The Icarus Agenda

'May Allah and the Mahdi be with you,' said the tall Arab bowing and rushing out of the door, closing it behind him.

The young man watched his companion leave, then reached under his robes and pulled out a small hand-held radio. He pressed a button and spoke. 'He'll be outside in two or three minutes. Pick him up and drive to the rocks of the south coast. Kill him, strip him, and throw the gun into the sea.'

'So ordered,' replied the limousine's driver several streets away.

The youthful leader replaced the radio inside his robes and crossed solemnly towards the huge ebony desk. He removed his ghotra, dropping it on the floor as he walked to the thronelike chair, and sat down. He opened a tall wide drawer on his lower left and lifted out the jewel-encrusted headdress of the Mahdi. He placed it on his head and spoke softly to the mosaic ceiling.

'I thank you, my Father,' said the inheritor with a doctorate in computer sciences from the University of Chicago. 'To be chosen among all your sons is both an honour and a challenge. My weak white mother will never understand, but as you incessantly made clear to me, she was merely a vessel… However, I must tell you, Father, that things are different now. Subtlety and long-range objectives are the order of the times. We will employ your methods where they are called for—killing is no problem for us—but it is a far larger part of the globe that we seek than you ever sought. We will have cells in all of Europe and the Mediterranean, and we will communicate in ways you never thought of—secretly, by satellite, interception impossible. You see, my Father, the world no longer belongs to one race or another. It belongs to the young and the strong and the brilliant, and we are they.'

The new Mahdi stopped whispering and lowered his eyes to the top of the desk. Soon what he needed would be there. The greater son of the great Mahdi would continue the march.

We must control.

Everywhere!

Book Three

The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 45

It was the thirty-second day since the wild departure from the island of Passage to China, and Emmanuel Weingrass walked slowly into the enclosed veranda in Mesa Verde; his words, however, were rushed. 'Where's the bum?' he asked.

'Jogging in the grounds,' replied Khalehla from the couch, where she was having her breakfast coffee and reading the newspaper. 'Or up in the mountains by now, who knows?"

'It's two o'clock in the afternoon in Jerusalem,' said Manny.

'And four o'clock in Masqat,' added Rashad. 'They're all so clever over there.'

'My daughter, the smart mouth.'

'Sit down, child,' said Khalehla, patting the cushion beside her.

'Smarter mouth infant,' mumbled Weingrass, walking over and removing his short cylinder of oxygen to lower himself to the couch. 'The bum looks good,' continued Manny, leaning back and breathing heavily.

'You'd think he was training for the Olympics.'

'Speaking of which, you got a cigarette?'

'You're not supposed to have one.'

'So give.'

'You're impossible.' Khalehla reached into her bathrobe pocket, withdrew a pack of cigarettes and shook one up while reaching for a ceramic lighter on the coffee table. She lit Weingrass's cigarette and repeated, 'You are impossible.'

'And you're my Arab Mother Superior,' said Manny, inhaling as though he were a child wallowing in a forbidden third dessert. 'How are things in Oman?'

'My old friend the sultan is a little confused, but my younger friend his wife will straighten him out… Incidentally, Ahmat sends you his best.'

'He should. He owes me for his grades at Harvard, and he never paid me for the broads I got him in Los Angeles.'

'Somehow you always get to the heart of things… How is everyone in Jerusalem?'

'Speaking of sending regards, Ben-Ami sends you his.'

'Benny?' cried Rashad, sitting forward. 'Good Lord, I haven't thought of him in years! Does he still wear those silly designer blue jeans and strap his weapon back over his tail?'

'He probably always will and charge the Mossad double for both.'

'He's a good guy and one of the best control agents Israel's ever had. We worked together in Damascus; he's small and a little cynical, but a good man to have on your side. Tough as nails, actually.'

'As your bum would say, “Tell me about it.” We were closing in on the hotel in Bahrain and all he did was give me lectures over the radio.'

'He'll join us in Masqat?'

'He'll join you, you not very nice person who has shut me out.'

'Come on, Manny—’

'I know, I know. I'm a burden.'

'What do you think?'

'All right, I'm a burden, but even burdens are kept informed.'

'At least twice a day. Where's Ben-Ami going to meet us? And how? I can't imagine that the Mossad wants any part of this.'

'After the Iranian mess the moon's too close, especially with CIA input and banks in Switzerland. Ben will leave a telephone number at the palace switchboard for a Miss Adrienne—my idea… Also, someone's coming with him.'

'Who?'

'A lunatic.'

'That helps. Does he have a name?'

'Only one I knew was code Blue.'

'Azra!'

'No, that was the other one.'

'I know, but the Israeli killed Azra, the Arabic Blue. Evan told me it sickened him, two kids with such hatred.'

'With the kids it's all sickening. Instead of baseball bats, they carry repeating rifles and grenades… Has Payton straightened out your transportation?'

'He worked it out with us yesterday. Air Force cargo to Frankfurt and on to Cairo, where we go under cover in small craft to Kuwait and Dubai, with the last leg by helicopter. We'll reach Oman at night, landing in the Jabal Sham, where one of Ahmat's unmarked cars will meet us and drive us to the palace.'

"That's really underground,' said Weingrass, nodding, impressed.

'It has to be. Evan's got to disappear while stories are planted that he was seen in Hawaii and is supposedly holed up at an estate on Maui. Graphics is working up some photos showing him over there and they'll hit the newspapers.'

'Mitchell's imagination is improving.'

'There's none better, Manny.'

'Maybe he should run the Agency.'

'No, he hates administrative work and he's a terrible politician. If he doesn't like someone or something, everybody knows it. He's better off where he is.'

The sound of the front door opening and closing had an immediate effect on Weingrass. 'Oy!' he cried, shoving his cigarette into the startled Khalehla's mouth and blowing away the smoke above him, waving his hands to move the incriminating evidence towards Rashad. 'Naughty sheiks!' he whispered. 'Smoking in my presence!'

'Impossible,' said Khalehla softly, removing the cigarette and crushing it in an ashtray as Kendrick walked through the living room and on to the porch.

'She'd never smoke that close to you,' admonished Evan, dressed in a blue sweat suit, perspiration rolling down his face.

'Now you've got the ears of a Dobermann?'

'And you've got the brains of a hooked snapper.'

'Very smart fish.'

'Sorry,' said Rashad calmly. 'He can be terribly demanding.'

‘Tell me about it.'

'What did I just say?' shouted Weingrass. 'He says that all the time. It's the sign of a highly developed, misplaced superiority complex and very irritating to really superior intellects… Have a good workout, dummy?'

Kendrick smiled and walked to the bar where there was a jug of orange juice. 'I'm up to thirty minutes, fast pace,' he answered, pouring himself a glass of juice.

'That's very nice if you're a cowboy's horse on a roundup.'

'He says things like that all the time,' protested Kendrick. 'It's aggravating.'

'Tell me about it,' Khalehla replied, drinking her coffee.

'Any calls?' asked Evan.

'It's barely past seven, darling.'

'Not in Zurich. It's past one in the afternoon over there. I was talking to them before I went out.'