The Icarus Agenda

'There's no reason for you to call me Khalehla—’

'Don't interrupt,' said Evan, smiling. 'Khalehla's just fine,' he added.

'Yes, well, I really don't understand,' continued Payton. 'But as I told you, there's a hole in the system, a gap we've missed, and we have to try everything.'

'Then why not go after Partridge and the Speaker of the House?' pressed Kendrick. 'If I could do what I did in Masqat, they can't be so tough to break down.'

'Not yet, young man. The timing isn't right, and the Speaker's retiring.'

'Now I don't understand.'

'MJ means he's working on both,' Khalehla had explained.

Evan braked the Mercedes around the long curve in the Virginia woods and waited until he saw the mobile unit in his rearview mirror; he then turned right into the pasture road that was the back way to his house. The guards would admit him. He wanted to hurry now; it was why he had taken the short cut. Khalehla had called him at the office and told him Mitchell Payton's list had arrived over the computer printout. His past was about to be presented to him.

Milos Varak walked down the boarded path towards the enormous beach fronting the Hotel del Coronado three miles over the bridge from San Diego. He had worked diligently for weeks to find a crack through which he could penetrate the ranks of the Vice President of the United States. Most of the time was spent in Washington; the administration's Secret Service was not easily invaded. Until he found a man, a dedicated man, with a strong physique and a disciplined mind, but with an unacceptable avocation that if exposed would destroy his assets, as well as his career and undoubtedly his life. He was a well-compensated procurer for various high-ranking members of the government. He had been primed for his work by the elders of his family, who had spotted his potential and sent him to the finest parochial schools and through a major university—major but not rich for that image would be incorrect. The elders wanted a fine looking, upstanding, well-groomed young man placed in a position to dispense favours in return for certain accommodations. And what better favours were there than below a weak man's belt, and how better to reach accommodations than the knowledge thereof. The elders were pleased, had been pleased for a number of years. This man came from the Mafia; he was Mafia; he served the Mafia.

Varak approached the lone figure in a raincoat by the rocks of a jetty several hundred yards from the high, imposing wire fence of the Naval Air Station.

'Thank you so much for seeing me,' said Milos pleasantly.

'I thought you had an accent on the phone,' said the well-spoken, well-trained, dark-featured man. 'Are you a redbird courier? Because if you are, you've reached the wrong swallow.'

'A Communist? I'm the farthest thing from it. I'm so American your consiglieri could present me to the Vatican.'

'That's insulting, to say nothing of being totally inaccurate… You made several very stupid statements, so stupid that you provoked my curiosity, which is why I'm here.'

'For whatever reason, I'm grateful that you are.'

'The bottom line was pretty clear,' interrupted the Secret Service agent. 'You threatened me, sir.'

'I'm sorry you were offended, I never meant to threaten you. I merely said that I was aware of certain additional services you provided—'

'Stop being so polite—’

'There's no reason to be discourteous,' said Varak courteously. 'I simply wanted you to understand my position.'

'You don't have a position,' corrected the government man with emphasis. 'Our records are unblemished, if you get my point.'

The Czech shifted his feet in the sand and waited while the roar of a jet passing over from the Naval Air Station diminished in the sky. 'You're saying that there are no records and your point is that you won't discuss anything concrete because you think I may be wearing a recording device.' Varak unbuttoned his jacket, separating it. 'Be my guest, search me. Personally, I wouldn't care to have my voice on the same tape with yours… Please, go ahead. I will, of course, remove my weapon and hold it in my hand but I won't stop you.'

The White House guardian was sullen, hesitant. 'You're too accommodating,' he said, standing motionless.

'On the other hand,' added Milos quickly. 'We can dispense with this awkwardness if you'd just read something I've prepared for you.' The Czech released his jacket, reached into his pocket and pulled out several sheets of folded paper. He snapped them open and handed them to the Secret Service agent.

As the man read, his eyes narrowed and his lips parted, frozen into the start of a snarl; in seconds a reasonably strong and attractive face became ugly. 'You're a dead man,' he said quietly.

'That could be short-sighted, don't you think? Because if I am, surely so are you. The capos would descend like a pack of wild dogs while the dons, drinking their fine red wine as if it were your blood, waited to hear of your very unpleasant death. Records? What are those? Names, dates, times, locations—and correspondingly, opposite each entry, the results of your sexual merchandise, or rather, blackmailed into being results. Bills amended, contracts awarded, government projects voted up or down according to their allocations. I'd say it's quite a record. And where does it all lead back to? Let me guess. The most unlikely source one can imagine… An unpublished telephone number listed under a false name and address but located in the apartment of a member of the government's Secret Service.'

'Those girls are dead… The boys are dead—’

'Don't blame them. They had no more of a choice than you do now. Believe me, it's better to assist me than to oppose me. I have no interest in your extracurricular activities; you provide a service and if you didn't somebody else would for roughly the same results. All I want from you is information, and in exchange I'll burn every copy of those pages. Of course, you have only my word for it, but as I'm likely to call upon your expertise again, I'd be stupid to release them, and I assure you I'm not stupid.'

'Obviously not,' agreed the Mafia soldier, his voice barely audible. 'Why throw a gun' away when you can still use it?'

'I'm glad you understand my position.'

'What sort of information are you looking for?'

'It's innocuous, nothing that will upset you. Let's start with the FBI unit that's been assigned to the Vice President. Aren't you people doing your job? Do you need a special task force from the Bureau?'

'It hasn't anything to do with us. We're in place for protection. They're investigative.'

'You can't protect unless you investigate.'

'It's different levels. We come up with something, we turn it over to the Bureau.'

'What did you come up with that called for this unit?'

'We didn't,' answered the man. 'A couple of months ago a series of threats were made against Viper and—’

'Viper?'

'The Vice President.'

'It's not a very flattering code name.'

'It's not in general use, either. Just among the detail.'

'I see. Go on—these threats. Who made them?'

That's what the unit's all about. They're trying to find out because they're still being made.'

'How?'

'Phone calls, telegrams, paste-up letters—they come from different places, which keep the Feds in the air a lot tracing them down.'

'Without success?'

'Not yet.'

'Then they're a roving task force, here one day, somewhere else the next. Are their movements co-ordinated from Washington?'

'When Viper's there, sure. When he's out here, it's here, and when he's on the road it's wherever he's at. The unit's controlled by his personal stuff; otherwise too much time is wasted checking back and forth with DC.'

'You were out here five weeks ago, weren't you?'

'Around then, yes. We just got back ten days ago; he spends a lot of time out here. As he likes to say, the President covers the East and he covers the West, and he's got the better deal because he gets away from Funny Town.'

'That's a foolish statement for a Vice President to make.'