Ludlum, Robert - The Icarus Agenda

'I'm rusty,' said Evan, drinking. 'The old man died a year or so after I left, didn't he? I'm afraid I didn't keep up with things over here—a natural aversion, I think.'

'Certainly understandable. Our current sultan is his son; he's nearer your age than mine, even younger than you. After school in England, he completed his studies in your country. Dartmouth and Harvard, to be exact.'

'His name's Ahmat,' broke in Kendrick, remembering. 'I met him a couple of times.' Evan frowned. 'Economics and international relations,' he added.

'What?'

'Those were the degrees he was after. Graduate and postgraduate.'

'He's educated and bright, but he's young. Very young for the tasks facing him.'

'When can I see him?'

'Tonight. Before others become aware of your presence here.' Mustapha looked at his watch. 'In thirty minutes leave the hotel and walk four blocks north. A military vehicle will be at the corner. Get in and it will take you to the sands of Jabal Sham.'

The slender Arab in the soiled aba ducked into the shadows of the darkened shopfront opposite the hotel. He stood silently next to the woman called Khalehla, now dressed in a tailored black suit, the kind favoured by women executives and indistinct in the dim light. She was awkwardly securing a lens into the mount of her small camera. Suddenly, two sharp, high-pitched beeps sounded out.

'Hurry,' said the Arab. 'He's on his way. He's reached the lobby.'

'As fast as I can,' replied the woman, swearing under her breath as she manipulated the lens. 'I ask little of my superiors but decent, functioning equipment is one of them… There. It's on.'

'Here he comes!'

Khalehla raised her camera with the telescopic, infra-red lens for night photographs. She rapidly snapped three pictures of the robed Evan Kendrick. 'I wonder how long they'll let him live,' she said. 'I have to reach a telephone.'

Ultra Maximum Secure

No Existing Intercepts

Proceed

The journal was continued.

Reports from Masqat are astonishing. The subject has transformed himself into an Omani complete with Arab dress and darkened skin. He moves about the city like a native apparently contacting old friends and acquaintances from his previous life. The reports, however, are also sketchy as the subject's shadow routes everything through Langley and as yet I haven't been able to invade the CIA access codes from the Gulf nations. Who knows what Langley conceals? I've instructed my appliances to work harder! The State Department, naturally, is duck soup. And why not?

The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 4

The vast, arid desert appeared endless in the night, the sporadic moonlight outlining the mountains of Jabal Sham in the distance—an unreachable, menacing border towering on the dark horizon. Everywhere the flat surface seemed to be a dry mixture of earth and sand, the windless plain devoid of those swelling, impermanent hills of windblown dunes one conjures up with images of the great Sahara. The hard, winding road beneath was barely passable; the brown military vehicle lurched and skidded around the sandy curves on its way to the royal meeting ground. Kendrick, as instructed, sat beside the armed, uniformed driver; in the back was a second man, an officer and also armed. Security started at the pickup; a perceived wrong move on Evan's part and he was flanked. Apart from polite greetings neither soldier spoke.

'This is desert country,' said Kendrick in Arabic. 'Why are there so many turns?'

'There are many off-shoot roads, sir,' answered the officer from the back seat. 'A straight lane in these sands would mark them too clearly.'

Royal security, thought Evan without comment.

They took an 'off-shoot road' after twenty-five minutes of speeding due west. Several miles beyond, a campfire glowed on the right. As they drew near, Kendrick saw a platoon of uniformed guards circling the fire, facing out, all points of the compass covered; the dark silhouettes of two military trucks loomed in the distance. The car stopped; the officer leaped out and opened the door for the American.

'Precede me, sir,' he said in English.

'Certainly,' replied Evan, trying to spot the young sultan in the light of the fire. There was no sign of him, nor of anyone not in uniform. Evan tried to recall the face of the boy-man he had met over four years ago, the student who had come home to Oman during a Christmas or a spring break, he could not remember which, only that the son of the sultan was an amiable young man, as knowledgeable as—he was enthusiastic about American sports. But that was all Evan could recall; no face came to him, only the name, Ahmat, which Mustapha had confirmed. Three soldiers in front of him gave way; they walked through the protective ring.

'You will permit me, sir?' said a second officer, suddenly standing in front of Kendrick.

'Permit you what?'

'It is customary under these circumstances to search all visitors.'

'Go ahead.'

The soldier swiftly and efficiently probed the robes of the aba, raising the right sleeve above the area where Evan had spread the skin-darkening gel. Seeing the white flesh, the officer held the cloth in place and stared at Kendrick. 'You have papers with you, ya Shaikh!

'No papers. No identification.'

'I see.' The soldier dropped the sleeve. 'You have no weapons, either.'

'Of course not.'

'That is for you to claim and for us to determine, sir.' The officer snapped out a thin, black device from his belt, no larger than a pack of cigarettes. He pressed what looked like a red or orange button. 'You will wait here, please.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' said Evan, glancing at the guards, their rifles poised.

'No, you are not, ya Shaikh,' agreed the soldier, striding back towards the fire.

Kendrick looked at the English-speaking officer who had accompanied him in the back seat from Masqat. 'They take no chances, do they?' he said aimlessly.

The will of almighty Allah, sir,' replied the soldier. The sultan is our light, our sun. You are Aurobbi, a white man. Would you not protect your lineage to the heavens?'

'If I thought he could guarantee my admittance, I certainly would.'

'He is a good man, ya Shaikh. Young, perhaps, but wise in many ways. We have come to learn that.'

'He is coming here, then?'

'He has arrived, sir.'

The bass-toned roar of a big powerful car broke the crackling intrusion of the campfire. The vehicle with tinted windows swerved in front of the ring of guards and came to an abrupt stop. Before the driver could emerge, the rear door opened and the sultan stepped out. He was in the robes of his royal office, but with the door still open he proceeded to remove them, throwing his aba into the car, the ghotra headdress remaining on his head. He walked through the circle of his Royal Guard, a slender, muscular man of medium height and broad shoulders. Except for the ghotra, his clothes were Western. His slacks were a tan gabardine, and over his chest was a T-shirt with a cartoon figure wearing a three-cornered American revolutionary hat bursting out of an American football. Underneath, the legend read: New England Patriots.

'It's been a long time, Evan Kendrick, ya Shaikh,' said the young man in a slightly British accent, smiling and extending his hand. 'I like your costume, but it's not exactly Brooks Brothers, is it?'

'Neither is yours unless the Brothers Brooks are into T-shirts.' They shook hands. Kendrick could feel the sultan's strength. 'Thank you for seeing me, Ahmat… Forgive me—I should say Your Royal Highness. My apologies.'

'You knew me as Ahmat, and I knew you as Shaikh, sir. Must I still call you “sir”?'

'That'd be inappropriate, I think.'

'Good. We understand each other.'

'You look different from what I remember,' said Evan.