The Icarus Agenda

'And deliver a bomb?'

'Only if someone tries to stop us,' answered the scientist, his voice strained as if the mere prospect was enough to summon his fury. Then that fury broke. His cherubic features suddenly turned into the grotesque components of some monstrous gargoyle. 'Research, research, research!' he cried, his strident speech like the squeals of a furious pig. 'Let no one dare stop us! We're moving into a new world where science will rule all civilization! You're meddling with a political faction that understands our needs. You can't be tolerated! Kendrick is dangerous! You've seen him, heard him… he'd hold hearings, ask stupid questions, obstruct our progress!'

'That's what I thought you'd say.' Varak slowly reached beneath the uniform to the fold of his jacket. 'Do you know the universal penalty for treason, Professor?'

'What are you talking about?' His hands trembling, his heavy body shaking as the sweat rolled down his face, Sundstrom edged towards the door. 'I've betrayed no one… I'm trying to stop a terrible wrong, a horrible mistake committed by misguided lunatics! You've got to be stopped, all of you! You cannot interfere with the greatest scientific machine the world has ever known!'

In the shadows Varak withdrew his automatic; a reflection of light beamed up from the barrel into Sundstrom's eyes. 'You've had months to say those things; instead you were silent while the others trusted you. Through your betrayal lives were lost, bodies mutilated… you're filth, Professor.'

'No!' screamed Sundstrom, crashing into the door, his trembling fingers hitting the handle as the door swung out, the scientist's rotund body following in frenzied panic. Milos fired; the bullet seared into Sundstrom's lower spine as the traitor fell to the asphalt shrieking. 'Help me, help me! He's trying to kill me! Oh, my God, he shot me!… Kill him, kill him!' Varak fired again, his aim now steady, the bullet accurate. The back of the scientist's skull blew apart.

In seconds, amid screams of confusion, gunfire was returned from the hangar. The Czech was hit in the chest and left shoulder. He sprang out of the street side door, rolling on the ground, over and over again directly behind the limousine until he reached the opposite curb. In pain, he crawled above it, scrambling on his hands and knees into the darkness of the tall grass that was the border of an auxiliary airstrip. He almost did not make it; from all directions there were the sounds of sirens and racing engines. The entire security force was converging on Hangar Seven, as across the street the guard and Grinell's chauffeur closed in on the limousine, firing repeatedly into the vehicle. Varak was hit again. An aimless ricochet, a wild shot, burned its way into his stomach. He had to get away! His business was not concluded!

He turned and started running through the tall grass, ripping first the uniformed jacket off, then stopping briefly to remove the trousers. Blood was spreading through his shirt, and his legs grew unsteady. He had to conserve his strength! He had to get across the field and reach a road, find a telephone. He had to!

Searchlights. From a tower behind him! He was back in Czechoslovakia, in prison, racing across the compound to a fence and freedom. A beam swung close, and as he had done in that prison outside Prague, he lurched to the ground and lay motionless until it passed. He struggled to his feet, knowing he was growing weaker but could not stop. In the distance there were other lights—streetlights! And another fence…! Freedom, freedom.

Straining every muscle, grip by grip, he scaled the fence only to confront coiled barbed wire at the top. It did not matter. With what seemed like his last vestige of strength, he propelled himself over, shredding his clothes and his flesh as he dropped to the ground. He lay there breathing deeply, alternately holding his stomach and his chest. Go on! Now!

He reached the road; it was one of those unkempt narrow thoroughfares that frequently surround airports, no real estate development because of the noise. Still, cars sped by, shortcuts known to natives. Awkwardly, unsteadily, he walked on to it, holding up his arms at an approaching vehicle. The driver, however, was having no part of him. He swung to the left and raced by. Moments later a second car approached from his right; he stood as straight as he could and raised one hand, a civilized signal of distress. The car slowed down; it stopped as the Czech reached into his holster for his gun.

'What's the problem?' asked the man in a naval uniform behind the wheel. The gold wings signified that he was a pilot.

‘I’m afraid I've had an accident,' replied Varak. 'I drove off the road a mile or so back and no one has stopped to help me.'

'You're pretty smashed up, pal… Climb in and I'll get you to the hospital. Jesus, you're a mess! Come on, I'll give you a hand.'

'Don't bother, I can manage,' said Varak, walking around the bonnet. He opened the door and climbed in. 'If I soil your car I'll gladly pay—’

'Let's worry about that in a month of Tuesdays.' The naval officer shifted into gear and raced off as the Czech replaced his unseen automatic in the holster.

'You're very kind,' said Milos, digging a scrap of paper out of his pocket and removing his pen, writing brief words and numbers in the darkness.

'You're very hurt, pal. Hang on.'

'Please, I must find a telephone. Please!'

The fucking insurance can wait, buddy.'

'No, not insurance,' stammered Varak. 'My wife. She expected me hours ago… She has psychological problems.'

'Don't they all?' said the pilot. 'Do you want me to make the call?'

'No, thank you very much. She would interpret that as a crisis far worse than it is.' The Czech arched back in the seat, grimacing.

'There's a fruit stand about a mile down the road. I know the owner and they have a phone.'

'I can't thank you enough.'

'Take me to dinner when you get out of the hospital.'

The perplexed owner of the fruit store handed Varak the phone as the naval officer watched, concerned for his damaged passenger. Milos dialled the Westlake Hotel. 'Room Fifty-one, if you please?"

'Hello, hello?' cried Khalehla from out of a deep sleep.

'Do you have an answer for me?'

'Milos?'

'Yes.'

'What's wrong?'

‘I'm not terribly well, Miss Rashad. Do you have an answer?'

'You're hurt!'

'Your answer.’

'Green light. Payton will back off. If Evan can get the nomination, it's his. The race is on.'

'He's needed more than you'll ever know.'

'I don't know that he'll agree.'

'He has to! Keep your line free. I'll call you right back.'

'You are hurt!'

The Czech depressed the bar on the phone and immediately redialled.

'Yes?'

'Sound Man?'

'Prague?'

'How are things progressing?'

'We'll be done in a couple of hours. The typist's got the earphones on and is pounding away… She's rough on all-night overtime.'

'Whatever the cost, it's… covered.'

'What's wrong with you? I can barely hear you.'

'A slight cold… You'll find ten thousand in your studio mailbox.'

'Yes, come on, I'm not a thief.'

'I roll high, remember?'

'You really don't sound right, Prague.'

'In the morning, take everything to the Westlake, Room Fifty-one. The name of the woman is Rashad. Give it only to her.'

'Rashad. Room Fifty-one. I've got it.'

'Thank you.'

'Listen, if you're in trouble, let me know about it, okay? I mean if there's anything I can do—’

'Your car's at the airport, somewhere in Section C,' said the Czech, hanging up. He lifted the phone for the last time and dialled again. 'Room Fifty-one,' he repeated.

'Hello?'

'You will receive… everything in the morning.'

'Where are you? Let me send help!'

'In the… morning. Get it to Mr. B!'

'Goddamn you, Milos, where are you?'

'It doesn't matter… Ask Kendrick. He may know.'