The Icarus Agenda (87 page)

“Hi, boss!” yelled the guard at the left of the hangar as the overcoated gray-faced figure walked quickly, angrily across the blacktop. “We got your message, Benny’s recording something—”

“Why isn’t the goddamned plane out on the
strip
?” roared Grinell. “Everything’s cleared, you idiots!”

“
Benny
talked to them, boss,
I
didn’t! Five, ten minutes, they told him. It would have been different if
I
was on the phone!
Shit
, I don’t put up with no shit, you know what I mean? You should’a told that guy to speak to me, that Benny—”

“Shut up! Get my driver and tell him to move this son of a bitch out! If they can’t fly it,
he
can!”

“Sure, boss. Anything you say, boss!… They’re starting the jets now!”

As the guard started shouting to the driver of the limousine the Czech joined the rush of activity and began running toward the outsized automobile.

“
Thanks!
” cried the passing chauffeur, seeing Varak’s uniform. “
He
goes on at the last minute!”

Milos raced around the trunk of the car to the street side, yanked open the backseat, and leaped inside to a jump seat. He sat rigid, staring at the puffed face of an astonished Eric Sundstrom. “Hello, Professor,” he said softly.

“It was a trap—you set a
trap
for me!” screamed the scientist in the dark shadows of the seat as the roar of jet engines filled the night outside. “But you don’t know what you’re
doing
, Varak! We’re on the edge of a breakthrough in
space
! So many wondrous things to learn! We were
wrong
—Inver Brass is
wrong
! We must go
on
!”

“Even if we blow up half the planet?”

“Don’t be an ass!” cried Sundstrom, pleading. “Nobody’s going to blow up anything! We’re a civilized people on both sides, civilized and frightened. The more we build, the more fear we instill—that’s the world’s ultimate protection, don’t you
see
?”

“You call that civilized?”

“I call it progress.
Scientific
progress! You wouldn’t understand, but the more we build, the more we
learn
.”

“Through weapons of destruction?”

“
Weapons
 …? You’re pitifully naive! ‘Weapons’ is merely a
label
. Like ‘fish’ or ‘vegetables.’ It’s the excuse we employ to fund scientific advancement on a scale that would be otherwise prohibitive! The ‘bigger bang for the buck’ theory is obsolete—we have all the bang we’ll ever need. It’s in the delivery systems—orbital guidance and hookups, directional lasers that can be refracted in space to pinpoint a manhole cover from thousands of miles above.”

“And deliver a bomb?”

“Only if someone tries to
stop
us,” answered the scientist, his voice strained, as if the mere prospect was enough to summon his fury. Then that fury broke. His cherubic features suddenly turned into the grotesque components of some monstrous gargoyle. “Research, research,
research
!” he cried, his strident speech like the squeals of a furious pig. “Let no one
dare
stop us! We’re moving into a new world where science will rule all civilization! You’re meddling with a political faction that
understands
our needs! You can’t be
tolerated
! Kendrick is
dangerous
! You’ve seen him, heard him … he’d hold hearings, ask stupid questions, obstruct our
progress
!”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Varak slowly reached beneath the uniform to the fold of his jacket. “Do you know the universal penalty for treason, Professor?”

“What are you talking about?” His hands trembling, his heavy body shaking as the sweat rolled down his face, Sundstrom edged toward the door. “I’ve betrayed no one … I’m trying to stop a terrible
wrong
, a horrible mistake committed by misguided lunatics! You’ve got to be
stopped
, all of you! You cannot interfere with the greatest scientific machine the world has ever known!”

In the shadows Varak withdrew his automatic; a reflection of light beamed up from the barrel into Sundstrom’s eyes. “You’ve had months to say those things; instead you were silent while the others trusted you. Through your betrayal lives were lost, bodies mutilated … you’re filth, Professor.”

“
No!
” screamed Sundstrom, crashing into the door, his trembling fingers hitting the handle as the door swung out, the scientist’s rotund body following in frenzied panic. Milos fired; the bullet seared into Sundstrom’s lower spine as the traitor fell to the asphalt shrieking. “
Help
me,
help
me! He’s trying to
kill
me! Oh,
my God
, he
shot
me!… Kill him,
kill
him!” Varak fired again, his aim now steady, the bullet accurate. The back of the scientist’s skull blew apart.

In seconds, amid screams of confusion, gunfire was returned from the hangar. The Czech was hit in the chest and left shoulder. He sprang out of the street-side door, rolling on the ground, over and over again directly behind the limousine until he reached the opposite curb. In pain he crawled above it, scrambling on his hands and knees into the darkness of the tall grass that was the border of an auxiliary airstrip. He almost did not make it; from all directions there were the sounds of sirens and racing engines. The entire security force was converging on Hangar Seven, as across the street the guard and Grinell’s chauffeur closed in on the limousine, firing repeatedly into the vehicle. Varak was hit again. An aimless ricochet, a wild shot, burned its way into his stomach. He had to get away! His business was
not
concluded!

He turned and started running through the tall grass, ripping first the uniformed jacket off, then stopping briefly to remove the trousers. Blood was spreading through his shirt, and his legs grew unsteady. He had to conserve his strength! He had to get across the field and reach a road, find a telephone. He
had
to!

Searchlights. From a tower behind him! He was back in Czechoslovakia, in prison, racing across the compound to a fence and freedom. A beam swung close, and as he had done in that prison outside Prague, he lurched to the ground and lay motionless until it passed. He struggled to his feet, knowing he was growing weaker but could not stop. In the distance there were other lights—streetlights! And another fence …! Freedom,
freedom
.

