The Icarus Agenda

'You're a regular comedian… Go on over and open the door, there's no key.'

'No key?'

'Surprises you, doesn't it?' laughed the Mafioso. 'Me, too, until that guard explained. Everything's elettronico. I've got a little widget, like a garage opener, and when I press a button a couple of steel bars slide out of the frame and back into the door. They work inside, too.'

'With time I might have figured that out for myself.'

'You're cool, Congressman.'

'Not as cool as I should have been,' said Kendrick, walking down the path to the door and opening it. His eyes greeted the rustic splendour of a well-appointed New England mountain retreat, in no way reminiscent of southern California or northern Mexico. The walls consisted of bulging logs plastered together, two thick windows on each of the four walls, a break in the centre of the rear wall obviously for a bathroom. Every convenience had been considered: a kitchen area was located at the far right, complete with a mirrored bar; on the far left was a king-sized bed and, in front of it, seating quarters with a large television set and several quilted armchairs. The builder in Evan concluded that the small house belonged more properly in a winter, snow-laden Vermont than in the waters somewhere south and west of Tijuana. Still, it was bucolically charming and he had no doubt that many guests on the island enjoyed it. But it had another purpose. It was also a prison cell.

'Very pleasant,' said Bollinger's guard, walking into the large single room, his weapon constantly but unobtrusively levelled at Kendrick. 'How about a drink, Congressman?' he asked, heading for the recessed mirrored bar. 'I don't know about you, but I could use one.'

'Why not?' replied Evan, looking around the room designed for a northern climate.

'What's your pleasure?'

'Canadian and ice, that's all,' said Kendrick, moving slowly from area to area, examining the interior construction of the cabin, his practised eye seeking flaws that might lead to a way out. There were none; the place was airtight, escape proof. The window sashes were secured, not with recessed magnesium nails but with bolts concealed by layered plaster; the front door had internal hinges, impossible to reach without a powerful drill, and, finally walking into the bathroom, he saw that it was windowless, the two vents small grilled apertures four inches wide.

'Great little hideaway, isn't it?' said the Mafioso, greeting Evan with his drink as he emerged from the bathroom.

'So long as you don't miss sightseeing,' replied Kendrick, his eyes aimlessly straying over to the kitchen area. Something was odd, he considered, but again nothing specific came to him. Aware of the guard's weapon, he passed the mirrored bar and went to a dark-stained oval oak table, where presumably meals were served. It was perhaps six or seven feet in front of a long counter in the centre of which a stove had been inserted beneath a line of cabinets. The sink and the refrigerator, separated by another counter, were against the right wall. What was it that bothered him? Then he saw a small microwave oven built in below the last cabinet on the left; he looked back at the stove. That was it.

Electric. Everything was electric, that was the oddity. In the vast majority of rustic cabins, propane gas was piped in from portable tanks outside to eliminate the need for electricity for such appliances as stoves and ovens. The maxim was to keep the amperage as low as possible, not so much because of expense but for convenience, in case of electrical malfunctions. Then he thought of the lamps on the pier and the amber ground lights along the paths. Electricity. An abundance of electricity on an island at least twenty, if not fifty, miles away from the mainland. He was not sure what it all meant, but it was something to think about.

He walked out of the designated kitchen zone and over to the living room area. He looked down at the large television set and wondered what kind of antenna was required to pull signals across so many miles of open water. He sat down, now only barely aware of his armed escort, his mind on so many other things, including—painfully—Khalehla back at the hotel. She had expected him hours ago. What was she doing? What could she do? Evan raised his glass and drank several swallows of the whisky, grateful for the warming sensation that spread quickly through him. He looked over at Bollinger's guard who stood casually by the stained oak table, his weapon confidently on top of it, but on the edge, near his free right hand.

'Your health,' said the man from the Mafia, raising the glass in his left hand.

'Why not?' Without returning the courtesy, Kendrick drank, again feeling the quick, warming effects of the whisky… No! It was too quick, too harsh, not warming but burning! Objects in the room suddenly pulsed in and out of focus; he tried to get up from the chair, but he could not control his legs or his arms! He stared at the obscenely grinning Mafioso and started to shout but no sound came. He heard the glass shattering on the hard wood floor and felt a terrible weight pressing down on him. For the second time that night the darkness came as he kept falling, falling into an infinite void of black space.

The Secret Service man crossed to an intercom console built into the wall next to the mirrored bar. Frowning in thought, he pressed the three numbers he had been given on the boat.

'Yes, Cottage?' answered a soft male voice.

'Your boy's asleep again.'

'Good, we're ready for him.'

'I've got to inquire,' said the well-spoken capo. 'Why did we bring him to in the first place?'

'Medical procedure, not that it's any of your business.'

'I wouldn't take that attitude, if I were you. We are owed and you're the debtors.'

'All right. Without a medical history there are acceptable and unacceptable limits of dosage.'

'Two moderate applications rather than a single excessive one?'

'Something like that. Our doctor is very experienced in these things.'

'If he's the same one, keep him out of sight. He's on Kendrick's death list… And send down your Hispanics, I'm not contracted for hauling bodies.'

'Certainly. And don't concern yourself about that doctor. He was on another list.'

'MJ, he's still not back and it's three-fifteen in the morning!' cried Khalehla into the phone. 'Have you learned anything?'

'Nothing that makes sense,' replied the director of Special Projects, his voice thin and weary. 'I haven't called you because I thought you were getting some rest.'

"Don't lie to me, Uncle Mitch. You've never had a problem telling me to work all night. That's Evan out there!'

'I know, I know… Did he mention anything to you about meeting someone in Balboa Park?'

'No, I don't think he knows what it is or where it is.'

'Do you?'

'Of course. My grandparents live here, remember?'

'Do you know a place called The Balthazar?'

'It's a coffeehouse for hotheads, Arab hotheads to be exact, students mostly. I was there once and never went back. Why do you ask?'

'Let me explain,' said Payton. 'After your call several hours ago, we reached Bollinger's house—as Kendrick's office, of course—saying we had an urgent message for him. We were told he'd left around nine o'clock, which contradicted your information that he hadn't returned by eleven; at best it's a thirty-minute drive from the Vice President's home to your hotel. So I contacted Gingerbread—Shapoff—he's terribly good in these situations. He tracked everything down including the driver of Evan's car. Our congressman asked to be let off at Balboa Park, so Gingerbread did his thing and “rustled up the neighbourhood”, as he phrased it. What he learned can be put in two enigmatic conclusions. One: a man fitting Evan's description was seen walking in Balboa Park. Two: a number of people inside The Balthazar have stated that this same man wearing dark glasses entered the establishment and stood for a long time by the cardamom coffee machines before going to a table.'