Ludlum, Robert - The Icarus Agenda

'His clothes?'

'Of course. The light's poor but not for the practised eye. The white shirt's gone and so are the pinstripes. He's wearing a dark shirt now and his jacket and trousers are a dull black, coarse-woven wool, I should think, hardly suitable for the climate.'

'What are you talking about?' exclaimed the astounded Dickie. 'I meant the gun!'

'Well, yes, old chap. You're in ferrous metals and I'm in textiles.'

'Really, you leave me dumbfounded! We both see a twenty-stone bugger, who, fifteen minutes ago, was so squiffed we had to carry him upstairs, suddenly running around cold sober in the street, issuing orders to some bloke and brandishing a gun while he jumps into a madly driven car he obviously had signalled—and all you see are his clothes.'

'Well, actually, there's more to it than that, old boy. I saw the gun, of course, and the jack-rabbit Arab, and that car—obviously driven by a maniac—and the contrariness of it all was why the clothes struck me as odd, don't you see?'

'Not a ha'penny worth!'

'Perhaps “odd” is the wrong choice of word—’

'Try the right one, Jack.'

'All right, I'll try… That fat bugger may or may not have been squiffed but he was a dandy of the first water. Best featherweight worsted stripe, an Angelo shirt, the finest pure silk tie, and Benedictine shoes—leather from the veldt and sewn to order in Italy. He's dressed to kill, I thought to myself, and everything right for the climate.'

'So?' asked the exasperated Dickie.

'So out there in the street just now, he's in a jacket and trousers of quite ordinary quality, ill-fitting and far too heavy for this blasted weather, and certainly not the sort of outfit that would stand out in a crowd, much less appropriate for a dawn social or an Ascot breakfast. And while I'm at it, there isn't a textile firm in Manchester I'm not familiar with, and there's no Twillingame or Burlingame or any name remotely similar.'

'You don't say?'

'I do say.'

'That's a wicket, isn't it?'

'I also say we shouldn't take that plane this morning.'

'My God, why?'

'I think we should go over to our embassy and wake someone up.'

'What… ?’

'Dickie, suppose that bugger is dressed to kill?'

Ultra Maximum Secure

No Existing Intercepts

Proceed

The journal continued.

The latest report is troubling and insofar as my appliances haven't broken Langley's access codes, I don't even know whether data was withheld or not. The subject has made contact. The shadow speaks of a high-risk option that was 'inevitable'—inevitable!—but extremely dangerous.

What is he doing and how is he doing it? What are his methods and who are his contacts? I must have specifics! If he survives, I will need every detail, for it is the details that lend credence to any extraordinary action, and it is the action that will propel the subject into the conscience of the nation.

But will he survive or will he be yet another buried statistic in an unrevealed series of events? My appliances cannot tell me, they can only attest to his potential which means nothing if he's dead. Then all my work will have been for nothing.

The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 8

The four terrorist prisoners were shackled, two sitting on the right side of the speeding, violently shaking police van, the other two opposite them on the left. As arranged, Kendrick sat with the young, wild-eyed fanatic whose harelip impeded his screeching pronouncements; Azra was across the way with the gruff, older killer who had challenged and attacked Evan, the man he thought of as a sergeant-foreman. By the rattling steel door of the van stood a police guard, his left hand gripping a crossbar on the roof, trying to keep himself upright. In his right, held in place by a taut leather shoulder strap, was a MAC-10 machine pistol. A single scatter-shot burst would turn the four breathing prisoners into bloodied, breathless corpses pinned to the walls of the racing van. Yet, also—as arranged—a ring of keys was hooked to the guard's belt, the same keys that had secured the prisoners' shackles. Everything had been a race against time, precious time. Minutes became hours and hours brought about another day.

'You're insane, you know that, don't you?'

'Doctor, we don't have a choice! That man is Azra—colour him Blue.'

'Wrong, wrong, wrong! Azra has a beard and long hair—we've all seen him on television—'

'He shaved off his beard and cut his hair.'

'I ask you. Are you Amal Bahrudi?'

'I am now.'

'No, you're not! Any more than he is Azra! That man was brought in here five hours ago from a bazaar in the Waljat. He's a drunken imbecile, a swaggering clown, nothing more. His fellow pig slashed his own throat with a policeman's knife!'

'I was there, Faisal. He is Azra, brother of Zaya Yateem.'

'Because he tells you so?'

'No. Because I talked to him, listened to him. His holy war isn't for or against Allah, Abraham or Christ. It's for survival in this life, on this earth.'

'Madness! All around us, madness!'

'What did Ahmat say?'

'To do as you say, but you must wait until his special police arrive. They are two men he trusts completely—your instructions, I believe.'

'Tweedledum and Tweedledee? The two uniforms who've been with me from the bazaar to the Al Kabir?'

'They are special. One will drive the police vehicle, the other will act as your guard.'

'Good thinking. I'm really playing out Ahmat's scenario, aren't I?'

'You're unfair, Mr. Kendrick.'

'He's not too shabby himself… Here are the other two prisoners I want in the transfer, in the truck with Azra and me.'

'Why? Who are they?'

'One's a lunatic who'd curse at his own firing squad, but the other… the other is Azra's beard. He does whatever colour-me-Blue tells him. Take those two away and there's no one to hold the fort together.'

'You're being cryptic.'

'The rest are breakable, Doctor. They don't really know anything but they're breakable. I suggest you take three or four out at a time, put them into smaller cells and then shoot off some rifles into the back wall of this compound. You might find a few fanatics who aren't so crazy about their own executions.'

'You are shedding your true skin, Shaikh Kendrick. You're going into a world of which you know nothing.'

'I'll learn, Doctor. That's why I'm here.'

The sign came! The guard by the van's door steadied himself, briefly lowering his left hand; he shook it to restore circulation and immediately reached up to grip the crossbar again. He would repeat the action in less than a minute and then it would be the moment for Evan to make his move. The choreography had been created quickly in the compound's laboratory; the attack was to be swift and simple. The guard's reaction was the key to its success. Twenty-two seconds later, the guard's left hand plummeted down again in a gesture of weariness.

Kendrick sprang off the bench, his body a compact missile hammering into the guard whose head crashed against the door with such force that the man's suddenly hysterical expression became instantly passive as he collapsed.

'Quickly!' commanded Evan, turning to Azra. 'Help me! Get his keys!'

The Palestinian leaped forward, followed by the sergeant-foreman. All together, their shackled hands threw the MAC-10 machine pistol out of the way and ripped the keys from the guard's belt.

'I'll kill him now!' shrieked the harelipped zealot, grabbing the weapon and lurching forward in the swaying truck, the gun aimed at the guard's head.

'Stop him!' ordered Azra.

'Fool!' roared the sergeant-foreman wrestling the weapon away from the young fanatic. 'The driver will hear the shots!'

'He is our holy enemy!'