The Icarus Agenda by Robert Ludlum

‘What is?’

‘Your book. The rest of the message, please.’

The pilot made an obscene gesture with his right arm, the perforated paper in his hand. ‘Read it yourself, Arab-lover. But it doesn’t leave this deck.’

Kendrick took the paper, angled it towards the navigator’s light, and read the message. ‘Switch necessary. Jiddah out. All MA where permitted under eyes. Transfer to civilian subsidiary on south island. Routed through Cyprus, Riyadh, to target. Arrangements cleared. ETA is close to Second Pillar el-Maghreb best timing possible. Sorry. 5.’ Evan reached out, holding the message over the brigadier general’s shoulder and dropped it. ‘I assume that “south island” is Sardinia.’

‘You got it.’

‘Then, I gather, I’m to spend roughly ten more hours on a plane, or planes, through Cyprus, Saudi Arabia and finally to Masqat.’

I’ll tell you one thing, Arab-lover,’ continued the pilot. ‘I’m glad it’s you flying on those Minnie Mouse aircraft and not me. A word of advice: Grab a seat near an emergency exit and if you can buy a chute, spend the money. Also a gas mask. I’m told those planes stink.’

‘I’ll try to remember your generous advice.’

‘Now you tell me something,’ said the general. ‘What the hell is that “Second Pillar” Arab stuff?’

‘Do you go to church?’ asked Evan.

‘You’re damned right I do. When I’m home I make the whole damn family go—no welching on that, by Christ. At least once a month, it’s a rule.’

‘So do the Arabs, but not once a month. Five times a day. They believe as strongly as you do, at least as strongly, wouldn’t you say? The Second Pillar of el Maghreb refers to the Islamic prayers at sundown. Hell of an inconvenience, isn’t it? They work their Arab asses off all day long, mostly for nothing, and then it’s sundown. No cocktails, just prayers to their God. Maybe it’s all they’ve got. Like the old plantation spirituals.’

The pilot turned slowly in his seat. His face in the shadows of the flight deck startled Kendrick. The brigadier general was black. ‘You set me up,’ said the pilot flatly.

‘I’m sorry. I mean that; I didn’t realize. On the other hand you said it. You called me an Arab-lover.’

Sundown. Masqat, Oman. The ancient turbo-jet bounced on to the runway with such force that some of the passengers screamed, their desert instincts alert to the possibility of fiery oblivion. Then with the realization that they had arrived, that they were safe, and that there were jobs for the having, they began chanting excitedly. Thanks be to Allah for His benevolence! They had been promised rials for servitude the Omanis would not accept. So be it. It was far better than what they had left behind.

The suited businessmen in the front of the aircraft, handkerchiefs held to their noses, rushed to the exit door, gripping their briefcases, all too anxious to swallow the air of Oman. Kendrick stood in the aisle, the last in line, wondering what the State Department’s Swann had in mind when he said in his message that ‘arrangements’ had been cleared.

‘Come with me!’ cried a be-robed Arab from the crowd forming outside the terminal for Immigration. ‘We have another exit, Dr Axelrod.’

‘My passport doesn’t say anything about Axelrod.’

‘Precisely. That is why you are coming with me.’

‘What about Immigration?’

‘Keep your papers in your pocket. No one wants to see them. I do not want to see them!’

‘Then how—’

‘Enough, ya Shaikh. Give me your luggage and stay ten feet behind me. Come!’

Evan handed his soft carry-on suitcase to the excited contact and followed him. They walked to the right, past the end of the one-storeyed brown and white terminal, and headed immediately to the left towards the tall wire fence beyond which the fumes from dozens of taxis, buses and trucks tinted the burning air. The crowds outside the airport fence were racing back and forth amidst the congested vehicles, shrieking admonishments and screeching for attention, their robes flowing. Along the fence for perhaps 75 to 100 feet, scores of other Arabs pressed their faces against the metal links, peering into an alien world of smooth asphalt runways and sleek aircraft that was no part of their lives, giving birth to fantasies beyond their understanding. Ahead, Kendrick could see a metal building, the airfield warehouse he remembered so well, recalling the hours he and Manny Weingrass had spent inside waiting for long overdue equipment promised on one flight or another, often furious with the customs officials who frequently could not understand the forms they had to fill out which would release the equipment—if, indeed, the equipment had arrived.

