The Icarus Agenda by Robert Ludlum

‘How?’

I’m going inside Bollinger’s camp. They’re going to see another Congressman Kendrick—one who can be bought off a national ticket.’

Mitchell Jarvis Payton stared out of the window from his desk in Langley, Virginia. There was so much to think about he could not think about Christmas, which was a minor blessing. He had no regrets about the life he had chosen but Christmas was a bit trying. He had two married sisters in the Midwest and assorted nieces and nephews to whom he had sent the usual presents appropriately purchased by his secretary of many years, but he had no desire to join them for the holiday. There was simply nothing much to talk about; he had been too long on the other side of the world for conversations about a lumberyard and an insurance firm and, of course, he could say nothing about his own work. Also the children, most of them grown up, were an unremarkable lot, not a scholar among them, and adamant in their collective pursuit of the good, stolid life of financial security. It was all better left alone. It was probably why he gravitated to his adopted niece, Adrienne Rashad—he had better get used to calling her Khalehla, he reflected. She was part of his world, hardly by any choice of his, but part of it, and outstanding. Payton wished for a moment that they were all back in Cairo, when the Rashads used to insist that he join them for their yearly Christmas dinner, complete with a brilliantly decorated tree and recordings of carols.

‘Really, MJ,’ Rashad’s wife would explain. I’m from California, remember? I’m the light-skinned one!’

Where had those days gone? Would they ever come back? Of course not. He ate alone at Christmas.

Payton’s red phone rang. His hand shot out, picking it up. ‘Yes?’

‘He’s crazy,’ yelled Adrienne-Khalehla. ‘I mean he’s nuts, MJ!’

‘He’s turned you down?’

‘Get off it. He wants to go see Bollinger!’

‘On what grounds?’

‘To play a fink! Can you believe it?’

‘I might if you’ll be somewhat clearer—’

There was an obvious tugging at the telephone as several obscenities were hurled back and forth. ‘Mitch, this is Evan.’

‘I gathered that.’

I’m going inside.’

‘Bollinger’s?’

‘It’s logical. I did the same thing in Masqat.’

‘You can win one and then lose one, young man. Once successful, twice burned. Those people play hardball.’

‘So do I. I want them. I’ll get them.’

‘We’ll monitor you—’

‘No, it’s got to be solo. They have what you people call equipment—eyes all over the place. I’ve got to play it out by myself, the point being that I can be persuaded to fade from politics.’

That’s too big a contradiction from what they’ve seen of you, heard of you. It wouldn’t work, Kendrick.’

‘It will if I tell them part of the truth—a very essential part.’

‘What’s that, Evan?’

That I did what I did in Oman strictly out of self-interest. I was heading back to pick up the pieces, to make all that money I left behind. It’s something they’d understand, they’d damn well understand.’

‘Not good enough. They’ll ask too many questions and want to confirm your answers.’

‘None I can’t answer,’ broke in Kendrick. ‘All part of the truth, all easily confirmed. I was convinced I knew who was behind the Palestinians and why—he’d used the same tactics on my company—the truth. I had connections with the most powerful men in the Sultanate and full government protection. Let them check with young Ahmat, he’d love to get that straightened out; his nose is still out of joint. Again, the truth, even when I was in the prisoner compound I was watched every minute by the police… My objective throughout was merely to get the information I knew existed to nail a maniac who called himself the Mahdi. The truth.’

‘I’m sure there are gaps that can trip you up,’ said Payton, writing notes he would later shred.

‘Not one I can think of, and that’s all that matters. I’ve heard the European’s tape; they’ve got billions riding on the next five years and can’t afford to weaken their status quo by one iota. It doesn’t matter that they’re wrong, but they see me as a threat to them, which under different circumstances I damn well would be—’

‘What might those circumstances be, Evan?’ interrupted the older man in Langley.

‘What…? If I stayed in Washington, I imagine. I’d ride herd on every son of a bitch who plays loose with the government’s coffers and figures out ways to get around the laws for a few million here and a few million there.’

