The Icarus Agenda by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online Page A

how—”
    “Enough,
ya Shaikh
. Give me your luggage and stay ten feet behind me. Come!”
    Evan handed his soft carry-on suitcase to the excited contact and followed him. They walked to the right, past the end of the one-story brown-and-white terminal, and headed immediately to the left toward the tall Cyclone fence beyond which the fumes from dozens of taxis, buses and trucks tinted the burning air. The crowds outside the airport fence were racing back and forth amid the congested vehicles, their robes flowing, shrieking admonishments and screeching for attention. Along the fence for perhaps seventy-five to a hundred feet, scores of other Arabs pressed their faces against the metal links, peering into an alien world of smooth asphalt runways and sleek aircraft that was no part of their lives, giving birth to fantasies beyond their understanding.Up ahead, Kendrick could see a metal building the size of ten Quonset huts. It was the airfield warehouse he remembered so well, recalling the hours he and Manny Weingrass had spent inside waiting for long-overdue equipment promised on one flight or another, often furious with the customs officials who frequently could not understand the forms they had to fill out that would release the equipment—if indeed the equipment had arrived.
    The gate in front of the warehouse’s hangarlike doors was open, accommodating the line of freight containers, their deep wells filled with crates disgorged from the various aircraft. Guards with attack dogs on leashes flanked the customs conveyor belt that carried the freight inside to anxious suppliers and retailers and the ever-present, ever-frustrated foremen of construction teams. The guards’ eyes constantly roamed the frenzied activity, repeating machine pistols in their hands. They were there not merely to maintain a semblance of order amid the chaos and to back up the customs officials in the event of violent disputes, but essentially to be on the lookout for weapons and narcotics being smuggled into the sultanate. Each crate and thickly layered box was examined by the snarling, yelping dogs as it was lifted onto the belt.
    Evan’s contact stopped; he did the same. The Arab turned and nodded at a small side gate with a sign in Arabic above it.
Stop. Authorized Personnel Only. Violators Will Be Shot
. It was an exit for the guards and other officials of the government. The gate also had a large metal plate where a lock would normally be placed. And it
was
a lock, thought Kendrick, a lock electronically released from somewhere inside the warehouse. The contact nodded twice more, indicating that with a signal Evan was to head for the gate where “violators will be shot.” Kendrick frowned questioningly, a hollow pain forming in his stomach. With Masqat under a state of siege, it would not take much for someone to start firing. The Arab read the doubt in his eyes and nodded for a fourth time, slowly, reassuringly. The contact turned and looked to his right down the line of freight containers. Almost imperceptibly he raised his right hand.
    Suddenly, a fight broke out beside one of the containers. Curses were shrieked as arms swung violently and fists pounded.
    “
Contraband!
”
    “
Liar!
”
    “
Your mother is a goat, a filthy she-goat!
”
    “
Your father lies with whores! You are a product!
”
    Dust flew as the grappling bodies fell to the ground, joined by others who took sides. The dogs began barking viciously, straining at their leashes, their handlers carried forward toward the melee—all but one handler, one guard; and the signal was given by Evan’s contact. Together they ran to the deserted personnel exit.
    “Good fortune, sir,” said the lone guard, his attack dog sniffing menacingly at Kendrick’s trousers as the man tapped the metal plate in a rapid code with his weapon. A buzzer sounded and the gate swung back. Kendrick and his contact ran through, racing along the metal wall of the warehouse.
    In the parking lot