Famine

by Graham Masterton

  He crumpled an empty Coors can in his hand and tossed it into the waste-basket. He wanted very badly to talk to Season right now, and not just to make sure that she and Sally were all right.

  He needed more than a friend or a lover right now. He needed his wife.

  Four

  Peter Kaiser came into his room shortly after eight that evening, and stood watching the television, his hands stuck deep in his pockets. He looked waxy, and sweaty, and there were dark rings under his eyes; but he had an air of satisfied tiredness, as if he had pulled off something really difficult.

  ‘Well?’ he asked Ed. ‘What’s the latest?’

  Ed was sitting on his bed, in a buff-coloured shirt, jeans, and bare feet. He eyed Peter without answering, as if the question wasn’t worth his time.

  ‘Now you know what it’s like to wield power,’ smiled Peter, sitting himself uninvited on the end of the bed. ‘A few words from you, and the whole country goes crazy. Makes you feel pretty good inside, doesn’t it? Pretty damned important.’

  ‘There’s only one reason those people went crazy,’ Ed told him, in a harsh voice. ‘They went crazy because they’re afraid.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that what national politics is all about?’ grinned Peter. ‘The calculated exploitation of fear? Don’t tell me anybody does anything at all out of brotherly love. Do you pay your taxes out of brotherly love? Do you anything at all out of brotherly love?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Ed, ‘but at least I don’t exploit the country’s misfortunes for the sake of a few million lousy dollars.’

  ‘It’s very easy to call a few million lousy when they aren’t yours, Mr Hardesty. Or may I call you Ed? You are a celebrity now, after all.’

  ‘I don’t particularly care about that,’ said Ed. ‘I’d like to telephone my wife.’

  ‘Haven’t you tried already?’

  ‘All day. But the operator keeps telling me the lines are busy.’

  Peter pulled a consoling face. ‘Well, that’s true, they are. But you can try again in the morning. Maybe Shearson will begin to cool off a little by then. He’s pretty mad at you right now.’

  ‘Isn’t he going back to Washington?’

  ‘In a while. We have a few unexpected problems to clear up before we go. You know, tidying up the Blight Crisis Appeal, things like that.’

  Ed climbed off the bed, and walked across the bedroom to the french windows that led out on to the balcony. He dry-washed his face with his hands, and then let out a long breath of exhaustion. He’d been watching the television news bulletin all night, and he was bushed.

  ‘Would you tell me something about Shearson Jones?’ he asked Peter.

  Peter shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Would you tell me what it is that makes it possible for a man to serve as an elected representative of a country he professes to love, and at the same time to make profits on the side? To me, the two sides of a man like that just don’t fit together.’

  Peter glanced towards the television. The sound was turned off, but it was easy to make out what was happening. There were lines of people at Los Angeles International Airport with hurriedly-packed suitcases, all trying to leave the country before the looting and the rioting grew any worse. Los Angeles had been through one of the most horrifying nights of all. The Los Angeles Times had called it ‘Walpurgisnacht.’

  Peter turned back to Ed. ‘I don’t know why so many people believe that politicians ought to behave like priests. They’re not elected to bring us all to the kingdom of Heaven. They’re elected to look after our interests at city hall, or in the state senate, or Congress, or wherever. So provided they look after our interests properly, what does it matter if they make a little money on the side? As long as they don’t sell out the people who voted for them, who’s to criticise? And besides, it’s a time-honoured American tradition, going back to Thaddeus Stevens and James G. Blaine.’

  Ed stared at him. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Would I work for Shearson Jones if I didn’t?’

  Ed slowly shook his head. ‘You people amaze me.’

  ‘We’re professionals, working in a professional environment, that’s all,’ said Peter. ‘So long as we keep the balance between public ignorance, political power, and financial leverage, then we’re fine. It’s like one of those diagrams you used to have in your trigonometry books at school. But as soon as someone starts tilting the balance – as soon as we get some amateur interference…’

  ‘Like me,’ suggested Ed.

