Something—a small movement, or an out-of-place noise—brought him to consciousness, though he could not say why. Perhaps the shadow of a bird fluttering before the window glass disturbed him, or footsteps in the corridor outside: In any case, his eyelids flickered open, staring at the ceiling overhead. “Urrr.” He closed his mouth, which had fallen open as he slept, and reached for the bed’s motor controller with his left hand. His eyes twitched from side to side, scanning the angles and planes of the space surrounding him, looking for intrusions. His thumb twitched, pushing the headboard motor control, and the bed began to whine, raising him towards a sitting position.
“Good afternoon, old man.” The visitor closed the clinic room door carefully, then approached the bed, standing where its occupant could see him.
“Urr . . . doc.” Surprise and doubt sparked in the old man’s eyes. “Doc-tor!”
“I wanted to take a last look at you. You know, before the end.”
“You. End?” The visitor had to lean close to make out the words, for Angbard’s speech was garbled, the muscles of his lips and tongue cut loose by the death of nerves in his brain. “Wher’ guards?”
“They were called away.” The visitor seemed amused. “Something to do with an emergency, I gather. Do you remember Plan Blue?”
“Wha—”
The visitor watched as Angbard fumbled with the bed’s controller. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, after a moment. Reaching out, he pulled the handset away from the duke’s weakened fingers. “Your aunt sends her regards, and to tell you that our long-standing arrangement is canceled,” he said, and stood up. “That may be sufficient for her, but some of us have been waiting in line, and now it’s my turn.”
“Scheisse!”
The duke made a grab for the emergency cord, but it was futile; he was still deathly weak and uncontrolled on his left side, and his right hand clawed inches short of the pull. Then the visitor grabbed the pillow from behind his head and rammed it down onto his face. It was a very uneven struggle, but even so the old man didn’t go easily. “Fucking lie down and die,” snarled the visitor, leaning on him as he tried to grab the duke’s flailing left hand. “Why can’t you do something right for once in your life?”
He was answered by a buzzer sounding from the heart monitor.
Breathing heavily he levered himself off the bed; then, lifting the pillow, he shoved it under the duke’s lolling head before turning to stare at the monitor. “Hmm, you do appear to have lost your sinus rhythm altogether! Time to leave, I think.” He stared at the corpse in distaste. “That’s a better end than you deserved, old man. Better by far, compared to the normal punishment for betrayal. . . .”
He breathed deeply a few times, watching the buzzing heart monitor. Then Dr. ven Hjalmar opened the door, took a deep breath to fill his lungs, and shouted, “Crash cart, stat! Patient in cardiac arrest!” before turning back to the bed to commence the motions of resuscitation.
Mike had been accumulating leave for too long; taking some of it now wouldn’t strike anyone in human resources as strange, although it was a fair bet that someone higher up the tree would start asking questions if he didn’t show up for work within a week.
In the meantime he went home, still numb with shock from the disclosures buried on the cassette tapes. It was, he thought, time to make some hard choices: Collusion between officials and the bad guys was nothing particularly new, but for it to go so high up the ladder was unprecedented. And it would be extraordinarily dangerous for someone at his level to do anything about it. Or not—and that was even worse. Dr. James is in WARBUCKS’s pocket, Mike reminded himself. And he gave me those tapes, not some other, more qualified analyst. If I’m lucky he did it because he considers me trustworthy. More likely . . . A vision kept flickering in his mind’s eye, of Colonel Smith, in all candor, telling Dr. James, “Mike’s a bit squirrelly about you. Nothing to worry about, but you should keep an eye on him.” And Dr. James, with that chilly reserved look in his eye, nodding and making a note by his name on the org chart: disposable resource.
