The Icarus Agenda

'Then let's go over the Kendrick Group again—’

'There is no Kendrick Group,' broke in Evan angrily. 'They were killed, blown away, drowned in concrete!… Manny and I are all that's left, you know that.'

'I'm sorry,' said Khalehla gently, sitting on the couch drinking tea. The printout was on the coffee table in front of her. 'I meant the dealings you had over here in the States while there was the Kendrick Group.'

'We've gone over them. There weren't that many—mostly in high-tech equipment.'

'Let's go over them again.'

'It's a waste of time but go ahead.'

'“Sonar Electronics, Palo Alto, California”,' read Khalehla, her hand on the printout. 'The representative was a man named Carew—'

'“Screw Carew”,' said Kendrick, chuckling. 'That was Manny's comment. We bought some sounding devices that didn't work, and they still wanted payment after we sent them back.'

'Drucker Graphics, Boston, the representative a G. R. Shulman. Anything?'

'Gerry Shulman, good man, good service; we worked with them for years. Never a problem.'

'Morseland Oil, Tulsa. The rep was someone named Arnold Stanhope.'

'I told you about him—them.'

'Tell me again.'

'We did preliminary surveying for them in the Emirates. They kept wanting more than they were willing to pay for, and since we were growing, we could afford to drop them.'

'Was there acrimony?'

'Sure, there always is when chisellers find out they can't do business as usual. But there wasn't anything silence couldn't cure. Besides they found some other jokers, a Greek outfit who caught on to them and delivered a survey that must have been made on the floor of the Oman Gulf.'

'Freebooters, every one of you,' said Khalehla, smiling and lowering her hand on the printout. 'Off Shore Investments, Limited, headquarters Nassau, the Bahamas, contact Ardis Montreaux, New York City. They funnelled a lot of capital to you—’

'Which we never touched because it was a sham,' interrupted Evan sharply. 'It better damn well say that there.'

'It says here, “Skip it”.'

'What?'

'I wrote it. It's what you said before, “Skip it”. What's Off Shore Investments, Limited?'

'Was,' corrected Kendrick. 'It was a high class boilerplate operation on the international scale—high class and international but still boilerplate. Build a company up with large Swiss accounts and hot air, then sell off and switch the assets, leaving the buyers with a balloon full of helium.'

'You got mixed up with something like that?'

'I didn't know it was something like that. I was a lot younger and impressed as hell that they wanted to list us as part of their structure… even more impressed with the money they banked for us in Zurich. Impressed, that is, until Manny said let's try to get some, just for the hell of it. He knew exactly what he was doing; we couldn't pull out two francs. Off Shore's signatures controlled all withdrawals, all assignments.'

'A dummy set-up and you were the dummies.'

‘That's it.'

'How did you get involved?'

'We were in Riyadh, and Montreaux flew over and conned me. I hadn't learned that there weren't any shortcuts—not that kind.'

'Ardis Montreaux. Ardis… That's an odd name for a man.'

'Because it's not a man—she's not a man. She's a lot tougher.'

'A woman?'

'Believe it.'

'With your innate scepticism she must have been very persuasive.'

'She had the words. She also wanted our heads when we pulled out; she claimed we were costing them millions. Weingrass asked her whose millions this time.'

'Perhaps we should—’

'Skip it,' Evan broke in firmly. 'She married an English banker and lives in London. She's faded.'

'How do you know?'

Showing minor embarrassment, Kendrick answered quickly and quietly. 'She called me a couple of times… as a matter of fact to apologize. Skip it.'

'Sure.' Khalehla went on to the next firm on the printout. As she spoke she wrote two words after Off Shore Investments, Limited. Check out.

Ardis Montreaux Frazier-Pyke Vanvlanderen, born Ardisolda Wojak in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, walked into the marble foyer of the suite at the Westlake Hotel in San Diego. She threw her sable stole over the back of a velour chair and raised her voice, her speech a cultivated mid-Atlantic, rather more nasal stage British than old-money American, but still afflicted with the harsh tones of Pittsburgh's Monongahela Slavic in the upper registers.

'Andy-boy, I'm home! We've got less than an hour to get up to La Jolla, so move it, sweetie!'

Andrew Vanvlanderen, heavyset with stark white wavy hair and dressed in a tuxedo, walked out of the bedroom, a drink in his hand. 'I'm ahead of you, babe.'

'I'll be ready in ten minutes,' said Ardis, peering into a foyer mirror and fingering the curls of her perfectly coiffed, frosted brown hair. She was closing in on fifty and of medium height but gave the impression of being younger and taller due to erect posture, a slender figure topped by generous breasts, and a well-co-ordinated face punctuated by large, penetrating green eyes. 'Why not call for the car, sweetie?'

'The car can wait. So can La Jolla. We've got to talk.'

'Oh?' The Vice President's chief of staff looked over at her husband. 'You sound serious.'

'I am. I had a call from your old boyfriend.'

'Which one, darling?'

'The only one who counts.'

'Good God, he called here?'

'I told him to—’

'That was dumb, Andy-boy, just plain dumb!' Ardis Vanvlanderen walked rapidly, angrily out of the foyer and down into the sunken living room. She sat in a red silk wing-backed chair and abruptly crossed her legs, her large eyes riveted on her husband. 'Take risks with money—on commodities or futures or your stupid horses or any goddamned thing you like, but not where I'm concerned! Is that understood, darling?'

'Listen, bitch—Dragon Bitch—with what I've paid out, if I want first-hand information I'm going to get it. Is that understood?'

'All right, all right. Cool off, Andy.'

'You start a rhubarb and then you tell me to cool it?'

'I'm sorry.' Ardis arched her neck back into her chair, breathing audibly through her open mouth, her eyes briefly closed. In seconds she opened them, levelled her head, and continued. 'Really, I'm sorry. It's been a particularly rotten Orson day.'

'What's Viper done now?' asked Vanvlanderen, drinking.

'Be careful with those names,' said his wife, laughing softly. 'We wouldn't want our all-American gorillas to learn they're being bugged.'

'What's Bollinger's problem?'

'He's feeling insecure again. He wants a written ironclad guarantee that he'll be on the ticket next July or we settle ten million on him in a Swiss account.'

Vanvlanderen coughed a swallow of whisky into his glass. 'Ten million?' he gasped. 'Who the fuck does that comedian think he is?'

'The Vice President of the United States with a few secrets in his skull,' replied Ardis. 'I told him we wouldn't accept anyone else but it wasn't good enough. I think he senses that Jennings doesn't consider him a world-beater and would let him go.'

'Our beloved telegenic wizard, Langford Jennings, hasn't a goddamned thing to say about it!… Is Orson right? Does Jennings dislike him?'

'Dislike's too strong. He just dismisses him, that's what I hear from Dennison.'

'That one's got to go. One of these days Herb's going to get more curious than we want him—’

'Forget him,' interrupted Mrs. Vanvlanderen. 'Forget Dennison and Bollinger and even your stupid horses. What did my straying, cat hunting old boyfriend have to say that was so important you had him call here?'

'Relax. He phoned from my Washington attorney's office; we share the same firm there, remember? But first, let's not forget Orson. Give him his guarantee. A simple sentence or two and I'll sign it. It'll make him happy and happy is better.'