The Icarus Agenda

'What makes Evan believe Hamendi gives a damn what his buyers think of him? He's in the arms business, not evangelism.'

'He might if more than half the weapons he's sold do not function, if the explosives don't explode, and the guns don't fire.'

'Good God,' whispered the President, turning slowly and walking back to his desk. He sat down and placed his glass on the blotter, staring in silence at the far wall. Finally, he turned in his chair and looked up at Payton by the window. 'Let him go, Mitch. He'd never forgive either one of us if we stopped him. Give him everything he needs, but make goddamned sure he comes back… I want him back. The country needs him back.'

Across the world, pockets of mist drifted in from the Persian Gulf, blanketing Bahrain's Tujjar Road, causing inverted halos beneath the streetlamps and obscuring the night sky above. It was precisely four-thirty in the morning as a large black car intruded upon this deserted waterfront section of the sleeping city. It came to a stop in front of the glass doors of the building known as the Sahalhuddin, until sixteen months ago the princely high chambers of the man-monster who called himself the Mahdi. Two robed Arabs emerged from rear doors of the imposing vehicle and walked into the wash of dull neon lights that illuminated the entrance; the limousine quietly drove away. The taller man tapped softly on the glass; inside, the guard at the reception desk glanced at his wristwatch, got out of his chair and walked rapidly to the door. He unlocked it and bowed to the odd-hour visitors.

'All is prepared, great sirs,' he said, his voice at first barely above a whisper. 'The outside guards have been granted early dismissal; the morning shift arrives at six o'clock.'

'We'll need less than half that time,' said the younger, shorter visitor, obviously the leader. 'Has your well-paid preparedness included an unlocked door upstairs?'

'Most assuredly, great sir.'

'And only one elevator is in use?' asked the older, taller Arab.

'Yes, sir.'

'We'll lock it above.' The shorter man started towards the bank of elevators on the right, his companion instantly catching up with him. 'If I'm correct,' he continued, speaking loudly, 'we walk up the final flight of stairs, is that so?'

'Yes, great sir. All the alarms have been disengaged and the room restored exactly as it was… before that terrible morning. Also, as instructed, the item you requested has been brought up; it was in the cellars. You may be aware, sir, that the authorities tore the room apart, then sealed it for many months. We could not understand, great sir.'

'It wasn't necessary that you did… You will alert us if anyone seeks entrance into the building or even approaches the doors.'

'With the eyes of a hawk, great sir!'

Try the telephone, please.' The two men reached the elevators and the taller subordinate pressed the button; a panel opened immediately. They walked inside and the door closed. 'Is that man competent?' asked the shorter Arab as the machinery whirred and the elevator began its ascent.

'He does what he is told to do and what he has been told is not complicated… Why was the Mahdi's office sealed for so many months?'

'Because the authorities were looking for men like us, waiting for men like us.'

'They tore the room apart…?' said the subordinate hesitantly, questioningly.

'As with us, they did not know where to look.' The elevator slowed down, then stopped and the panel opened. With quickening steps the two visitors walked to the staircase that led to the Mahdi's floor and former 'temple'. They reached the office door and the shorter man stopped, his hand on the knob. 'I've waited over a year for this moment,' he said, breathing deeply. 'Now that it's arrived, I'm trembling.'

Inside the huge, strange mosquelike room with its high domed ceiling filled with brilliantly coloured mosaic tiles, the two intruders stood in silence, as if in the presence of some awesome spirit. The sparse furniture of dark burnished wood was in place like ancient statues of ferocious soldiers guarding the inner tomb of a great pharaoh; the outsized desk recalled the sarcophagus of a dead revered ruler. And standing against the far right wall, in clashing contradiction, was a modern metal scaffold rising to a height of eight feet, side bars permitting access to the top. The taller Arab spoke.

'This could be Allah's resting place—may His will be done.'

'You didn't know the Mahdi, my innocent friend,' replied the associate's superior. 'Try Midas the Phrygian king… Quickly now, we waste time. Move the scaffold to where I tell you, then climb above.' The subordinate walked rapidly to the raised platform and looked back at his companion. 'To the left,' continued the leader. 'Just beyond the second slit of the window.'

'I don't understand you,' said the tall man, stepping on the slip clamps and climbing to the top of the scaffold.

'There are many things you don't understand and there's no reason why you should… Now count to the left, six tiles from the window seam, then five above.'

'Yes, yes… it is a stretch for me and I am not short.'

'The Mahdi was far taller, far more impressive—but not without his faults.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'No matter… Press the four corners of the tile at the very edges, then force the palm of your hand with all your strength into the centre. Now!'

The mosaic tile literally burst from its recess; it was all the tall Arab could do to hold on to it without falling. 'Beloved Allah!' he exclaimed.

'Simple suction balanced by weights,' said the shorter man below without elaboration. 'Now reach inside and withdraw the papers; they should all be together.' The subordinate did as he was told, pulling out layered sheets of an extensive computer printout held together by two rubber bands. 'Drop them to me,' continued the leader, 'and replace the tile exactly as you removed it, starting first with pressure in the centre.'

The tall Arab awkwardly carried out his orders, then climbed down the scaffold's crossbars on to the floor. He approached his superior, who had unfolded several sheets of the printout and was scanning them intently. 'This was the treasure you spoke of?' he asked softly.

'From the Persian Gulf to the western shores of the Mediterranean, there is no greater,' answered the younger man, his eyes racing across the papers. 'They executed the Mahdi, but they could not destroy what he created. Retreat was necessary, retrenchment demanded—but not dismemberment. The myriad branches of the enterprise were not crushed nor even exposed. They merely fell away and returned to the earth, ready to sprout trunks of their own one day.'

'Those odd-looking pages tell you that?' The superior nodded, still reading. 'What in Allah's name do they say?'

The shorter man looked curiously up at his taller companion. 'Why not?' he said, smiling. 'These are the lists of every man, every woman, every firm, company and corporation, every contact and conduit to the terrorists ever reached by the Mahdi. It will take months, perhaps several years, to put everything back together again, but it will be done. You see, they're waiting. For ultimately the Mahdi was right: This is our world. We will surrender it to no one.'

'The word will spread, my friend!' cried the older, taller subordinate. 'It will, will it not?

'Very carefully,' replied the young leader. 'We live in different times,' he added enigmatically. 'Last week's equipment is obsolete.'

'I cannot pretend to understand you.'

'Again it's not necessary.'

'Where do you come from?' asked the bewildered subordinate. 'We are told to obey you, that you know things that men like me are not privileged to know. But how, from where?

'From thousands of miles away, preparing for years for this moment… Leave me now. Quickly. Go downstairs and tell the guard to have the scaffold removed to the cellars, then signal the car as it circles the street. The driver will take you home; we'll meet tomorrow. Same time, same place.'