Mike was under no illusions about the taskmaster Dr. James worked for: a determined, driven, man—ruthless would not be an exaggeration. He had a fire in his belly and a desire to bend history to his will. With his doctrine of a unitary executive and his gradual arrogation of extraordinary powers granted by a weak presidency, he’d turned the office of vice president into the most powerful post in the government. And he had good reason to silence anyone who knew of his covert connection to the Clan: good reason, even, to silence the Clan themselves for good. He’s an oilman, and he knows they’re sitting on all the oil that was ever under Texas, untapped, Mike realized. And now he’s got a machine for getting there. It’s crude today, but who knows what it’ll be like tomorrow? He’s got to be thinking, who needs Iraq, anyway? Or Saudi Arabia?
Mike wasn’t naïve: He knew that the most addictive drug, the deadliest one, the one that fucked people up beyond redemption every time, was money. And I’m between an addict and the most powerful fix in history. . . .
That afternoon and evening, he meticulously searched his apartment, starting by unplugging all the electrical appliances and checking sockets and power supplies for signs of tampering. Then he began to search the walls and floors, inch by inch, looking for bugs. And while he searched, he thought.
The picture looked grimmer the longer he looked at it. Thinking back, there’d been the horror-flick prop they’d found in a lockup in Cambridge, thick layers of dust covering the Strangelovian intrusion of a 1950s-era hydrogen bomb, propped up on two-by-fours and bricks with a broken timer plugged into its tail. Nobody ever said what it had been about, but the NIRT inspectors had tagged its date: early 1970s, Nixon administration. What kind of false-flag operation involves nuking one of your own cities? How about one designed to psyche your country up for a nuclear war with China? Except it hadn’t happened. But the Clan have a track record of stealing nukes from our inventory. Mike shuddered. And WARBUCKS had backed BOY WONDER’s plan to invade Iraq, even after Chemical Ali had offed his cousin Saddam and sued for peace on any terms. And according to some folks who Mike wasn’t yet prepared to write off as swivel-eyed loons, the oil had something to do with it.
He slept uneasily that night, his dreams unusually vivid: an injured princess in a burning medieval palace, her face half-melted by the nuclear heat-flash, telling him, “I’ll call when I can,” as he tried to pull his leg from a man-trap and reached down to lever apart its jaws, only to find it was a skull, a skull biting his legs, Pete Garfinkle’s skull, horribly charred by the bomb that had set this off, and if he couldn’t get away the next nuke would fry him—
The next morning he rose, late and groggy, and went back to work. Around ten o’clock he finally found what he’d been looking for: a pinhole in the living room wall that had been all but concealed by the frame of a cheap print that had come with the apartment. Mike passed it by, continuing his search. It would be perfectly obvious what he was doing, and there was no point in showing any sign of having discovered the camera. Either it was being monitored, in which case they’d simply replace it with another the next time he went out, or the survey had been terminated, in which case there was nothing to worry about. He leaned towards the latter case (keeping a watch on an apartment was an expensive business, requiring at least six full-time agents on rotation) but he had to assume the former, especially if Dr. James considered him unsound. He could have farmed it out to Internal Affairs, told them I’m suspected of espionage, he thought bleakly. In which case, he was providing them with lots of circumstantial evidence that he was overdue for a vacation in Club Fed; but that couldn’t be avoided. Federal prison might actually be an improvement over the alternatives, if WARBUCKS decided Mike needed to be silenced.
He’d finished the bug hunt—without finding any additional devices—and had moved into the washroom to process the pile of shirts and underwear that had been building up, when the phone rang.
> Swearing, he made a grab for the handset and caught it before the answering machine cut in. He was half-expecting a recorded telesales announcement for his pains, but years of fielding out-of-hours emergencies had made him wary of dropping messages. “Mike?” asked a woman’s voice. “Are you there?”
“Yes”—it took a moment for the voice to register. “Don’t say your name!” he said hurriedly. “The line is probably being monitored.”
“And this cell phone is going down a storm drain as soon as I end the call.” She sounded nervous.
“Is it about the talk we had? Because if so, there’ve been some changes—”
“No, it’s not about that. Listen, Olga told me what you told her.”
“Olga told”—he paused, his tenuous train of thought perilously close to derailment—”what’s your situation?”
