The Icarus Agenda

by Robert Ludlum

  “First reactions can be not too smart, agreed?”

  “Agreed,” agreed Evan.

  “But I’m supposed to be smart, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Still, consistency is the product of small minds, isn’t that so?”

  “Within reasonable boundaries.”

  “Don’t qualify.”

  “Don’t you play lawyer. The only bar you ever passed was with Manny in Los Angeles.”

  “Why, that hypocritical Israeli nut—”

  “At least you didn’t say Jew.”

  “I wouldn’t. I don’t like the sound of it any more than I like the sound of ‘dirty Arab.’ … Anyway, Manny and I didn’t pass too many bars in L.A. that we didn’t go into.”

  “What’s your point, Ahmat?”

  The young ruler breathed deeply and spoke quickly. “I know the whole story now and I feel like a damned idiot.”

  “The whole story?”

  “Everything. That Inver Brass crowd, Bollinger’s munitions bandits, that bastard Hamendi, who my royal Saudi brothers in Riyadh should have executed the moment they caught him … the whole ball of wax. And I should have known you wouldn’t do what I thought you did. ‘Commando Kendrick’ versus the rotten Arab isn’t you, it never was you.… I’m sorry, Evan.” Ahmat walked forward and embraced the congressman from Colorado’s Ninth District.

  “You’re going to make me cry,” said Khalehla, smiling at the sight in front of her.

  “You, you Cairo tigress!” cried the sultan, releasing Kendrick and taking Rashad in his arms. “We had a girl, you know. Half American, half Omani. Sound familiar?”

  “I know. I wasn’t permitted to contact you—”

  “We understood.”

  “But I was so touched. Her name’s Khalehla.”

  “If it weren’t for you, Khalehla One, there’d be no Khalehla Two.… Come on, let’s go.” As they started for Ahmat’s limousine the sultan turned to Evan. “You look pretty fit for a guy who’s been through so much.”

  “I heal rapidly for an old man,” said Kendrick. “Tell me something, Ahmat. Who told you the whole story, the whole ‘ball of wax’?”

  “A man named Payton, Mitchell Payton, CIA. Your President Jennings phoned me and said I was to expect a call from this Payton and would I please accept it, it was urgent. Hey, that Jennings is one charming character, isn’t he?… Although I’m not sure he knew everything that Payton told me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know, it was just a feeling.” The young sultan stood by the car door and looked at Evan. “If you can pull this off, my friend, you’ll do more for the Middle East and us on the Gulf than all the diplomats in ten United Nations.”

  “We’re going to pull it off. But only with your help.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Ben-Ami and code Blue walked down the narrow street into the Al Kabir bazaar looking for the outdoor café that served evening coffee. They were dressed in neat dark business suits, as befitted their Bahrainian visas, which stated that they were executives with the Bank of England in Manamah. They saw the sidewalk café, threaded their way through the crowds and the stalls, and sat at the empty table nearest the street as instructed. Three minutes later a tall man in white robes and Arab headdress joined them.

  “Have you ordered coffee?” asked Kendrick.

  “Nobody’s come around,” replied Ben-Ami. “It’s a busy night. How are you, Congressman?”

  “Let’s try ‘Evan,’ or better yet, ‘Amal.’ I’m here, which in a way answers your question.”

  “And Weingrass?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid.… Hello, Blue?”

  “Hello,” said the young man, staring at Kendrick.

  “You look very businesslike, very unmilitary in those clothes. I’m not sure I’d recognize you if I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

  “I’m not military any longer. I had to leave the Brigade.”

  “It’ll miss you.”

  “I miss it, but my wounds didn’t heal properly—various tendons, they tell me. Azra was a good fighter, a good commando.”

  “Still the hatred?”

  “There’s no hatred in my voice. Anger, of course, over many things, but not hatred for the man I had to kill.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I work for the government.”

  “He works for us,” interrupted Ben-Ami. “For the Mossad.”

  “Speaking of which, Ahmat apologizes for not having you to the palace—”

  “Is he crazy? All he needs is members of the Mossad in his house. It wouldn’t do us much good if anyone found out, either.”