Straining every muscle, grip by grip, he scaled the fence, only to confront coiled barbed wire at the top. It did not matter. With what seemed like his last vestige of strength, he propelled himself over, shredding his clothes and his flesh as he dropped to the ground. He lay there breathing deeply, alternately holding his stomach and his chest. Go
on! Now!

He reached the road; it was one of those unkempt narrow thoroughfares that frequently surround airports, no real estate development because of the noise. Still, cars sped by, shortcuts known to natives. Awkwardly, unsteadily, he walked onto it, holding up his arms at an approaching automobile. The driver, however, was having no part of him. He swung to the left and raced by. Moments later a second car approached from his right; he stood as straight as he could and raised one hand, a civilized signal of distress. The car slowed down; it stopped as the Czech reached into his holster for his gun.

“What’s the problem?” asked the man in a naval uniform behind the wheel. The gold wings signified that he was a pilot.

“I’m afraid I’ve had an accident,” replied Varak. “I drove off the road a mile or so back and no one has stopped to help me.”

“You’re pretty smashed up, pal.… Climb in and I’ll get you to the hospital.
Jesus
, you’re a
mess
! Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”

“Don’t bother, I can manage,” said Varak, walking around the hood. He opened the door and climbed in. “If I soil your car I’ll gladly pay—”

“Let’s worry about that in a month of Tuesdays.” The naval officer shifted into gear and raced off as the Czech replaced his unseen automatic in the holster.

“You’re very kind,” said Milos, digging a scrap of paper out of his pocket and removing his pen, writing brief words and numbers in the darkness.

“You’re very hurt, pal. Hang on.”

“Please, I must find a
telephone. Please!
”

“The fucking insurance can wait, buddy.”

“No, not insurance,” stammered Varak. “My wife. She expected me hours ago.… She has psychological problems.”

“Don’t they all?” said the pilot. “Do you want me to make the call?”

“No, thank you very much. She would interpret that as a crisis far worse than it is.” The Czech arched back in the seat, grimacing.

“There’s a fruit stand about a mile down the road. I know the owner and they have a phone.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“Take me to dinner when you get out of the hospital.”

The perplexed owner of the fruit store handed Varak the phone as the naval officer watched, concerned for his damaged passenger. Milos dialed the Westlake Hotel. “Room Fifty-one, if you please?”

“Hello,
hello
?” cried Khalehla from out of a deep sleep.

“Do you have an answer for me?”

“
Milos?
”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not terribly well, Miss Rashad. Do you have an
answer
?”

“You’re hurt!”

“Your
answer
!”

“Green light. Payton will back off. If Evan can get the nomination, it’s his. The race is on.”

“He’s needed more than you’ll ever know.”

“I don’t know that he’ll agree.”

“He
has
to! Keep your line free. I’ll call you right back.”

“You
are
hurt!”

The Czech depressed the bar on the phone and immediately redialed.

“Yes?”

“Sound Man?”

“Prague?”

“How are things progressing?”

“We’ll be done in a couple of hours. The typist’s got the earphones on and is pounding away.… She’s rough on all-night overtime.”

“Whatever the cost, it’s … covered.”

“What’s wrong with you? I can barely hear you.”

“A slight cold.… You’ll find ten thousand in your studio mailbox.”

“Yes, come on, I’m not a thief.”

“I roll high, remember?”

“You
really
don’t sound right, Prague.”

“In the morning, take everything to the Westlake, Room Fifty-one. The name of the woman is Rashad. Give it only to her.”

“Rashad. Room Fifty-one. I’ve got it.”

“Thank you.”

“Listen, if you’re in trouble, let me know about it, okay? I mean if there’s anything I can do—”

“Your car’s at the airport, somewhere in Section C,” said the Czech, hanging up. He lifted the phone for the last time and dialed again. “Room Fifty-one,” he repeated.

“
Hello?
”

“You will receive … everything in the morning.”

“Where
are
you? Let me send help!”

“In the … morning. Get it to Mr.
B
!”

“
Goddamn
you, Milos, where
are
you?”

“It doesn’t matter.… Reach Kendrick. He may know.”

“Know
what
?”

“Photographs.… The Vanvlanderen woman … Lausanne, the Leman Marina. The Beau-Rivage—the gardens. Then Amsterdam, the Rozengracht. In the hotel … her study.
Tell
him! The man is a
Saudi
and things happened to him … millions,
millions
!” Milos could hardly talk; he had so little breath. Go on … go
on
! “Escape … millions!”

“What the hell are you
talking
about?”

“He may be the
key
! Don’t let anyone remove the photographs.… Reach
Kendrick
. He may remember!” The Czech lost control of his movements; he swung the telephone back onto the counter missing the cradle, then fell to the ground in front of the fruit stand on a backcountry road beyond the airport in San Diego. Milos Varak was dead.

The morning’s headlines and related articles obscured all other news. The Secretary of State and his entire delegation had been brutally killed in a hotel on Cyprus. The Sixth Fleet was heading toward the island, all weapons and aircraft at the ready. The nation was transfixed, furious, and not a little frightened. The horror of some uncontrollable force of evil seemed to loom on the horizon, edging the country toward the brink of wholesale confrontation, provoking the government to respond with equal horror and brutality. But in a stroke of rare intuitive geopolitical brillance, President Langford Jennings controlled the storm. He reached Moscow, and the result of those communications had brought forth dual condemnations from the two superpowers. The monstrous event on Cyprus was labeled an isolated act of terrorism that enraged the entire world. Words of praise and sorrow for a great man came from all the capitals of the globe, allies and adversaries alike.

And on pages 2, 7 and 45, respectively, in the
San Diego Union
, and pages 4, 50 and 51 in the
Los Angeles Times
, were the following far less important wire service reports.