Ludlum, Robert - The Icarus Agenda

Ultra Maximum Secure

No Existing Intercepts

Proceed

He continued his journal, his fingers trembling with elation.

Everything is in motion now. The subject is on his way, the journey begun. I cannot, of course, project the obstacles facing him, much less his success or failure. I only know through my highly developed 'appliances' that he is uniquely qualified. One day we will be able to factor in more accurately the human quotient but that day is not yet here. Nevertheless, if he survives lightning will strike; my projections make that clear from a hundred different successfully factored options. The small circle of need-to-know officials have been alerted through ultra max modem communications. Child's play for my appliances.

The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 3

The estimated flying time from Andrews to the US Air Force base in Sicily was seven hours plus. Arrival was scheduled for 5 am, Rome time; eight o'clock in the morning in Oman, which was four to five hours away depending on the prevailing Mediterranean winds and whatever secure routes were available. Takeoff into the Atlantic darkness had been swift in the military jet, a converted F-106 Delta with a cabin that included two adjacent seats in the rear with tray tables that served both as miniature desks and surfaces for food and drink. Swivelled lights angled down from the ceiling, permitting those reading to move the sharp beams into the areas of concentration, whether they were manuscript, photographs or maps. Kendrick was fed the pages from OHIO-Four-Zero by the man on his left, one page at a time, each given only after the previous page was returned. In two hours and twelve minutes, Evan had completed the entire file. He was about to start at the beginning again when the young man on his left, a handsome, dark-eyed member of OHIO-Four-Zero who had introduced himself simply as a State Department aide, held up his hand.

'Can't we take time out for some food, sir?' he asked.

'Oh? Sure.' Kendrick stretched in his seat. 'Frankly, there's not a hell of a lot here that's very useful.'

'I didn't think there would be,' said the clean-cut youngster.

Evan looked at his seat companion, for the first time studying him. 'You know, I don't mean this is in a derogatory sense—I really don't—but for a highly classified State Department operation, you strike me as being kind of young for the job. You can't be out of your twenties.'

'Close to it,' replied the aide. 'But I'm pretty good at what I do.'

'Which is?'

'Sorry, no comment, sir,' said the seat companion. 'Now how about that food? It's a long flight.'

'How about a drink?'

'We've made special provision for civilians.' The dark-haired, dark-browed young man smiled and signalled the Air Force steward, a corporal in a bulkhead seat facing aft; the attendant rose and came forward. 'A glass of white wine and a Canadian on the rocks, please.'

'A Canadian—'

'That's what you drink, isn't it?'

'You've been busy.'

'We never stop.' The aide nodded to the corporal who retreated to the miniature galley. 'I'm afraid the food is fixed and standard,' continued the young man from OHIO. 'It's in line with the Pentagon cut-backs… and certain lobbyists from the meat and produce industries. Filet mignon with asparagus hollandaise and boiled potatoes.'

'Some cut-backs.'

'Some lobbyists,' added Evan's seat companion, grinning. 'Then there's a dessert of baked Alaska.'

'What?'

'You can't overlook the dairy boys.' The drinks arrived; the steward returned to a bulkhead phone where a white light flashed, and the aide held up his glass. 'Your health.'

'Yours, too. Do you have a name?'

'Pick one.'

'That's succinct. Will you settle for Joe?'

'Joe, it is. Nice to meet you, sir.'

'Since you obviously know who I am, you have the advantage. You can use my name.'

'Not on this flight.'

'Then who am I?'

'For the record, you're a cryptanalyst named Axelrod who's being flown to the embassy in Jiddah, Saudi Arabia. The name doesn't mean much; it's basically for the pilot's logs. If anyone wants your attention, he'll just say “sir”. Names are sort of off limits on these trips.'

'Dr Axelrod? The corporal's intrusion made the State Department's aide blanch.

'Doctor?' replied Evan, mildly astonished, looking at 'Joe'.

'Obviously you're a PhD,' said the aide under his breath.

'That's nice,' whispered Kendrick, raising his eyes to the steward. 'Yes?'

'The pilot would like to speak with you, sir. If you'll follow me to the flight deck, please?'

'Certainly,' agreed Evan, pushing up the tray table while handing 'Joe' his drink. 'At least you were right about one thing, junior,' he mumbled to the State Department man. 'He said “sir”.'

'And I don't like it,' rejoined 'Joe', quietly, intensely. 'All communications involving you are to be funnelled through me.'

'You want to make a scene?'

'Screw it. It's an ego trip. He wants to get close to the special cargo.'

'The what?

'Forget it, Dr Axelrod. Just remember, there are to be no decisions without my approval.'

'You're a tough kid.'

'The toughest, Congress—Dr Axelrod. Also, I'm not “junior”. Not where you're concerned.'

'Shall I convey your feelings to the pilot?'

'You can tell him I'll cut both his wings and his balls off if he pulls this again.'

'Since I was the last on board, I didn't meet him, but I gather he's a brigadier general.'

'He's brigadier-bullshit to me.'

'Good Lord,' said Kendrick, chuckling. 'Inter-service rivalry at forty thousand feet. I'm not sure I approve of that.'

'Sir?' The Air Force steward was anxious.

'Coming, Corporal.'

The compact flight deck of the F-106 Delta glowed with a profusion of tiny green and red lights, dials and numbers everywhere. The pilot and co-pilot were strapped in front, the navigator on the right, a cushioned earphone clipped to his left ear, his eyes on a gridded computer screen. Evan had to bend down to advance the several feet he could manage in the small enclosure.

'Yes, General?' he inquired. 'You wanted to see me?'

'I don't even want to look at you, Doctor,' answered the pilot, his attention on the panels in front of him. 'I'm just going to read you a message from someone named S. You know someone named S?'

'I think I do,' replied Kendrick, assuming the message had been radioed by Swann at the Department of State. 'What is it?'

'It's a pain in the butt to this bird, is what it is!' cried the brigadier general. 'I've never landed there! I don't know the field, and I'm told those fucking Eyetals over in that wasteland are better at making spaghetti sauce than they are at giving approach instructions!'

'It's our own air base,' protested Evan.

'The hell it is!' countered the pilot as his co-pilot shook his head in an emphatic negative. 'We're changing course to Sardinia! Not Sicily but Sardinia! I'll have to blow out my engines to contain us on that strip—if, for Christ's sake, we can find it!'

'What's the message, General?' asked Kendrick calmly. 'There's usually a reason for most things when plans are changed.'

'Then you explain it—no, don't explain it. I'm hot and bothered enough. Goddamned spooks!'

'The message, please?'

'Here it is.' The angry pilot read from a perforated page of paper. ' “Switch necessary. Jiddah out. All MA where permitted under eyes—”'

'What does that mean?' interrupted Evan quickly. 'The MA under eyes.'

'What it says.'

'In English, please.'

'Sorry, I forgot. Whoever you are you're not what's logged. It means all military aircraft in Sicily and Jiddah are under observation, as well as every field we land on. Those Arab bastards expect something and they've got their filthy psychos in place, ready to relay anything or anyone unusual.'