The Icarus Agenda

'That doesn't mean shit. Galileo would have made a lousy Pope and a worse Caesar.'

'I suppose you've got a point.'

'I certainly do. Now the scenario—the explanation—is simple and all too damned familiar. Some son of a bitch leaked the Oman story and you want it forgotten as soon as possible.'

'I do?'

Dennison paused, studying Evan's face as if it were decidedly unattractive. 'That's based directly on what that jerk Swann told the chairman of the Joint Chiefs—’

'Why is Swann a jerk? He didn't leak the story. He tried to throw off the man who came to see him.'

'He let it happen. He was the CO of that operation and he let it happen and I'll see him hung.'

'Wrong past tense.'

'What?'

'Never mind. But just to make sure we're both using the same scenario, why do I want everything forgotten as soon as possible?'

'Because there could be reprisals against your lousy Arab friends over there. That's what you told Swann and that's what he told his superiors. You want to change it?'

'No, of course not,' said Kendrick softly. 'The scenario's the same.'

'Good. We'll schedule a short ceremony showing him thanking you on behalf of the whole damn country. No questions, just a restricted photo session and then you fade.' Dennison gestured to the door; both men started towards it. 'You know something, Congressman?' remarked the chief of staff, his hand on the knob. 'Your showing up like this has ruined one of the best whispering campaigns any administration could ask for—public relations-wise, that is.'

'A whispering campaign?'

'Yeah. The longer we kept quiet, deflecting questions on the basis of national security, the more people thought the President forced the Oman settlement all by himself.'

'He certainly conveyed that,' said Evan, smiling not unkindly, as if he admired a talent he did not necessarily approve of.

'I tell you he may not be an Einstein, but he's still a fucking genius.' Dennison opened the door.

Evan did not move. 'May I remind you that eleven men and women were murdered in Masqat? That two hundred others will have nightmares for the rest of their lives?'

'That's right!' replied Dennison. 'And he said it—with goddamned tears in his eyes! He said they were true American heroes, as brave as those who fought at Verdun, Omaha Beach, Panmunjom and Danang! The man said it, Congressman, and he meant it, and we stood tall!'

'He said it as he narrowed the options, making his message clear,' agreed Kendrick. 'If any one person was responsible for saving those two hundred and thirty-six hostages, it must have been him.'

'So?'

'Never mind. Let's get this over with.'

'You're a fruitcake, Congressman. And you're right, you don't belong in this town.'

Evan Kendrick had met the President of the United States only once. The meeting lasted for approximately five, perhaps six, seconds, during a White House reception for the freshmen congressmen of the chief executive's party. It had been mandatory for him to attend, according to Ann Mulcahy

O'Reilly, who practically threatened to blow up the office if Evan refused to go to the affair. It was not that Kendrick disliked the man, he kept telling Annie, it was just that he did not agree with a lot of things Langford Jennings espoused—perhaps more than a lot, maybe most. And in answer to Mrs. O'Reilly's question as to why he had run on the ticket, he could only reply that the other party did not stand a chance of being elected.

The predominant impression Evan had while briefly shaking hands with Langford Jennings in that reception line was more in the abstract than in the immediate, yet not totally so. The office was both intimidating and overwhelming. That a single human being could be entrusted with such awesome global power stretched any thinking man's mind to its limits. A miscue during some horrible miscalculation could blow up the planet. Yet… yet… despite Kendrick's personal evaluation of the man himself, which included a less than brilliant intellect and a proclivity for over-simplification as well as tolerance for such zealous clowns as Herbert Dennison, there was about Langford Jennings a striking image that was larger than life, an image that the ordinary citizen of the republic desperately longed for in the presidency. Evan had tried to understand the gossamer veil that shielded the man from closer scrutiny and had finally come to the conclusion that scrutiny itself was irrelevant compared to his impact. The same might be said of Nero, Caligula, any number of mad, authoritarian popes and emperors, and the ultimate villains of the twentieth century, Mussolini, Stalin and Hitler. Yet this man displayed none of the evil inherent in those others; instead, he conveyed a strong, pervasive trustworthiness that seemed to radiate from his inner self. Jennings was also blessed with a large, attractive physique, and a much larger belief, and the purity of his belief was everything to him. He was also one of the most charming, ingratiating men Kendrick had ever observed.

'Damn, it's good to meet you, Evan! May I call you Evan, Mr. Congressman?'

'Of course, Mr. President.'

Jennings came around the desk in the Oval Office to shake hands, gripping Kendrick's left arm as their hands clasped. 'I've just finished reading all that secret stuff about what you did, and I tell you, I'm so proud—'

'There were a lot of others involved, sir. Without them I'd have been killed.'

'I understand that. Sit down, Evan, sit, sit!' The President returned to his chair; Herbert Dennison remained standing. 'What you did, Evan, as a single individual, will be a textbook lesson for generations of young people in America. You took the whip in your hands and made the damn thing snap.'

'Not by myself, sir. There's a long list of people who risked their lives to help me—and several lost their lives. As I said, I'd be dead if it weren't for them. There were at least a dozen Omanis, from the young sultan down, and an Israeli commando unit that found me when I literally had only a few hours to live. My execution was already scheduled—’

'Yes, I understand all that, Evan,' interrupted Langford Jennings, nodding and frowning compassionately. 'I also understand that our friends in Israel insist that there must be no hint of their involvement, and our intelligence community here in Washington refuses to risk exposing our personnel in the Persian Gulf

The Gulf of Oman, Mr. President.'

'I'm on your side,' said Jennings, grinning his famous self-deprecating grin that had charmed a nation. 'I'm not sure I know one from the other but I'll learn tonight. As my hatchet cartoonists would balloon it, my wife won't give me my cookies and milk till I get it all straight.'

'That would be unfair, sir. It's a geographically complex part of the world for someone not familiar with it.'

'Yes, well, somehow I think even I might master it with a couple of grammar school maps.'

'I never meant to imply—'

'It's okay, Evan, it's my fault. I slip now and then. The main issue here is what do we do with you. What do we do, given the restrictions placed on us for the sake of protecting the lives of agents and subagents who are working for us in an explosive part of the globe?'

'I'd say those necessary restrictions call for keeping everything quiet, classified—’

'It's a little late for that, Evan,' broke in Jennings. 'National security alibis can only go so far. Beyond a certain point you arouse too much curiosity; that's when things can get sticky—and dangerous.'

'Also,' added Herbert Dennison, gruffly breaking his silence, 'as I mentioned to you, Congressman, the President can't simply ignore you. It wouldn't be the generous or patriotic thing to do. Now, the way I see it—and the President agrees with me—we'll schedule a short photo session here in the Oval Office, where you'll be congratulated by the President, along with a series of shots showing you both in what'll look like confidential conversation. That'll be consistent with the intelligence greyout required by our counter-terrorist services. The country will understand that. You don't tip off your tactics to those Arab scumballs.'