The Icarus Agenda

At the first sign of even conceivable capture, I will put a bullet in your head, child. Do you understand?

I will do it first, old man. I seek my glorious death far more than my miserable life.

I believe you, you young fool. But please remember the words of Azra. Alive you can fight, dead you cannot.

The martyred Azra was right, thought Ahbyahd. However, Azra had not defined the ultimate sacrifice sought by all who truly believed. It was to die while fighting. That was why the jihad was impervious to traps, even to death. And the thunderous silence that resulted from the attack on the house in Virginia and the absence of Yosef and his men could only be a trap. It was the Western way of thinking: Deny the accomplishment, acknowledge nothing; force the hunters to search farther and lead them into a trap. It was so meaningless. If the trap meant killing the enemy, in this instance the possibility of killing a great enemy, what did death matter? In their martyrdom they would find an exhilaration of happiness unknown in the life they led here on earth. There was no greater glory for the believer than to walk into the gentle clouds of Allah's heaven with the blood of enemies on one's hands in a just war.

It was this reasoning that confused Ahbyahd. Did not the Christians incessantly talk about walking into the arms of Christ for the causes of Christ, calling for wars in his name? Did not the Jews exalt their chosen status under Abraham's God to the exclusion of all others, fighting for deliverance as the Maccabees did, dying for their beliefs atop the Masada? Was Allah to be deemed unworthy in this company? Who decreed it? The Christians and the Jews? Ahbyahd was no scholar, barely a student of such difficult subjects, if the truth be known, but these were things taught by the elders, men steeped in the holy Koran. The lessons were clear: Their enemies were quick to invent and fight for their own grievances but quicker still to deny the pain of others. The Christians and the Jews were very free in calling upon their almighties in any conflict that threatened them, and they would certainly continue to deny the just cause of the lowly Palestinian, but they could not deny him his martyrdom. They would not in a distant place called Mesa Verde, thousands of kilometres from Mecca.

'My brothers,' began the white-haired one, facing the four men of his command in the small, dingy motel room. 'Our time has come and we approach it with rapture, knowing that a far better world lies before us, a heaven where we will be free, neither slaves nor pawns to others here on earth. If through the grace of Allah we survive to fight again, we will bring home to our brothers and sisters the holy kill of vengeance that so justly belongs to us. And the world will know that we have done it, know that five men of valour penetrated and destroyed all within two fortresses built by the great enemy to stop us… Now we must prepare. First with prayers, and then with the more practical applications of our cause. Depending on what we learn, we strike when they will least expect an attack—not with the cover of night but in sunlight. By sundown we will either be with the holy hour of Salat el Maghreb or in the arms of Allah.'

It was shortly past noon when Khalehla walked off the plane and into the lounge at San Diego's International Airport. She was instantly aware of being watched, mainly because her observer made no pretence of not doing so. The nondescript overweight man in an unpressed, ill-fitting gabardine suit was eating popcorn from a white cardboard container. He nodded his head once, turned, and started walking down the wide, crowded corridor towards the terminal. It was a signal. In moments Rashad caught up with him, slowing her pace to his at his side.

'I gather you weren't waiting to pick me up,' she said without looking at him.

'If I was, you'd be on your knees begging me to take you home, which I'll probably have to do.'

'Your modesty is as irresistible as you are.'

'That's what my wife says, except she adds “beauty”.'

'What is it?'

'Call Langley. I have a feeling that all hell's broken loose, but call from one of these phones, not my place, if it's going to be my place. I'll wait up ahead; if we're a team, just nod and follow me… at a respectful distance, naturally.'

'I think I'd like a name. Something.'

Try Shapoff.'

'Gingerbread?' said Khalehla, briefly shifting her eyes to glance at the field officer so highly regarded that he was practically a legend at the Agency. 'East Berlin? Prague? Vienna—’

'Actually,' interrupted the man in the dishevelled gabardine suit. 'I'm a left-handed periodontist from Cleveland.'

'I guess I had a different picture of you.'

'That's why I'm “Gingerbread”… stupid goddamned name. Make your call.'

Rashad peeled off at the next pay telephone. Anxious and not familiar with the latest phone procedures, she pushed the Operator button and while feigning a bewildered French accent placed a collect call to a number she had long since committed to memory.

'Yes?' said Mitchell Payton at the other end of the line.

'MJ, it's me. What's happened?'

'Andrew Vanvlanderen died early this morning.'

'Killed?'

'No, it was a cardiac seizure; we've established that. There was a fair amount of alcohol in his blood and he was a mess—unshaven, eyes bloodshot, reeking of body sweat and worse—but it was a stroke.'

'Damn… damn!'

'There was also an interesting set of circumstances—always circumstances, nothing clean. He'd been sitting in front of a television set for hours on end and obviously smashed it with a marble ashtray.'

'Touchy, touchy,' said the agent from Cairo. 'What does his wife say?'

'Between excessive tears and pleas for seclusion, the stoic widow claims he was depressed over heavy losses in the market and other investments. Which, of course, she insists she knows nothing about, which of course she does. That marriage must have been consummated above a financial statement under the mattress.'

'Did you check on her information?'

'Naturally. His portfolio could support several small nations. Two of his horses even won the daily double at Santa Anita last week, and, along with a few others, are galloping towards millions in stud fees.'

'So she was lying.'

'She was lying,' agreed Payton.

'But not necessarily about the depression.'

'Let's try substituting another word. Rage, perhaps. Manic rage coupled with hysterical fear.'

'Something didn't happen?' suggested Khalehla.

'Something was not made public as having happened. Perhaps it did, perhaps it didn't… perhaps it was botched. Perhaps, and this could be the trigger, perhaps several of the killers were taken alive, as, indeed, one was in Mesa Verde.'

'And captured people can be made to talk volumes without knowing it.'

'Precisely. All that's needed is one source who can describe one location, a method of travel, a drop. We have such a source, such a person. There are too many complications to hide everything. Whoever's behind these killings has to realize that, at least suspect it. That may have been on Andrew Vanvlanderen's mind.'

'How are things going with the prisoner?'

'He's under now, or, as the doctors say, he's being taken up. He's a maniac. He's tried everything from self-asphyxiation to swallowing his tongue. As a result, they had to inject tranquillizers before they could give him the serums, slowing things a bit. The doctors tell me that we should have the first reports within an hour or so.'

'What do I do now, MJ? I can't very well barge in on the grieving widow—’