  “How much did Manny tell you?”

  “With his big mouth, what didn’t he tell me? He also called after you left the States with more information that Blue was able to use.”

  “How, Blue?… Incidentally, do you have another name?”

  “With respect, sir, not for an American. In consideration of us both.”

  “All right, I accept that. What did Weingrass say that you could use, and how?”

  The young man leaned over the table; all their heads were closer. “He gave us the figure of fifty million—”

  “A brilliant manipulation!” broke in Ben-Ami. “And I don’t believe for a minute that it was Manny’s idea.”

  “What …? Well, it could have been. Actually, the bank had no choice. Washington leaned hard on it. What about the fifty million?”

  “South Yemen,” answered Blue.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Fifty million is a very large amount,” said the former leader of the Masada Brigade, “but there are larger amounts, especially in the cumulative sense. Iran, Iraq, et cetera. So we must match the people with purse. Therefore, South Yemen. It is terrorist and poor, but its distant, almost inaccessible location, sandwiched between the Gulf of Aden and the Red Sea, makes it strategically important to other terrorist organizations supported by far wealthier sources. They constantly seek out land, secret training grounds to develop their forces and spread their poison. The Baaka is constantly infiltrated, and no one cares to deal with Qaddafi. He’s mad and can’t be trusted and any week may be overthrown.”

  “I should tell you,” interrupted Ben-Ami again,” “that Blue has emerged as one of our more knowledgeable experts on counterterrorism.”

  “I’m beginning to see that. Go on, young man.”

  “You are not so much older than me.”

  “Try twenty years, or close to it. Go ahead.”

  “Your idea, as I understand it, is to have air shipments of munitions from Hamendi’s suppliers all over Europe and America pass through Masqat, where supposedly corrupted officials close their eyes and let them fly on to Lebanon and the Baaka Valley. Correct?”

  “Yes, and as each cargo plane comes in the damage is done by the sultan’s guards posing as Palestinians checking the supplies for which they’ve paid Hamendi while the crews are in quarantine. Each plane holds, say, sixty to seventy crates, which will be pried open by teams of ten men per plane and saturated with corroding acid. The process won’t take more than fifteen to twenty minutes an aircraft; the timing’s acceptable and we’re in total control. The Masqat garrison will cordon off the area and no one but our people will be allowed inside.”

  “Commendable,” said Blue, “but I suggest that the process would also be too rushed and too risk-prone. Pilots object to leaving their planes in this part of the world, and the crews, by and large hoodlums with strong backs and no minds, will cause trouble when pushed around by strangers; they smell officialdom, believe me.… Instead, why not convince the most prominent leaders in the Baaka Valley to go to South Yemen with their veteran troops. Call it a new provisional movement financed by the enemies of Israel, of which there are quite a few around. Tell them there is an initial fifty million in arms and equipment for advanced training as well as for sending their assault forces up to Gaz
a and the Golan Heights—more to be supplied as needed. It will be irresistible to those maniacs.… And instead of many air-cargo shipments, one ship, loaded out of Bahrain, rounding the Gulf here, and proceeding south along the coast on its way to the port of Nishtun in South Yemen.”

  “Where something will happen?” suggested Kendrick.

  “I’d say in the waters west of Ra’s al Hadd.”

  “What happens?”

  “Pirates,” answered Blue, a slight smile creasing his lips. “Once in control of the ship, they would have two days at sea to accomplish what they must far more subtly and thoroughly than they would racing around an airport’s cargo area where, indeed, Hamendi might station his own people.”

  A harried waiter arrived, whining his apologies and cursing the crowds. Ben-Ami ordered cardamom coffee as Kendrick studied the young Israeli counterterrorist. “You say ‘once in control,’ ” said Evan, “but suppose it doesn’t happen? Suppose something goes wrong … say, our hijackers can’t take the ship, or just one message is radioed back to Bahrain—only a word, ‘Pirates.’ Then there’s no control. The undamaged weapons get through and Hamendi walks away free, more millions in his pocket. We’d be risking too much for too little.”

