The driver, a surgical mask on his face and a gun in his hand, also watched the rising clouds as he spun repeatedly around in the seat checking every direction for an assault. None came, and his confusion was obvious. He picked up the car telephone, then hesitated and Milos understood. If the problem was a simple mechanical failure and he contacted his controls, say 30 or 300 or 3,000 miles away, he would be severely criticized. He replaced the phone and put the car into gear; the sound was so thunderous he stopped instantly. One did not call attention to such a vehicle anywhere, any time; one chose another alternative, like calling a garage and being towed in for a simple exterior repair. And yet…? So another period of waiting began. It lasted nearly twenty minutes; despite his red hair, the man was a professional. Apparently convinced that no attack was forthcoming, he cautiously got out of the car and walked to the rear. Gun in one hand, a torch in the other, he continued to look around in all directions as Varak crept silently forward in the undergrowth. The red-headed surveillance suddenly crouched, throwing the beam of light into the undercarriage. Milos knew he had only seconds to reach the edge of the road before the man discovered the heat-expanding plastic inserted in the exhaust or noticed the markings on the silencer made by the small, diamond-edged knife-saw. The moment came as Varak briefly parted the foliage eight feet from the crouching, peering man.
'Christ!' exploded the slender, well-dressed redhead, leaping back, spinning first to his right then to his left, his automatic levelled, his back now to Milos. The Czech raised a third item he had taken from his attache case; it was a CO2-propelled dart gun. Once again he parted the leaves in front of him and quickly fired. The narcotic dart hit its mark, embedding itself in the back of the man's neck. The red-haired surveillance whipped violently around, dropping the torch as he desperately tried to reach behind him and rip out the offending needle. The more frenzied his movements the more rapidly the blood rushed to his head, rushing also the circulation of the serum. It took eight seconds; the man fell to the ground, struggling against the inevitable effects, finally lying immobile on the country road. Varak walked out of the woods and swiftly pulled the redhead back into them, returning for the man's gun and his light. He proceeded to search the man for undoubtedly false identification cards.
They were not false. The unconscious figure beneath him was a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Among his ID papers was the unit to which he had been assigned two months and ten days ago—one day after the meeting of Inver Brass at Cynwid Hollow, Maryland.
Milos removed the dart, carried the man out to the road and placed him behind the wheel of the blue car. He concealed the torch and the gun beneath the seat, closed the door and walked back to his rented car around the bend. He had to find a telephone and reach a man at the Federal Bureau in Washington.
'There's no information on that unit,' said Varak's contact at the FBI. 'It came down through administration circles, its origin in California, in San Diego, I think.'
'There's no California White House now,' objected Milos.
'But there's another “House”, in case you've forgotten.'
'What?'
'Before I go on, Checkman, we're going to need some data from you. It concerns an operation out of Prague that's gathering fruit over here. It's minor but irritating. Will you help us?'
'Certainly. I'll find out whatever I can. Now what is the house in San Diego, California, that can cause the Bureau to form a special unit?'
'Simple, Checkman. It belongs to the Vice President of the United States.'
It is agreed then. Congressman Evan Kendrick will be the next Vice President of the United States. He will become President eleven months after the election of the incumbent.
In silence, Varak hung up the phone.
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 26
It had been five weeks since the calamitous ceremony in the White House's Blue Room, a calamity compounded by Ringmaster Dennison's incessant attempts to focus everyone's attention on the presenter of the Medal of Freedom award and not on the recipient. The conductor of the Marine Band had misread his instructions. Instead of playing a haunting pianissimo of 'America the Beautiful' under the President's peroration, he plunged into a fortissimo version of the 'Stars and Stripes', all but drowning out the chief