  ‘Well, that’s right, like you – well, then, the whole balloon goes up with a rush; and, boy, didn’t it go up last night.’

  ‘They said on the news they’re going to mount a Congressional inquiry,’ said Ed.

  ‘Sure they will. They have to. You don’t expect the nation to tear itself to pieces in the space of one night without someone having to carry the can. And really that’s the reason I’ve come to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ asked Ed, suspiciously.

  Peter got up off the bed, walked across to Ed, and laid a confiding arm around his shoulder. Peter must have been tired and out of condition, because there was a red pustular spot on the side of his nose. Ed didn’t know whether to look at him or turn away.

  ‘The point is,’ said Peter, ‘that within a week or two, you’re going to have to stand up in front of some very inquisitive Congressmen, and answer some very difficult questions. One of those questions is going to be – what led you to believe the Senator Shearson Jones was diverting money from the Blight Crisis Appeal Fund into his own pocket? And can you produce any substantiating evidence? And what are you going to say to that?’

  Ed didn’t answer. He wanted to hear what Peter had in mind first. If there was one lesson he had learned since he had arrived at Lake Vista, it was that you kept your mouth closed until you knew what the hell was going on.

  ‘Well,’ said Peter, as if he hadn’t really expected any kind of reply anyway, ‘what you’re going to say is, nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘That’s right. You’re going to say that you made a mistake. That you overheard a telephone conversation, and misunderstood the implications of it. You thought that Senator Jones was arranging to divert some of the money from the Blight Crisis Appeal, when in fact he was making special arrangements to get it out to Kansas wheat farmers even more quickly than he originally planned.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ed, cautiously. ‘And why should I say something like that?’

  Ed pulled an expression of surprise that was almost comical. ‘Why? Because it’s true. Or at least, it will be by the time you appear in front of a Congressional committee.’

  ‘What’s going to make it true? The philosopher’s stone?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The philosopher’s stone. A mythical catalyst that was supposed to be able to turn lead into gold. I’m amazed at your ignorance.’

  ‘I’m amazed at your pettishness.’

  Ed, with great care, lifted Peter’s arm away from his shoulders. ‘I don’t care to be hugged by political hoodlums,’ he said.

  Peter stood back, his hands on his hips, and then laughed. ‘I admire your nerve,’ he said. ‘You may be an amateur, by God, but I admire your nerve. Unfortunately, nerve isn’t going to be enough. Your wife and daughter are staying with the Snowman family on Topanga Canyon, aren’t they?’

  Ed’s muscles tensed up like an overwound clock. ‘Yes,’ he said tightly. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ smiled Peter, circling the room with his hands still propped on his hips. He looked very pleased with himself. ‘Nothing that needs to worry you at all if you say what we want you to say at the Congressional inquiry.’

  Ed stalked across and grabbed Peter’s shirt, twisting it around in his fist. ‘Don’t you tell me nothing,’ he said, fiercely. ‘Not where my wife and daughter are concerned.’ Peter lifted his face with complete arrogance, as if he were challenging Ed to hit him.

&n
bsp; ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Your wife and daughter are being watched by a private detective.’

  ‘Why? What the hell good will that do?’

  ‘It will make you say what we want you to say. That’s all.’

  ‘Why? Come on, Peter, spit it out! Why?’

  Peter tugged his shirt collar free. ‘Because whenever Shearson says so, the private detective will do just a little more than keep an eye on your wife and daughter. He’ll follow them to a conveniently quiet spot, and blow their brains out.’

  Ed gave Peter a disbelieving frown. ‘Now you’re kidding,’ he said. ‘Now I definitely know that you’re kidding.’

  ‘You think so? You want to try me?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, you’re talking about murder! Even Shearson Jones isn’t into murder!’

  ‘You think I’m joking? You want to try me out? You’re always welcome. Your wife and kid don’t mean anything to me.’

  Ed seized Peter’s shirt again, and this time he ripped it down the front. ‘By God,’ he said, ‘if you’re serious, if you really mean what you’re saying, I’m going to take you apart!’