‘A veritable Savonarola.’

‘No fanaticism, MJ, just a goddamned angry taxpayer who’s sick and tired of all those screaming scare tactics designed to bleed the taxpayers for excessive profits… Where was I?’

‘A threat to them.’

‘Right. They want me out of the way and I’ll convince them I’m ready to go, that I want nothing to do with this campaign to put me on the ticket… but I have a problem.’

‘This, I assume, is the kicker?’

‘I’m first and foremost a businessman, a construction engineer by training and profession, and the office of Vice President would provide me with a global posture I could never enjoy without it. I’m relatively young; in five years I’ll still be in my forties and as a former Vice President I’d have financial backing and influence available to me all over the world. That’s a very tempting prospect for an international builder who intends to return to the private sector… What do you think would be the reaction of Bollinger and his advisers, MJ?’

‘What else?’ said the director of Special Projects. ‘You’re imitating their own voices with just the right amount of ooze. They’ll offer you a five-year shortcut with all the financial resources you need.’

‘That’s what I thought you’d say; that’s what I think they’ll say. But again, like any decent negotiator who’s made a fair share of money in his day, I have another problem.’

‘I can’t wait to hear it, young man.’

‘I need proof and I need it quickly so that I can firmly reject the political committee in Denver that’s priming Chicago for next week. Reject it before it gets off the ground and possibly out of control.’

‘And the proof you require is a general commitment of sorts?’

‘I’m a businessman.’

‘So are they. They won’t put anything in writing.’

‘That’s negotiable among men of goodwill. I want a meeting-of-intent with the principals. I’ll set forth my plans, vague as they are, and they can respond. If they can convince me that they’re trustworthy, I’ll act accordingly… And I think they’ll be very convincing, but by then it won’t matter.’

‘Because you’ll have the nucleus,’ agreed Payton, smiling. ‘You’ll know who they are. I must say, Evan, it all sounds feasible, even remarkably so.’

‘Just sound business practice, MJ.’

‘However, I have a problem. At the outset, they’ll never believe that you’re going back over there. They’ll think you’re lying. The whole Middle East is too unstable.’

‘I didn’t say I was going back next week, I said “one day”, and God knows I wouldn’t mention the Mediterranean. But I will talk about the Emirates and Bahrain, Kuwait and Qatar, even Oman and Saudi Arabia, all the places in the Gulf States where the Kendrick Group operated. They’re as normal as they’ll ever be, and as OPEC gets its act together again it’ll be business and profits as usual. Like every West European construction outfit, I want part of the action and I want to be ready for it. I’m back in the private sector.’

‘Good heavens, you’re persuasive.’

‘Business-wise, I’m not far off the mark, either… I’ve got the marbles, Mitch. I’m going in.’

‘When?’

‘I’m calling Bollinger in a few minutes. I don’t think he’ll refuse my call.’

‘Not likely. Langford Jennings would burn his ass.’

‘I want to give him several hours to gather his flock, at least the few he counts on. I’ll ask for a meeting late this afternoon.’

‘Make it in the evening,’ corrected the CIA executive. ‘After business hours, and be explicit. Say you want a private entrance away from his personnel and the press. It’ll convey your message.’

‘That’s very good, MJ.’

‘Sound business practice, Congressman.’

Lt Commander John Demartin, US Navy, was in jeans and a T-shirt, applying generous amounts of cleaning fluid over the upholstery of his car’s front seat, trying with minimal success to remove the bloodstains. It was going to be a professional job, he concluded, and until it was done he would tell the kids he had spilled some cherry soda on the way home from the field. Still, the more he reduced the stains, the less it would cost—he hoped.

Demartin had read the report in the morning’s Union identifying him by name and stating that the authorities believed the death of the wounded hitchhiker he had picked up was drug related; the pilot, however, was not convinced. He was not on speaking terms with any drug dealers that he knew of, yet he could not imagine that too many of them were so polite as to offer to pay for staining a car seat. He assumed that such men, if mortally wounded, would be in panic, not so controlled, so courteous.