A Better World (The Brilliance Trilogy Book 2)

by Marcus Sakey

  Nervous.

  “Sir, you can’t possibly consider this. You’d be ordering military action on domestic soil. Turning three cities into police states, revoking people’s basic rights. It will cause unimaginable chaos. These cities are already on the brink. Instead of helping, we’re locking them up.”

  “No,” Leahy said. “We’re temporarily suspending freedom of movement for fewer than a million people. In order to protect three hundred million more.”

  “Panic. Hate crimes. Riots. Plus, if soldiers are busy quarantining the city, they can’t distribute food. All based on nothing but a wild theory.”

  “Based,” Leahy said, “on the collective analysis of the best minds in the intelligence and health services. A group that includes plenty of abnorms. Mr. Cooper, I know you’re used to doing things your own way, but this isn’t your personal crusade. We’re trying to save the country, not play some moralistic game.”

  Cooper ignored the barb. “Mr. President, when you asked me to join you, you said that we were on the edge of a precipice.” You’re an intellectual, a historian. You know how these things start. World War I was kicked off when a radical killed an obscure archduke. And nine million people died. “If you do this, we step toward that precipice. Maybe over it.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” Leahy asked. “You say the COD is interested in abnorm rights, but they’ve made no effort at dialogue. What if what they really want is to kill as many Americans as possible? There are a hundred biological weapons against which we have no ready defense—except quarantine.”

  The president looked back and forth between them. His hands were on the table, the fingers knit. His knuckles were pale.

  Come on, Clay. I know you’re scared. We’re all scared. But be the leader we need you to be.

  The president cleared his throat.

  CHAPTER 10

  In DC, where scrabbling up greasy ladders was in everyone’s job description, there were a lot of ways to gauge power. Budgets and staff were obvious ones, but Owen Leahy found it more telling to look at the trappings, the secondary signifiers. Office size, and which building it was in. If there was a window, or a private bathroom. How close that office was to the boss, senator, or president.

  The ability to summon others to a meeting at ten o’clock in the evening.

  As the secretary of defense, there were very few people who rated highly enough that he went to their office. And only one who could summon him straight from Air Force One in the middle of a crisis.

  Terence Mitchum had moved from the CIA to the NSA, but Leahy would always remember him as the deputy director he’d approached twenty-five years ago. Every time he saw the man, Leahy remembered the nervous wait outside his office, the taste of salt and dirt from licking his fingers to clean off his shoes. Mitchum had made him, and Mitchum could break him, and they both knew it.

  Technically, he was the number-three man in the National Security Agency, but org charts lied. If Mitchum wanted the top job, he would have had it two decades ago. Instead, he’d stayed in power while the men and women above him came and went with presidential administrations. From that position, he had directed the careers of countless people, cherry-picking those loyal to him and destroying those who resisted. Forty years of intelligence work, the latter half in an agency so secretive that not only its budget but even its size was classified. Forty years of collecting blackmail and withholding information and burying bodies.

  Including 1,143 in Manhattan. The March 12th explosion at the stock exchange in Manhattan had been blamed on John Smith, but though he had planted the explosives, he’d intended for the building to be empty. Smith had even provided media outlets with advance notice of his intent. Leahy couldn’t prove it, but he was certain it had been Mitchum who had squashed the advance warning, muzzling seven news organizations and ordering the detonation of the explosives when it became clear Smith wouldn’t. A brutal, calculated move, like sacrificing a queen in chess. The attack had galvanized the country, and it resulted in the passage of a law that might save it.

  “Hello, sir.” Leahy took in the rest of the office, wasn’t surprised to see the third occupant of the room. “Senator.”

  “I told you, call me Richard.” The senator flashed one of his camera-ready smiles. “We’re all friends here.”

  Mitchum pressed a series of buttons on his desk. The DC night outside the windows shimmered and disappeared as the glass turned black. A mechanical bolt on the door snapped shut, and there was a faint hum, some sort of anti-bugging technology, Leahy supposed. Then Mitchum steepled his fingers, looked over the desk, and said, “We’re losing control of the situation.”

  “Sir, I advised the president exactly the way we discussed—”

  “What I want to know,” the senator interrupted, “is how the Children of Darwin attacks happened in the first place.”

  Richard was an ally, and useful. But sometimes Leahy wanted to strangle him. “That’s complicated.”