  “You risk far more at the airport in Masqat,” argued Blue, his whisper emphatic. “You must listen to me. You came back here for only a few days a year and a half ago. You haven’t been here in years; you don’t know what airports have become. They are zoos of corruption!… Who is bringing in what? Who has been bribed and how do I blackmail him? Why is there a change in procedures? Tell me, my Arab astiga, or my good Hebrew freund! They are zoos! Nothing escapes the eyes of the jackals looking for money, and money is paid for such information.… Taking a ship at sea is the lesser risk with the greater benefit, believe me.”

  “You’re convincing.”

  “He’s right,” said Ben-Ami as their coffee arrived. “Shukren,” said the Mossad control agent, thanking and paying the waiter as the man raced to another table. “It must, of course, be your decision, Amal Bahrudi.”

  “Where do we find these pirates?” asked Evan. “If they can be found and if they are acceptable?”

  “Being convinced of my projections,” replied Blue, his eyes rigid on Kendrick’s face, which went in and out of the shadows created by the passing crowds, “I broached the possibility of such an assignment to my former comrades in the Masada. I had more volunteers than I could count. As you loathed the Mahdi we loathe Abdel Hamendi, who supplies the bullets that kill our people. I chose six men.”

  “Only six!”

  “This must not be solely an Israeli operation. I reached six others I knew on the West Bank.… Palestinians who are as sickened by the Hamendis of this world as I am. Together we will form a unit, but it is still not enough. We need six others.”

  “From where?”

  “From the host Arab country that willingly, knowingly breaks the back of Abdel Hamendi. Can your sultan provide them from his personal guards?”

  “Most are his relatives—cousins, I think.”

  “That helps.”

  The illegal purchase of armaments on the international market is a relatively simple procedure, which accounts for the fact that relatively simple people from Washington to Beirut can master it. There are basically three prerequisites. The first is immediate access to undisclosed and undisclosable funds. The second is the name of an intermediary, usually supplied over lunch—not over the telephone—by any senior executive of an arms-producing company or a bribable member of an intelligence organization. This intermediary must be capable of reaching the primary middleman, who will put the package together and coordinate the processing of end-users certificates. This aspect in the United States simply means that export licenses are granted for armaments on their way to friendly nations; they are rerouted en route. The third prerequisite should be the easiest but is usually the most difficult because of the extraordinary variety and complexity of the merchandise. It is the preparation of the list of weapons and auxiliary equipment desired for purchase. Apparently no five buyers can agree on the lethal capabilities and effectiveness of an arms inventory, and not a few lives have been lost during heated debates over these decisions, the buyers frequently given to outbursts of hysteria.

  Which was why young code Blue’s management talents were most welcome in terms of time and specificity. The Mossad’s agents in the Baaka Valley forwarded a list of the currently most favored merchandise, including the usual crates of repeating weapons, hand grenades, time-fused explosives, black PVC landing craft, long-range underwater tank and demolitions accoutrements, and assorted training and assault equipment, such as grappling hooks, heavy ropes and rope ladders, infrared binoculars, electronic mortars, flamethrowers, and antiaircraft rocket missiles. It was an impressive inventory that chewed up approximately eighteen million of the estimated twenty-six million one could buy from an arms merchant for fifty million American dollars—the fluctuating rates of exchange always in favor of the merchant. Therefore, Blue added three small Chinese tanks under the technical umbrella of “location defense” and the list was complete—not only complete but entirely believable.

  The unknown, unrecorded, never-to-be-acknowledged agent of control, namely, one Ben-Ami, now dressed in his favored Ralph Lauren blue jeans, operated out of the Mossad safe house next to the Portuguese cemetery in the Jabal Sa’ali. To his fury, the intermediary for Abdel Hamendi was an Israeli in Bet Shemesh. He concealed his contempt and negotiated the huge purchase, in the forefront of his mind knowing that there would be a death in Bet Shemesh if and when they all survived.

  The two units of six commandos arrived, one after another, at night in the desert of Jabal Sham above flares that directed the two helicopters into their thresholds. The sultan of Oman greeted the volunteers and introduced them to their comrades, six highly skilled personal guards from the Masqat garrison. Eighteen men—Palestinians, Israeli and Omani—gripped hands in their common objective. Death to the merchant of death.