  Peter pushed him away again. He was still smiling. ‘I’m serious all right,’ he said. ‘I made all the arrangements last night, as soon as you’d blurted out that broadcast of yours. You managed to outmanoeuvre Shearson Jones just once, my friend, but you can be damn sure you’ll never be able to do it again.’

  Ed felt as if his chest was the inside of a steam-kettle, scalded with high-pressure emotions that he couldn’t let out. His fists were clenched, and he could have happily, needfully, punched Peter Kaiser straight in the nose. But he was beginning to learn that it didn’t pay to assault Peter Kaiser face to face. Peter Kaiser was made out of nothing but obedient shadows, and devious turns of phrase. It was Shearson Jones that Ed was after, and if you wanted to play it tricky with Shearson Jones you had to be smart, and quick, and you had to make doubly certain that you’d arranged yourself a way out, as well as a way in. This wasn’t the little league any more.

  Ed walked across to the drinks cabinet and unscrewed the Johnny Walker. Through the wide-open french windows, he could see Fall River Lake glittering with evening phosphorescence. The smattering of stars that hung suspended above the hills gave no astrological clues at all to the violence that had swept across America in the past twenty-four hours; nor to the violence that would follow. The breeze stirred the drapes, and chilled the sweat on Ed’s forehead.

  ‘Well?’ asked Peter Kaiser.

  ‘Well?’ repeated Ed. ‘What do you want me to tell you? That from now on. I’m going to toe the line? That I love Shearson Jones?’

  ‘You want to talk to your wife and kid on the telephone?’ asked Peter. ‘You can if you like.’

  ‘What do you want me to tell them?’

  ‘Tell them whatever you want. This is a free country.’

  ‘Can I tell them they’re going to be shot?’

  ‘They won’t be. Not if you do what you’re told.’

  Ed tipped back his whisky in one swallow. Peter watched him with a fixed expression of false good humour. ‘Getting yourself drunk won’t solve anything,’ Peter said.

  Ed wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m not drinking this to get drunk. I’m drinking it as an antiseptic.’

  Five

  At five o’clock CBS News began to bring reports from London that all passenger flights from the United States had been held on the runways at Heathrow Airport without the passengers being allowed to disembark. There had been four hours of ‘crucial discussions’ between Her Majesty’s Foreign Office and the State Department, and eventually the passengers had been allowed to leave the aircraft, but only to assemble in the departure lounges, and not to pass through Customs.

  By nine o’clock, all flights to England from the United States had been cancelled, and by seven o’clock all flights to destinations in Europe, Scandinavia and the Middle East had been wiped off the board, too. In London, more than 2000 Americans were reboarded on to their aircraft, and sent straight back to the United States – despite the fact that many of them had left America before the riots of Sunday night.

  Lord Carey, the British Foreign Secretary, said that ‘much as I regret the course of action we have had to take in relation to United States citizens arriving in the United Kingdom, it is apparent that the tragic events of the past twenty-four hours would have led many of them to seek to stay in the United Kingdom indefinitely… And while I wish to the bottom of my heart that we had the facilities and the finance to cope with a massive influx of American refugees… the fact remains that we have not… and therefore with the understanding of the President, we have regretfully been obliged to turn away, for the time being, any United States citizen who arrives at a British port of entry.’

  Germany, France, Holland, and the rest of the EEC countries quickly followed the British example. They were all sorry. They all spoke of their regret. But even ‘special relationships’ could not overcome the impossibility of accepting refugees who might eventually arrive from the United States in their tens of millions.

  Watching the television in his room, Shearson Jones said to Peter Kaiser, ‘Don’t you ever wonder why we fought for those sons-of-bitches at all? I mean, don’t you wonder?’

  *

  But as Monday drew to a close, there were more important questions than that, and they were still unanswered. The looting and the arson had been so devastating that most of the networks had forgotten why they started at all, and nobody was asking if the threat of a famine was real, and how serious it was, and what the President was going to do about it.

  Of course, nobody in the administration had yet been told about the Abbott family, of Portales, New Mexico. And nobody had yet been officially told about the isotope that Square had found in the grain elevator in St Louis.

  And that was one of the reasons why the Duncan family, of Willingboro, New Jersey, sat around their kitchen table that evening for a supper of canned salmon and salad without any feelings but feelings of family closeness and good appetite, and gratefulness to the Lord for providing their daily sustenance. There were four of them – Emmett Duncan, a telephone engineer, his wife Dora, and their two daughters, Jenny and Kate. If you had asked any of them what Clostridium botulinum was, they wouldn’t have been able to tell you. But the salmon they ate that night was swarming with it.

  Six

  It was two o’clock on Tuesday morning when Ed was awakened by someone shaking his shoulder. He thought he was still dreaming at first – a strange airless dream of waiting in a funeral parlour for the body of his father to arrive – and he struck out with his left arm and hit Della on the side of the head. She seized his wrist and said, ‘Quiet. I don’t want to wake up the Muldoons.’

  Ed rolled over and sat up in bed. He’d been drinking for most of the afternoon, and his mouth tasted as if he’d been chewing alfalfa seeds. Della was wearing an emerald green silk wrap, and she smelled of Paco Rabanne. ‘What’s the matter?’ Ed asked her, frowzily. ‘Couldn’t you just have slipped into bed?’

  She smiled in the darkness. ‘I don’t have time for that tonight. I’m afraid. I need your help.’

  ‘Help? What kind of help?’

  ‘Shearson and Peter Kaiser have been forced to clear out the Blight Crisis Appeal faster than they wanted to. That’s why you haven’t seen them around today. They’ve been diverting as much money as possible into false-bottomed trusts and phoney accounts.’

  ‘Well? What do you expect me to do about it?’

  ‘Ed – all the telexes and the memos and the accounts are still downstairs in Shearson’s office. All the documentary evidence I’m going to need to bring him before a Grand Jury. But if I leave it until tomorrow, Peter Kaiser’s going to have time to spirit them all away, and file them where they can’t be traced.’

  ‘You’re going to break into Shearson’s office and steal his papers?’ asked Ed, incredulous.

  ‘It’s
the only way. I can’t get through to the FBI office in Wichita and order up a search warrant. Shearson’s keeping a check on every single telephone call. But I can get in there and take the paperwork I need.’

  ‘What’s Shearson going to do if he catches you at it?’ Ed wanted to know.

  ‘I think I know the answer to that better than anyone,’ Della replied. ‘Shearson Jones is suspected by the FBI of implication in at least five killings, and probably more.’

  Ed frowned, thinking of Season and Sally, and Peter Kaiser’s threat to kill them. ‘Do you mean that?’ he asked. ‘Of course I mean it. He’s a very wanted man.’

  ‘Somebody in the FBI actually has proof?’

  Della sat up straight. ‘What do you want, Ed? One minute you’re publicly tearing the man apart, and now you’re doubting he’s a potential killer. Do you want to see blood?’

  ‘Not my own, thanks. And not yours, either.’

  ‘Well, in that case, why don’t you give me some help? The sooner I can lay my hands on some incriminating paperwork, the sooner Shearson Jones is going to find himself in the federal penitentiary. That’s if they can find him a cell large enough.’

  ‘This is crazy,’ said Ed. ‘I’m a farmer, not a burglar.’

  ‘You used to be an actuary, though, didn’t you? There’ll be scores of accounts and bank drafts to sort out down there, and if I’m going to get it done quickly. I’m going to need some expert assistance.’

  ‘How the hell are you going to break in there?’

  ‘Just leave that to me. I’ve been trained. All you have to do is keep quiet and do what I tell you.’

  Ed ran his hand through his scruffy hair. ‘This is a heck of a way to spend the night,’ he said, but he climbed out of bed, and reached for his pants and his red sweatshirt, the one with South Burlington Farm emblazoned on the front.

  As he was pulling the sweatshirt over his head, Della asked him, ‘Did you manage to call your wife?’

  Ed’s head appeared through the circular neck-hole. ‘Not yet. Why?’