“I’m okay, my mom’s okay, and we know about the surprise in the cell phone your boss left for us.” Cold sweat drenched Mike’s back as she continued relentlessly: “It’s about the nukes. Your boss didn’t stay on the line long enough to let us pass on the news that all this send them a message shit has just blown up in a big way. The conservative faction are attempting to stage a coup and as part of their preparations they’ve stolen”—a pause—“no, they’ve deployed at least three, possibly four, of the bombs in their possession. Hang on“—the line went silent for a few seconds—”word is that they have decided to send you a message, and you’ve probably got less than twenty-four hours to find it.”
“If this is some kind of joke—”
“No, hang on, I’m relaying stuff. The target is probably Washington D.C., and the bombs only dial up to about one kiloton each. The bad guys are inside our chain of command; they activated a contingency plan and changed the targets. We’re currently trying to reestablish control and find out where the new target locations are, and as soon as we figure that out I will phone this land line number and pass the information on. I want you to know that we’re treating this as treason and it is not our intention to blow up any cities. Have you got that?”
“Wait, listen! Did you try telling—did you talk to Dr. James? Did you talk to him—”
“Yes, that’s the name. Can you pass this—”
Mike tried to swallow, his mouth was dry and sticky, and his heart was hammering. “Dr. James works directly for the vice president. WARBUCKS has been in collusion with someone in your inner families for a very long time—more than ten years—and he wants you all dead. There are tapes . . . I’m not trusted, I’m a disposable asset. Just saying. If what you’re telling me is true, Dr. James doesn’t care about losing a city block or two—it would make it easier to justify what’s coming down the line. Think of Pearl Harbor, think of 9/11. If I pass this up the line, they’ll bury it and I’ll show up in the morgue one morning.”
“Shit.” Her voice cracked. “Mike, I’m going to have to put the phone down in a minute, I’ve been on the line too long. What can we do?”
“Find the bombs. Drag them back to the Gruinmarkt and dump them in a swamp or something.” He stared bleakly at the kitchen sink. “I’m going to put the answering machine on now and go out. Got to go outside the chain of command and talk to some folks who might be able to do something useful.”
“If there’s anything we can do—”
“Just find the fucking bombs!” he snarled, and slammed the handset down on its charge point so hard that the battery cover pinged off.
“Shit.” He breathed deeply, staring at the phone. Coming from anyone else, he’d have questioned the sanity of the bearer of such news—but he knew Miriam. And he’d let his mouth run away with him, blabbing the truth about the tapes Dr. James had him listening in on. Never mind the pinhole camera: The phone line was bugged and even if nobody was monitoring it in realtime, the word would be out soon.
Mike went through into the living room, and then his bedroom, as fast as his cast would let him. (It was still itching, but nearly ready to come off; give it two weeks, said the doctor he’d seen the week before.) He collected his jacket and a small go-bag from under the bed, which held (among other things) a gun, a couple of fully charged and never-used cell phones, and a handwritten paper address book. “Who first?” he asked the air as he headed for the front door. I could try the colonel again, he thought dismally. Or . . . Agent Herz. She might go for it. But whether she’d listen to him was another matter: They’ll put the word out on me within an hour. That left the usual channels—he could go talk to the FBI or his former boss at the DEA field office in town, but again: They’ll think I’m crazier than a fruitbat once Dr. James gets through with my rep. He opened the front door.
I’m going to have to go to the press, he thought, and raised the remote on his car key chain, and had already begun to press the button just as a second thought crystallized in his mind: James is an old hand. What if he’s playing by the pre-Church Commission rules—
In the aftermath of the explosion, every car alarm within three blocks began to sound, accompanied by a chorus of panicking dogs and, soon enough, the rising and falling of sirens; but they were too late.
And two hours and fourteen minutes later, in a locked storeroom on the top floor of a department store on Pennsylvania Avenue, a timer counted down to zero. . . .
Table of Contents
Prologue:Empty Quiver
Party to Conspiracy
The Revolution Business Page 33