The gate in front of the warehouse’s hangarlike doors was open, accommodating the line of freight containers, their deep wells filled with crates disgorged from the various aircraft. Guards with attack dogs on leashes flanked the customs conveyor belt that carried the freight inside to anxious suppliers and retailers and the ever-present, ever-frustrated foremen of construction teams. The guards’ eyes constantly roamed the frenzied activity, in their hands repeating machine pistols. They were there not merely to maintain a semblance of order amid the chaos and to back up the customs officials in the event of violent disputes, but essentially to look out for weapons and narcotics being smuggled into the sultanate. Each crate and thickly-layered box was examined by the snarling, yelping dogs as it was lifted on to the belt.

Evan’s contact stopped; he did the same. The Arab turned and nodded at a small side gate with a sign in Arabic above it. Stop. Authorized Personnel Only. Violators Will Be Shot. It was an exit for the guards and other officials of the government. The gate also had a large metal plate where a lock would normally be placed. And it was a lock, thought Kendrick, a lock electronically released from somewhere inside the warehouse. The contact nodded twice more, indicating that on a signal Evan was to head for the gate where ‘violators will be shot’. Kendrick frowned questioningly, a hollow pain forming in his stomach. With Masqat under a state of siege, it would not take much for someone to start firing. The Arab read the doubt in his eyes and nodded for a fourth time, slowly, reassuringly. The contact turned and looked to his right down the line of freight containers. Almost imperceptibly, he raised his right hand.

Suddenly, a fight broke out beside one of the containers. Curses were shrieked as arms swung violently and fists pounded.

‘Contraband!’

‘Liar!’

‘Your mother is a goat, a filthy she-goat!’

‘Your father lies with whores! You are a product!’

Dust flew as the grappling bodies fell to the ground, joined by others who took sides. The dogs began barking viciously, straining at their leashes, their handlers carried forward towards the melee. All but one handler, one guard; and the signal was given by Evan’s contact. Together they ran to the deserted personnel exit.

‘Good fortune, sir,’ said the lone guard, his attack dog sniffing menacingly at Kendrick’s trousers as the man tapped the metal plate in a rapid code with his weapon. A buzzer sounded and the gate swung back. Kendrick and his contact ran through, racing along the metal wall of the warehouse.

In the parking lot beyond stood a broken-down truck, the tires apparently only half inflated. The engine roared as loud reports came from a worn exhaust pipe. ‘Besuraa!’ cried the Arab contact, telling Evan to hurry. ‘There is your transport.’

‘I hope,’ mumbled Kendrick, his voice laced with doubt.

‘Welcome to Masqat, Shaikeh—whoever.’

‘You know who I am,’ said Evan angrily. ‘You picked me out in the crowd! How many others can do that?’

‘Very few, sir. And I do not know who you are, I swear by Allah.’

‘Then I have to believe you, don’t I?’ asked Kendrick, staring at the man.

‘I would not use the name of Allah if it were not so. Please. Besuraa!’

‘Thanks,’ said Evan, grabbing his case and running towards the truck’s cab. Suddenly the driver was gesturing out the window for him to climb into the back under the canvas that covered the bed of the ancient vehicle. The truck lurched forward as a pair of hands pulled him up inside.

Stretched out on the floorboards, Kendrick raised his eyes to the Arab above him. The man smiled and pointed to the long robes of an aba and the ankle-length shirt known as a thob which were suspended on a hanger in the front of the canvas-topped trailer; beside it, hanging on a nail, was the ghotra headdress and a pair of white balloon trousers, the street clothes of an Arab and the last items Evan had requested of the State Department’s Frank Swann. These and one other small but vital catalyst.

The Arab held it up. It was a tube of skin-darkening gel, which when generously applied turned the face and hands of a white Occidental into those of a Middle-Eastern Semite whose skin had been permanently burnished by the hot, blistering, near-equatorial sun. The dyed pigment would stay darkened for a period of ten days before fading. Ten days. A lifetime—for him or for the monster who called himself the Mahdi.