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

beyond stood a broken-down truck, the tires seemingly only half inflated. The engine roared as loud reports came from a worn exhaust pipe. “
Besuraa!
” cried the Arab contact, telling Evan to hurry. “There is your transport.”
    “I hope,” mumbled Kendrick, his voice laced with doubt.
    “Welcome to Masqat,
Shaikh
-whoever.”
    “You
know
who I am,” said Evan angrily. “You picked me out in the crowd! How many
others
can do that?”
    “Very few, sir. And I do
not
know who you are, I swear by Allah.”
    “Then I have to believe you, don’t I?” asked Kendrick, staring at the man.
    “I would not use the name of Allah if it were not so. Please.
Besuraa!
”
    “Thanks,” said Evan, grabbing his carryon and running toward the truck’s cab. Suddenly, the driver was gesturing out the window for him to climb into the back under the canvas that covered the bed of the ancient vehicle. The truck lurched forward as a pair of hands pulled him up inside.
    Stretched out on the floorboards, Kendrick raised his eyes to the Arab above him. The man smiled and pointed to the long robes of an
aba
and the ankle-length shirt known as a
thobe
that were suspended on a hanger in the front of the canvas-topped trailer; beside it, hanging on a nail was the
ghotra
headdress and a pair of white balloon trousers, the street clothes of an Arab and the last items Evan had requested of the State Department’s Frank Swann. These and one other small but vital catalyst.
    The Arab held it up. It was a tube of skin-darkening gel, which when generously applied turned the face and hands of a white Occidental into those of a Mideastern Semite whose skin had been permanently burnished by the hot, blistering, near-equatorial sun. The dyed pigment would stay darkened for aperiod of ten days before fading. Ten days. A lifetime—for him or for the monster who called himself the Mahdi.
    The woman stood inside the airport fence inches from the metal links. She wore slightly flared white slacks and a tapered dark green silk blouse, the blouse creased by the leather strap of her handbag. Long dark hair framed her face; her sharp, attractive features were obscured by a pair of large designer sunglasses, her head covered by a wide-brimmed white sun hat, the crown circled by a ribbon of green silk. At first she seemed to be yet another traveler from wealthy Rome or Paris, London or New York. But a closer look revealed a subtle difference from the stereotype; it was her skin. Its olive tones, neither black nor white, suggested northern Africa. What confirmed the difference was what she held in her hands, and only seconds before had pressed against the fence: a miniature camera, barely two inches long and with a tiny bulging, convex, prismatic lens engineered for telescopic photography, equipment associated with intelligence personnel. The seedy, run-down truck had swerved out of the warehouse parking lot; the camera was no longer necessary. She grabbed the handbag at her side and slipped it out of sight.
    “
Khalehla!
” shouted an obese, wide-eyed, baldheaded man running toward her, pronouncing the name as “Ka-
lay
-la.” He was awkwardly carrying two suitcases, the sweat drenching his shirt and penetrating the black pin-striped suit styled on Savile Row. “For God’s sake, why did you
drift off
?”
    “That dreadful line was simply
too
boring, darling,” replied the woman, her accent an unfathomable mixture of British and Italian or perhaps Greek. “I thought I’d stroll around.”
    “Good Christ, Khalehla, you can’t
do
that, can’t you under-
stand
? This place is a veritable
hell
on earth right now!” The Englishman stood before her, his jowled face flushed, dripping with perspiration. “I was the very next in line for that immigration imbecile, and I looked around and you weren’t
there
! And when I started rushing about to find you, three lunatics with guns—
guns!
—stopped me and took me into a room and searched