left around nine o’clock, which contradicted your information that he hadn’t returned by eleven; at best it’s a thirty-minute drive from the Vice President’s home to your hotel. So I contacted Gingerbread—Shapoff—who’s terribly good in these situations. He tracked everything down, including the driver of Evan’s limousine.… Our congressman asked to be let off at Balboa Park, so Gingerbread did his thing and ‘rustled up the neighborhood,’ as he phrased it. What he learned can be put in two enigmatic conclusions. One: a man fitting Evan’s description was seen walking in Balboa Park. Two: a number of people inside the Balthazar have stated that this same man wearing dark glasses entered the establishment and stood for a long time by the cardamom-coffee machines before going to a table.”

  “Mitch,” screamed Khalehla. “I’m looking at his dark glasses now! They’re on the bureau. He sometimes wears them during the day so he won’t be recognized, but never at night. He says they draw attention at night and he’s right about that. That man wasn’t Evan. It’s a setup. They’re holding him somewhere!”

  “Hardball,” said Payton quietly. “We’ll have to get into the game.”

  Kendrick opened his eyes as a person does who is unsure of where he is or what condition he is in or even whether he is awake or still asleep. There was only bewilderment, clouds of confusion swirling about in his head, and a numbness caused by frightening uncertainty. A lamp was on somewhere, its glow washing the beamed ceiling. He moved his hand, lifting his right arm off the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room. He studied both hand and arm, then suddenly, swiftly he raised his left arm. What had happened? He swung his legs off the bed and unsteadily stood up, equal parts of terror and curiosity gripping him. Gone were the thick corduroy trousers and the coarse black denim shirt. He was dressed in his own clothes! In his navy blue suit, his congressional suit, as he frequently and humorously referred to it, the suit he had worn to Bollinger’s house! And his white oxford broadcloth shirt and his striped regimental tie, all freshly cleaned and laundered. What had happened? Where was he? Where was the well-appointed rustic cabin with the all-electric appliances and the recessed mirrored bar? This was a large bedroom he had never seen before.

  Slowly, regaining balance, he moved about the strange surroundings, a part of him wondering if he was living a dream or had just lived one previously. He saw a pair of tall, narrow French doors; he walked rapidly over and opened them. They led out to a small balcony large enough for a couple to have coffee on but no more than that—a miniature round table and two wrought-iron chairs had been placed for such a ritual. He stood in front of the waist-high railing and looked out over the darkened grounds, dark except for a practically nonexistent moon and the parallel lines of amber lights that branched off in various directions … and something else. Far in the distance, lit up by the dim wash of floodlights, was a fenced area not unlike an immense wire cage. Within it there appeared to be blocks of massive machinery, some of it jet-black and glistening, others chrome or silver, equally shimmering in the dull, cloud-covered moonlight. Evan concentrated on the sight, then turned his head to listen; there was a steady uninterrupted hum, and he knew he had found the answer to a question that had confused him. He did not have to see the signs that read, DANGER High Voltage; they were there. The wire-enclosed machinery were components of a huge generator undoubtedly fed by giant underground tanks of fuel, and fields of photovoltaic cells to alternately capture the solar energy of the tropical sun.

  Below the balcony was a sunken brick patio, the drop twenty-five feet or more, which meant a twisted ankle or a broken leg if a person tried to leave that way. Kendrick studied the exterior walls; the nearest drainpipe was at the corner of the structure, far out of reach, and there were no vines that could be scaled, only sheer stucco.… Blankets? Sheets! Tied firmly together, he could handle a drop of eight to ten feet! If he hurried … He suddenly stopped all movement, ended all thoughts of racing into the room and to the bed, as a figure appeared walking down an amber-lighted path on the right, a rifle strapped over his shoulder. He raised his arm, a signal. Evan looked to the left; a second man was signaling back, patrols acknowledging each other. Kendrick pulled his watch up to his eyes, trying to read the second hand in the dull night light. If he could time the sentries’ coordinates, have everything prepared … Again he was forced to stop what plans his desperation created. The bedroom door opened, and the reality that was, was now confirmed.

  “I thought I heard you moving around,” said the Secret Service man from the ranks of the Mafi
a.

  “And I should have realized the room was bugged,” said Evan, coming in from the balcony.

  “You keep getting things wrong, Congressman. This is a guest room in the main house. You think these people would listen in on their guests’ private conversations or their perfectly natural indulgences together?”

  “I think they’d do anything. Otherwise, how did you know I was up?”

  “Easy,” answered the mafioso, crossing to the bureau against the far right wall and picking up a small flat object from the top. “One of these. They’re provided for people with infants. My sister in New Jersey won’t go anywhere without them—they come in pairs. Plug it in one room, then plug it in another room and you can hear the child screaming. Let me tell you, her children scream a lot. You can hear them in Manhattan.”

  “Very enlightening. When did I get my clothes back?”

  “I don’t know. The Hispanics took care of you, not me. Perhaps you were raped and don’t know it.”

  “Again, enlightening.… Have you any idea what you’ve done, what you’re involved in? You’ve abducted a not-unknown holder of government office, a member of the House of Representatives.”

  “Good Lord, you make it sound like snatching the maître d’ at Vinnie’s Pasta Palace.”

  “You’re not amusing—”

  “You are,” interrupted the guard, removing his automatic from a shoulder holster. “You’re also on call, Congressman. You’re wanted downstairs.”

  “Suppose I refuse the invitation?”

  “Then I blow a hole through your stomach and kick a corpse down the stairs. Whichever, I really don’t care. I’m being paid for a service, not a guaranteed delivery. Take your choice, hero.”

  The room was a naturalist’s nightmare. The heads of slain animals hung from the white stucco walls, their false eyes, eagerly inserted, reflecting the panic of impending death. Skins of leopard, tiger and elephant were the upholstery, neatly stretched and brass-tacked over chairs and couches. If nothing else, it was an assertion of the power of man’s bullet over unsuspecting wildlife, and not so much imposing as sad, as sad as the hollow triumphs of the victors.