  The training began the next morning beyond the shoals of Al Ashkarah in the Arabian Sea.

  Death to the merchant of death.

  Adrienne Khalehla Rashad walked into Ahmat’s office cradling the infant named Khalehla in her arms. Beside her was the child’s mother, Roberta Yamenni, from New Bedford, Massachusetts, among the elite of Oman known as Bobbie. “She’s so beautiful!” exclaimed the agent from Cairo.

  “She had to be,” said the father behind the desk, Evan Kendrick in a chair beside him. “She has a name to live up to.”

  “Oh, nonsense.”

  “Not from where I’m sitting,” said the American congressman.

  “You’re an oversexed bear.”

  “I’m also leaving tonight.”

  “And so am I,” added the sultan of Oman.

  “You can’t—”

  “You can’t!” The high female voices were in concert. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” yelled the sultan’s wife.

  “What I wish to do,” replied Ahmat calmly. “In these areas of royal prerogative, I don’t have to consult with anyone.”

  “That’s bullshit!” cried the wife and mother.

  “I know, but it works.”

  The training was over in seven days, and on the eighth day twenty-two passengers climbed into a trawler off the coast of Ra’s al Hadd, their equipment stowed below the gunwales. On the ninth day, at sundown in the Arabian Sea, the cargo ship from Bahrain was picked up on the radar. When darkness came the trawler headed south to the intercept-coordinates.

  Death to the merchant of death.

  46

  The cargo ship was a bobbing hulk on the swells of the dark sea, its bow rising and falling like an angry predator intent on feeding. The trawler from Ra’s al Hadd stopped in the water a half mile to starboard of the approaching vessel. Two large PVC lifeboats were lowered over the side, the first holding twelve men, the other ten and one woman. Khalehla Rashad was between
Evan Kendrick and the young sultan of Oman.

  All were encased in wet suits, their darkened faces barely visible within the folds of the form-fitting black rubber. In addition to canvas knapsacks across their backs and the bound waterproofed weapons clipped to their belts, each wore large circular suction cups strapped to his knees and forearms. The two boats pitched and rolled beside each other in the dark sea as the cargo ship plowed forward. Then, as the great black wall of the vessel rose above them, the lifeboats pulled alongside, their quiet motors drowned out by the slapping waves. One by one the “pirates” clamped their cups on to the hull, each checking his companion on the left to make certain he was secure. All were.

  Slowly, like a cluster of ants crawling up a filthy garbage can, the force from Oman made its way to the top of the hull, to the gunwales, where the suction cups were released and dropped back into the sea.

  “Are you all right?” whispered Khalehla beside Evan.

  “All right?” protested Kendrick. “My arms are killing me, and I think my legs are somewhere in the water down there, which I don’t intend to look at!”

  “Good, you’re all right.”

  “You do things like this for a living?”

  “Not very often,” said the agent from Cairo. “On the other hand, I’ve done worse.”

  “You’re all maniacs.”

  “I didn’t go into a compound filled with terrorists. I mean, that’s crazy!”

  “Shhh!” ordered Ahmat Yamenni, sultan of Oman, on Rashad’s right. “The teams are going over. Be quiet.”

  The Palestinians took out the barely awake men on watch at the bow, midships and stern while the Israelis raced up the gangways to an upper deck and captured five seamen who were sitting against a bulkhead drinking wine. By design, as they were in the waters of the Gulf of Oman, the Omanis ran up to the bridge to formally instruct the captain that the ship was under their control by royal decree and its present course was to be maintained. The crew was rounded up and checked for weapons, all their knives and guns removed. They were confined to quarters with an Omani, a Palestinian and an Israeli, in rotating units of three, standing guard. The captain, a gaunt fatalist with a stubble of a beard, accepted the circumstances with a shrug of his shoulders and offered neither resistance nor objection. He stayed at the wheel, asking only that his first and second mates relieve him at the proper times. The request was granted and his subsequent comment summed up his philosophical reaction: