‘So you don’t know what put them together and you certainly don’t know what made the Militia want to break it up again.’
‘No. But that connection’s just the supporting feature. You ain’t heard what’s top of the bill.’
Larry finished his cup. ‘Do your worst,’ he said.
‘We opened the Pontiac’s trunk. Found four Calico 9mms in there, preferred assault weapon of the Southland Militia, plus a canvas bag full of Archimedes-wheel coil-tube mags, a hundred rounds a time – snap right into the breach. Single-point laser sighting, Cutts compensator, muzzle break to keep her steady. Compact, deadly, state-of-the-art and, most importantly, an all-American gun. Wouldn’t find these guys using Uzis any more than you’d catch them driving a Toyota.’
‘So we got bad-ass guns for bad-ass guys. So what?’
‘I’ve seen the Ballistics report on that shell from the science boat. It was CCed to me this morning, and there’s a copy waiting on your desk. Guess what?’
‘Shit.’
‘Right again. The report says the shell was fired from an automatic assault weapon, quote, “most probably a Calico”, unquote. Accepting the fact that the Southland Militia are not the only people on this planet who own or use Calicos, it’s still hard to escape the conclusion that they were the ones who fired that shell – plus a shitload more – on the Gazes Also. Especially as these four lab-rats wouldn’t have been the first oceanological scientists the Militia ever took a homicidal interest in – remember the late Professor Biscane. And if they were on board the Gazes Also, then it’s a distinct possibility that they are now in possession of the missing submarine, a thought that’s scaring the shit out of me.’
‘Unless they stuck the bodies in it and sank it to cover the murders.’
‘That’s possible, yes, but I’d have to be in a far more optimistic frame of mind to believe it. If I was being slightly less optimistic, in light of our previous discussion, I’d ask myself whether they might be planning to do a little drug-running to help keep the wolf from the door.’
‘But you ain’t that optimistic either, I’m guessing,’ Larry said.
‘Not hardly. These guys have been building up to something for a while. We’ve tried to infiltrate them, but they’re tight as an ass in a bucket of maggots. Ask too many questions and you’re made, and if you’re made . . . We’ve lost two undercover agents already. The foot-soldiers don’t know dick, they just know what they’re told – and they’re being told to get ready. There’s been contact with other militia groups, but again, nothing more elaborate than a nod to get geared up.
‘So I started to ask myself what they might want with a submarine – a submarine nobody knows they have. What might they be planning to import that they can’t buy, build or steal in the US?’
‘You got me.’
‘Well, let me give you a clue. I ran some names through Immigration’s computers to check movement in and out of the US. Arthur Liskey, the Southland Militia’s founder and commander-in-chief, has flown back into the country from Frankfurt six times in the last year, most recently less than a month ago.’
‘What’s in Frankfurt?’
‘Nothing. That’s just his point of entry and departure. It’s where he might have been in between times that worries me, like Eastern Europe. Like the former Soviet states. Like Kazhakstan, for instance, or some other shithole where you can buy ex-Soviet nukes on the black market. I’ve contacted the German immigration authorities to see if they got records of where Liskey arrived from on his way back to the US. I should hear from them—’
‘Wait a second,’ Larry interrupted. ‘These guys are crazy, but surely they ain’t that crazy. I can understand them taking out a government building here and there, like in Oklahoma City, but a nuclear weapon? Radioactive fall-out snowing all over their beloved Uncle Sam’s lawn? Why would they want to do that?’
‘Because it’s nineteen ninety-nine, Sergeant. Every crazy asshole in this country got ten times crazier on January first because the Judeo-Christian mileometer’s about to click round to three zeroes again. It is not a good time to be ruling things out on the grounds of rationality, because there isn’t much going around.’
‘Yes, but what would these guys want—’
‘What wouldn’t these guys want with a nuclear weapon? At the very least they could hold the country to ransom. But if they really want to dance they could take out Quantico or Maryland or Capitol Hill, or the goddamn White House. Three or four of these things at once and they could cripple the entire infrastructure and stage a full-scale coup. Plus think about this: that sub’s been missing for a week and a half – they could already have used it for whatever they’re up to. What if that’s what the Corby thing was about? Contracting him to pull off a stunt that keeps all eyes focused elsewhere while they bring a cargo of MIRV 6s or CHIB 4s on to the beach?’
‘Sounds to me like you’ve picked up a mild strain of nineteen ninety-nine syndrome yourself, Agent Steel. I think you should get some sleep. Ask someone to wake you when the Germans come through on Liskey. Meantime, let’s not start shitting our pants before we need to, huh?’
Steel had been on the Southland Militia’s tail for who knew how long, poor bastard. He knew they were up to something, he knew how dangerous they were, knew what they were capable of, but didn’t know what the hell they had in mind. It was inevitable that in such a vacuum he would start imagining all kinds of horrendous possibilities, especially if he suddenly had something tangible to latch on to, like this goddamn submarine.
One thing he wasn’t imagining, however, was the Ballistics report. Larry had little doubt over Steel’s conclusions regarding who had been on the Gazes Also, and what they’d done to its crew. A military-style night assault on an unarmed and unsuspecting science vessel. Wouldn’t be too difficult to get everyone at gunpoint, march them on to one of the decks and execute them, then hose away the blood and shells. Maybe do the thing on a plastic sheet or tarpaulin – Christ, a sail would do the trick. Weigh the bodies down, drop them overboard (or stick them in the sub and let it go glug-glug), then split. Voilà Mary Celeste.
Steel was too hung up on the bad guys to be thinking about the victims, and Larry couldn’t help but wonder whether that was really where the clues lay. What if, forgetting all the peripheral circumstantial crap for a second, this was principally a hit? The Militia took out Sandra Biscane, then a few months later they take out four other rock-bashers. Maria Arazon hadn’t believed the two incidents were a coincidence even when the latter looked like an accident, and Larry had asked whether the two unfortunate parties could be connected through more than just a shared academic field. Well they could now: they had been murdered by exactly the same people. Question was, why?
‘Ah, shit,’ he muttered, remembering. Zabriski had left a message on his desk two days ago, asking him to return a call from Arazon. He’d been planning to phone her back yesterday morning, but it was fair to say he’d been a little busy.
He figured a trip to CalORI was long overdue.
sixteen
Madeleine was sitting on the sofa in a hotel bathrobe when Steff emerged from the shower, finally having left him to complete his intended ablutions. The TV was on, Madeleine pointing lazily at it with the remote, surfing the channels. Steff leaned over and kissed her, her hand reaching up and tugging his T-shirt from his jeans so that she could place her palm on his bare chest beneath. It was just about worth getting blown up for.
Steff felt a fleeting moment of disloyalty to an old cherished cause (and one over and above the international male solidarity of emotional imperviousness), but he had to admit it: the ‘91 Cup Final had been dislodged from his Greatest Moment In My Life pedestal. Tommy Boyd would, he was sure, understand, especially if he could have seen Madeleine Witherson’s face and the look in her eyes in that bathroom. But it wasn’t the sex. Not just the sex anyway; steam and soft-focus love-scenes notwithstanding, showers and bathtubs are not entirely conducive to comfor
table, contortion-free shagging. It was in the way she looked at him, the way she touched him, the way she held him. It was in everything they’d been through, everything they’d been afraid of, everything they’d imagined, everything they’d hoped for. When she climbed into that tub and reached for him, it hadn’t just felt like they were coming together – it felt like they’d finally found each other.
‘Ah, shut up ya big poof,’ he tried to tell himself, but he wasn’t listening. This was for real. If he could handle explosions, mad bombers and hostage crises, surely he was growed-up enough to handle love.
‘I thought I’d check out what everybody’s got to say about the late Miss Witherson and her ultimate sacrifice,’ Madeleine said, indicating the TV. ‘Discover what a wonderful citizen I’ve suddenly become through the simple act of not being a citizen any more. I hope somebody’s taping all this shit so I can quote it back to these assholes.’
‘Fuck,’ Steff muttered. ‘Does that make me a necrophiliac?’
‘No. Far as I remember it wasn’t me who was the stiff one. Oh shit, here he is. The main man. This I have to hear.’
Steff looked at the TV. Luther St John was looking back at him, outdoors somewhere sunny, microphones around him like spines on a sea-urchin.
‘. . . dark week for America,’ he was saying. ‘That unfortunate hotel in Santa Monica has been witness to two great tragedies in as many days, and we mustn’t dwell on the irony of such horrors being visited upon a place where bloodshed has often been sold as a packaged product. Because the one thing we must remain focused upon is the fate – the life and death – of Madeleine Witherson.
‘Madeleine Witherson lived a life of sin, let none of us forget that, as it makes it all the more remarkable that she died a death of grace. For the Lord is the shepherd who will go any distance to bring even the most stray sheep back to the fold. Despite her sins, despite turning her back on God for so long, the Light of Christ found its way into her heart in the end, and she was able to do this brave and selfless thing – with the Lord’s help.’
‘Hey, I’m not only a necrophiliac. I’m God as well.’
‘Ssshhh!’ Madeleine warned. ‘Quiet and let the man dig.’
‘But the most important thing is not Madeleine Witherson’s death, but that she repented. She prostrated herself before God and asked His forgiveness for her sins, accepting the wrong in her past words and deeds. She lost her life, but through repentance she surely saved her soul.
‘Now, I know some will say – and rightly – that this was something of a gunpoint confession. But I also know that anyone who looked into that little girl’s eyes as she spoke those words this morning could see how genuine she was. Bombs or no bombs, Madeleine Witherson meant what she said, for how could she have sacrificed her life if she had not accepted the Lord? She repented, and that is what should shine out from Santa Monica today like a beacon, an example to sinners that redemption is always possible. You may turn your back on God, but He will never turn His back on you.
‘One can only pray that the sinners Madeleine Witherson saved – and all their friends in Hollywood – will repay what she did for them by repenting also, and mending their depraved ways. But I fear that may be a little too much to hope for.’
There was a clamour from behind the microphones, until one voice was allowed to carry. ‘ . . . think this act of sacrifice will have an effect on whether God sends the flood you’ve been predicting?’
‘I’m afraid – as the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah found out – it takes more than the actions of one good citizen to change the mind of the Lord.’
‘Motherfucker,’ Madeleine spat, aiming the remote like it was a ray-gun and switching the set off. ‘Only took the prick a few hours to appropriate my death and turn it into a theological soundbite. Well, let’s see if he’s still got that fucking pious look on his face when the corpse starts answering back.’
There was a knock at the door.
Steff opened it to find Special Agent Brisko standing in the hallway, and stepped back to let him in. Brisko stayed put.
‘Miss Witherson, if it’s convenient, there’s something important we have to discuss,’ he said, looking past Steff to Madeleine, who was leaning round from her position on the sofa.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’
Still he stayed where he was.
‘Em . . . and there’s someone here I’d like you to talk to.’
‘Fine.’
‘Senator,’ Brisko said quietly to whoever was out of sight; deliberately too quiet for Madeleine to hear, Steff realised. He backed further into the room beside the sofa as Brisko and another man entered. It took one look at Maddy to confirm who he was.
Steff reckoned that if Newt Gingrich shagged Margaret Thatcher, then Michael Howard shagged Nancy Reagan, then their respective resultant progeny also got it together, what would ultimately be spawned would look something like Senator Bob Witherson. But that was just his first impression.
‘What is he doing here?’ Madeleine demanded quietly, clearly exercising difficult restraint.
‘Miss Witherson,’ Brisko appealed, ‘if you’ll just take it easy and let us all talk for a second, please.’
Brisko gestured the still tight-lipped senator to the other sofa and sat down beside him.
Steff thought he had seen Madeleine go through every emotion known in the human condition over the past day or so (granted, there was one she might have been faking about an hour back; he wasn’t egotistical about such things). However, her reaction to her father was something new altogether. If five minutes ago Maddy had been a calm pool of fresh water, the senator’s very presence lobbed a boulder-sized chunk of potassium into it. This was no daddy-daughter huff, no familial fall-out, no hatred-on-the-flipside-of-love deal. She didn’t draw him daggers; instead her eyes widened and stared at nothing, panicked and livid. This was a loathing that was disarmingly impersonal, like the allergic to a bowl of peanuts.
She simply could not tolerate his presence. He was burning her skin from the inside.
Steff felt her grip his hand with both of hers and draw closer to him on the seat. He couldn’t tell whether she was trying to hide behind him or hold on in case she flew at the man opposite in fury. He saw the whiteness in her face, the tension in her muscles, the fear, anger and uncertainty in her eyes. He looked at the scars on her wrists then looked across at the man beside Brisko.
He could guess, but maybe he owed it to Madeleine not to. Not yet, anyway.
Steff figured Brisko for a family man, maybe with kids around Madeleine’s age. The middle-aged Fed probably sympathised with the senator in a fucked-up situation like this. Knew how it can get between family, but how it can be resolved too, especially in times of crisis. Had to bring the father in on the secret ASAP – maybe even in advance. Can’t let a fellow daddy think his daughter is about to die . . .
So he could forgive the G-man’s lapse of judgement. But what followed was a lapse of taste.
‘Miss Witherson, earlier today there was an explosion at an address in Glendale,’ Brisko said, ‘and to cut to the chase, we believe the bomber was among three people killed in the incident.’
‘Who was he?’
‘We haven’t officially confirmed his identity yet, but who he is – was – is not so important right now. What is important is that we also have reason to believe that the two other victims of the blast were members of the Southland Militia, an organization we regard as being potentially very dangerous indeed. Now, until we can find out a little more about the extent of the Militia’s involvement and their possible motives for what has happened over the past two days, we think it might be wise for us to hold off revealing that you’re still alive. We’re understandably a little nervous as to how the other Militia members could react when it’s revealed that they’ve been had, as it were.’
Madeleine nodded. ‘I can appreciate that, Agent Brisko,’ she said calmly, ‘and I’ve made it known at all times that I would
give your advice every consideration, regards the matter of when to rear my head. I thought that was clear. So why don’t you cut to the chase and tell me what he’s got to do with any of it?’
‘Maddy,’ the Senator said, leaning forward. ‘I’ve been talking to Special Agent Brisko about what is best here, and there are some very important issues to consider, a very big decision to be made. Maybe not so much a decision as an opportunity. A unique opportunity.’
Madeleine’s tone could have cooled the sun. ‘Excuse me, what are you babbling about?’
‘A new beginning, Maddy. A whole new chance at . . . life.’
‘I’m sorry, am I missing something?’ she asked.
Steff tutted, catching on. The wankers. The absolute fucking wankers.
‘You want her to stay dead, don’t you?’ he stated. ‘You want this to be real. Fuck’s sake. Have you ever seen Capricorn One,Madeleine? I’d start making for the exit if I was you.’
‘Now, there’s no need to imply anything sinister, Mr Kennedy,’ Brisko insisted. ‘Miss Witherson’s free to do whatever she chooses.’
‘But you should think carefully about this, Maddy,’ the Senator continued. ‘About what’s in front of you here. A chance that would evaporate if you just walked out of the door. A chance to wipe the slate clean. We can give you a new identity, a new start. You can be relocated, given a new name, money, whatever you need. You can put the past behind you once and for all, no shame, no . . . por— videos to follow you around. And what’s more, the world would remember Madeleine Witherson as a heroine, a saint even, not a–a—’
‘Hard-core fucking and sucking star?’ Steff offered, wanting to make the bastard squirm. ‘Whore of Babylon? Wouldn’t hurt you either, politically, to have a holy martyr in the family instead of a porn actress. Would it, Senator?’
Not the End of the World Page 38
