Abdel Hamendi, the king of the court of international arms merchants, reached for his throat as he fell to the ground.
It was not over! screamed a voice in Kendrick's mind. There was something else to do! He crawled down the concrete incline, reaching into his pocket for a map code Blue had given everyone in case of separation and possible escape. He tore off a fragment, taking a small blunt pencil from another pocket, and wrote the following in Arabic:
Hamendi the liar is dead. Soon all the merchants will die for everywhere the treachery has begun, as you have seen for yourself this day. Everywhere they have been paid by Israel and the Great Satan America to sell us defective weapons. Everywhere. Reach our brothers everywhere and tell them what I have told you and what you have witnessed this day. No weapons from this day on can be trusted. Signed by a silent friend who knows.
Painfully, as though the wounds from the island off Mexico had returned, Evan got to his feet and ran as fast as he could back into the angry, still shrieking crowds towards the doors of the warehouse. Feigning hysterical pleas to Allah over the death of a brother, he fell prostrate in front of the small group of leaders, which now included those from the Baaka Valley in Lebanon. As hands came down to offer comfort he shoved the paper towards them, rose suddenly to his feet screaming, and raced out of the warehouse doors, disappearing into the now wailing, grieving crowds kneeling beside mutilated corpses everywhere. In panic he heard the bass-toned whistles from the cargo ship—signals of departure! He pummelled his way to the far side of the pier, where he saw Khalehla and Ahmat standing by the gangplank, shouting up to the men on deck, if possible more panicky than himself.
'Where the hell have you been!' screamed Rashad, her eyes furious.
They were lying their way out!' yelled Kendrick as Ahmat shoved both of them on to the gangplank, which, at his signal, began its retreat into the ship.
'Hamendi?' asked Khalehla.
'And Grinell—'
'Grinell?' shouted the agent from Cairo as the three of them staggered forward. 'Of course Grinell,' added Rashad. 'Where else—'
'You're a goddamned fool, Congressman!' roared the young sultan of Oman, still shoving his charges, now on to the deck of the ship, which had already floated away from the pier. 'Another thirty seconds and you would have stayed back there. Any minute that crowd could have turned on us, and I couldn't risk the lives of these men!'
'Christ, you've really grown up.'
'We all do our thing when it's our turn… What about Hamendi and this whoever-he-is?'
'I killed them.'
'Just like that,' said Ahmat breathlessly, but calmly.
'We all do our thing when it's our turn, Your Highness.'
Gerald Bryce walked into the computerized study of his house in Georgetown and went directly to his processor. He sat down in front of it and turned on the switch; as the screen lit up he typed in a code. Instantly the green letters responded.
Ultra Maximum Secure No Existing Intercepts Proceed
The young, strikingly handsome expert smiled and continued to type.
I have now read all the max confidential printouts reaching the CIA and coded for M. J. Payton's modem only. In a word, the entire report is incredible and already the effects of the operation are seen. To date, barely two weeks after the events in South Yemen, seven of the most prominent arms merchants have been assassinated, and it is estimated that the flow of weapons to the Middle East has been cut by 60 per cent. Our man is invincible. More to the point, however, combined with the previous information we possess, the White House must—repeat must—listen to us in the event we care to have our voice heard. We will, of course, exercise this prerogative with the utmost circumspection but it is, nevertheless, ours to exercise. For regardless of outcome, positive or negative, national and international laws have been broken, the administration has been directly and indirectly associated with murder, terrorism, corruption and, indeed, approached the edge of that all-inclusive condemnation, crimes-against-humanity. As we agree, there must always be a benevolent, selfless power above the White House to give it direction, and the means to that power is to know the innermost secrets of any administration. In this we are succeeding in ways undreamed of by those who came before us. If there is a God, may He grant that we and our successors are truthful to our beliefs. Penultimately, it strikes me that the sound and the partial cadence of Inver Brass is not far distant from a medical term: Intravenous. It's quite appropriate, I believe. Finally, I am working on several other projects and will keep you informed.
In a boat off Glorious Cay in the Bahamas, a large black man sat in the opulent cabin of his Bertram yacht studying the computer screen in front of him. He smiled at the words he read. Inver Brass was in good hands, young capable hands, immense intelligence coupled with decency and a desire for excellence. Gideon Logan, who had spent much of his wealthy adult life for the betterment of his people—even to the point of disappearing for three years as the silent, unseen ombudsman of Rhodesia during its transition to Zimbabwe—felt the relief that came with principled, outstanding succession. Time was winding down for him as it was for Margaret Lowell and old Jacob Mandel. Mortality mandated that they would be replaced; and this young man, this attractive honourable young genius, would choose their successors. The nation and the world would be better for them.
Time was winding down.
Gerald Bryce sipped his glass of Madeira and returned to his equipment. He was elated for so many reasons, not the least of which was what he termed their 'fraternity of brilliance'. What was so extraordinary was the ordinariness of its inevitability. Their brotherhood was preordained, inescapable, its origins found in the most common of occurrences: The coming together of people with similar interests, the advanced regions of those interests demanding superior intellects—and, to be realistic, little patience with a society governed by mediocrity. One thing always led to another, always obliquely, but nevertheless inevitably.
When time permitted, Bryce lectured and held seminars, a sought-after leader in the field of computer science who was careful not to publicly explore the outer limits of his expertise. But every now and then there was that extraordinary person who grasped where he was heading. In London, Stockholm, Paris, Los Angeles and Chicago—the University of Chicago. Those few people were scrutinized beyond anything their imaginations could conceive of and, to date, four had been contacted again… and again. A new Inver Brass was a faint but definite outline on the horizon. The most extraordinary of those four would be contacted now.
Bryce entered his code, punched the keys for Addendum, and read the letters on the screen.
Satellite transmission. Mod-Sahalhuddin. Bahrain. Proceed.
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 47
Emmanuel Weingrass confounded the medical specialists, especially those at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Not that he was recovering, for he was not, and there was no change in the terminal status of the virus infection. However, he appeared not to be getting much worse; his rate of decline was far slower than had been anticipated. The doctors would not by any means pronounce the disease arrested; they were simply confused. As the pathologist in Denver phrased it, 'Let's say on a scale of one to minus ten—minus ten being check-out time—the old guy's hovering around minus six and won't move down.'
'But the virus is still there,' said Kendrick as he and Khalehla walked with the doctor in the grounds of the Colorado house out of Manny's earshot.