The Icarus Agenda

'We know that.'

'Of course you do,' said Evan, closing his eyes, his face drenched with sweat and rain. 'I'm not thinking, I can't think. How's Manny taking it?'

'With considerable arrogance, to be truthful.'

'That's the first decent news I've heard.'

'You're entitled to it. He was truly remarkable for a man of his age.'

'He was always remarkable… at any age. I've got to get out there. Forget Washington. Fly me directly to Colorado.'

'I assumed you would make that request—’

'It's not a request, Mitch, it's a demand!'

'Of course. It's also the reason why your plane is delayed. The Air Force has punched up the fuelling for Denver and points west and is clearing a flight plan above the commercial routes. The aircraft has a maximum speed of Mach two point three. You'll be home in less than three hours, and remember, say nothing to anyone about Fairfax. Weingrass has already contained Mesa Verde.'

'How?'

'Let him tell you.'

'Do you really think you can keep everything quiet?'

'I will if I have to go to the President myself, and at this point I don't think there's any alternative.'

'How will you get past the palace guard?'

'I'm working on that. There's a man I studied with years ago in my early life as a would-be historian. We've kept in touch in a casual way and he has a great deal of influence. I think you know the name. It's Winters, Samuel Winters—’

'Winters? He's the one who told Jennings to give me the Freedom Medal in that crazy ceremony.'

'I remembered. It's why I thought of him. Have a good flight, and my love to my niece.'

Kendrick walked to the warehouse door where his police escort stood, two inside, two outside, their weapons levelled in front of them. Even the CIA's station chief, who in the dim light looked as though he might be Bahamian himself, held a small revolver in his hand. 'You people always carry those things?' asked Evan without much interest.

'Ask your friend who knew that the “status was clean”,' replied the intelligence officer, waving Kendrick through the door.

'You're joking. She has one?'

'Ask her.'

'How did she get on the plane in the States? The metal detectors, then customs over here?'

'One of our little secrets, which isn't so secret. A luggage or customs supervisor just happens to show up when we're passing through and the detector is shut down for a couple of seconds, and with customs an immigration inspector is alerted as to what not to find.'

'That's pretty loose,' said Kendrick, climbing into the official airport car.

'Not in nearby places like this. The supervisors not only work for us but they're monitored. Farther away our equipment is waiting for us inside.' The station chief sat beside Evan in the back seat of the small car and the driver sped out to the runway.

The huge, sleek military jet known as the F-106 Delta Dart had arrived, its engines idling in a bass roar as Khalehla stood by a ramp of metal steps talking with an Air Force officer. It was only as he approached the two of them that Kendrick recognized the type of aircraft he was about to enter; it was not a calming recognition. The jet was similar to the one that had flown him to Sardinia over a year ago, the first leg on his journey to Masqat. He turned to the intelligence officer walking beside him and extended his hand.

'Thanks for everything,' he said. 'I'm sorry I haven't been more pleasant company.'

'You could have spat in my face and I'd still have been proud to meet you, Congressman.'

'I wish I could say I appreciate that… what is your name?'

'Call me Joe, sir.'

'Call me Joe.' A young man on the same type of aircraft a year ago had been called Joe. Was another Oman, another Bahrain in his future?

'Thank you, Joe.'

'We're not quite finished, Mr. Kendrick. One of those AF boys with the rank of colonel or above has to sign a paper.'

The signer in question was not a colonel, he was a brigadier general and he was black. 'Hello again, Dr Axelrod,' said the pilot of the F-106. 'It seems I'm your personal chauffeur.' The large man held out his hand. 'That's the way the powers that be like it.'

'Hello, General.'

'Let's get one thing straight, Congressman. I was out of line last time and you handed it to me and you were right. But I'll tell you now that if they transfer me to Colorado, I'll vote for you in spades—don't take that idiomatically.'

'Thanks, General,' said Evan, attempting to smile. 'However, I won't be needing any more votes.'

'That'd be a damn shame. I've been watching you, listening to you. I like the sweep of your wing and that's something I know about.'

'I think you're supposed to sign a paper.'

'I never got one in Sardinia,' said the general officer accepting a letter of release from the CIA station chief. 'You sure you're gonna accept this li'l old document from an uppity goin'-on-fifty nigger in a general's suit, Mr. Old School Tie?'

'Shut your mouth, boy, I'm half Paiute Indian. You think you've got problems?'

'Sorry, son.' The Air Force officer signed and his special cargo got on board.

'What happened?' asked Khalehla when they reached their seats. 'Why did MJ call?'

His hands shaking, his voice trembling at the sudden enormity of it all, at the violence and the near death of Emmanuel Weingrass, he told her. There was a pained helplessness both in his eyes and in his halting, frightened spurts of explanation. 'Christ, it's got to stop! If it doesn't, I'll kill everyone I care for!' She could only grip his hand again and let him know that she was there. She could not fight the lightning in his mind. It was too personal, too soul-racking.

Thirty minutes into the flight, Evan convulsed and leaped out of his seat, racing up the aisle to the toilet. He retched, throwing up everything he had eaten in the last twelve hours. Khalehla ran behind him, forcing the narrow door open and grabbing his forehead, holding him, telling him to let it all out.

'Please,' coughed Kendrick. 'Please, get out of here!'

'Why? Because you're so different from the rest of us? You hurt but you won't cry? You bottle it up until something's got to give?'

'I'm not wild about pity—'

'You're not getting it, either. You're a grown man who's gone through a terrible loss and nearly suffered a greater one—or you the greatest one. I hope I'm your friend, Evan, and as a friend I don't pity you—I respect you too much for that—but I do feel for you.'

Kendrick stood up, grabbing paper towels from the dispenser, pale and visibly shaken. 'You know how to make a guy feel terrific,' he said guiltily.

'Wash your face and comb your hair. You're a mess.' Rashad walked out of the small enclosure past two uniformed and startled flight crew. 'The damn fool ate some bad fish,' she explained without looking at either man. 'Will one of you close the door, please?'

An hour passed; drinks were served by the Air Force attendants, followed by a microwaved dinner eaten heartily by the intelligence agent from Cairo but barely picked at by the congressman. 'You need food, friend,' said Khalehla. 'This beats the hell out of any commercial menu.'

'Enjoy.'

'How about you? You move it around but you don't eat.'

'I'll have another drink.'

Their heads snapped up with the piercing sound of a buzzer heard easily over the outside roar of the engines. For Evan it was deja vu; a buzzer had sounded a year ago and he had been summoned to the flight deck. Now, however, the corporal who answered the intercom on the bulkhead walked back and spoke to Khalehla. 'There's a radio transmission for you, miss.'

'Thank you,' said Rashad, turning and seeing the alarm in Kendrick's expression. 'If it was anything important, they'd ask for you. Relax.' She made her way up the aisle, gripping the few well-separated seats for balance in the mild turbulence, and sat in the seat in front of the bulkhead. The crewman handed her the phone; the spiralling cord was more than adequate for the reach. She crossed her legs and answered. 'This is Pencil Two, Bahamas. Who are you?'