  “Really? Because it seems simple to me.” The senator shook his head. “I did everything you boys asked after the stock exchange fell. You have no idea how many favors I pulled to get the MOI not only passed, but in a landslide. Walker signed it. So what are you dawdling for?”

  “Things have changed since the Monitoring Oversight Initiative passed.” Leahy pulled out a chair. “You may have noticed.”

  “I have. Since we provided the legal grounds to microchip every gifted in America, abnorm terrorists have taken three cities hostage. Do I need to point out that if we had implemented that law, instead of just passing it, we’d know who was responsible?”

  “You don’t have to tell me how useful the MOI would be. I’m the one who suggested it in the first place. Everything we’ve done to date was building toward it.”

  “So why aren’t you making it happen?”

  “Clay isn’t President Walker. It’s going to take some time.”

  “Time,” Mitchum said. The man said little, and yet those words were always carefully chosen, spoken softly and yet always heard.

  “Yes, sir. President Walker was one of us from the beginning. He understood that protecting America would require unconventional means. Clay . . . he’s a professor. His experience is theoretical. He’s uncomfortable with this kind of reality.”

  “So, what,” the senator asked, “he’s going to put the MOI in a drawer?”

  “That would be his preference. He knows he doesn’t have the votes to repeal it, but he can stall it indefinitely.”

  “So how do we jump-start it?”

  “We’ll have our moment.” Leahy turned to Mitchum. “Sir, can I ask you something?”

  The director raised an eyebrow.

  “The Children of Darwin. Are they by any chance a false flag operation?”

  Before the director could respond, the senator interrupted. “False flag? What’s that?”

  Leahy fought a sigh. Richard, you are going to find that the heights you’ve attained make for a long fall if you don’t understand the mountain. “A covert operation designed to look like its instigated by someone else in order to provide grounds for action.”

  “You mean like the bombing in the exch—”

  “Senator.” Mitchum spoke softly, but the word was a lash. Richard looked away. The director turned back to Leahy. “No.”

  “We’re certain?”

  “Yes. The COD are exactly what they appear to be, a group of abnorm terrorists.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” The senator bristled. “Good? Terrorists have taken three of our cities, people are starving, and it’s good?”

  “Yes,” Leahy said. “These terrorists may be brilliants, but I’m not sure how smart they are. They’ve got tunnel vision. They don’t realize that every move they make is serving our ends.”

  “How?”

  Leahy ignored the senator. Mitchum said, “Do we know what their next action will be?”

  “The leading theory is a biological attack. But
it doesn’t matter. Even if they don’t have anything else planned, what they’ve set in motion is enough. With every passing day, the public is howling for action. The president’s hand is being forced.”

  “That doesn’t mean it will play our way.”

  “Even an intellectual like Clay is going to have to make a decision at some point.” Leahy shrugged. “When he does, it will be through me.”

  The senator cut in. “And you’ll make the MOI a cornerstone of that response. I see the method in your madness, but there’s too much madness in your method. We ought to go through channels. Bring it up on the Senate floor, hold Clay accountable in the media.”

  You mean make more headlines for yourself. “Too risky. It leaves the door open for people to claim that the MOI justifies the Children of Darwin’s actions.”

  “Who would claim that?”

  Jesus. Really? “The COD.”

  Richard scoffed. “You think they’re going to issue a press release?”

  “If they say they’ll return everything to normal if we scrap the bill, do you think people in Cleveland or Tulsa or Fresno will say, ‘No, thanks, we’ll starve for our principles’?” He turned to Mitchum. “Sir, if we open the MOI up for discussion, that’s the ball game. We’re negotiating with terrorists, and from an inferior position.”

  Mitchum tapped two fingers on his desk. After a moment, he said, “You’re certain of this, Owen?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve got this under control.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he regretted them. Under control? You’re banking on a group of abnorm terrorists and a president with the fortitude of a noodle.

  The same thought seemed to be playing in Mitchum’s mind. “All right, Owen,” he said with the look of a lion eyeing a gazelle straying from the herd. “So long as you’re sure.”

  Leahy nodded, forced a smile. Mitchum made you, and he can break you.

  You better control this—or you’re going to be dinner.

  CHAPTER 11

  There had been a time when Ethan could go on a two-week trip with a single carry-on bag. At twenty-two, he’d spent three months crisscrossing Europe with nothing but a backpack.

  Now they couldn’t leave town without jamming the Honda to the roof.

  Their own luggage was the smallest part of it. The baby’s suitcase was larger than theirs, and it was packed so full he’d had to sit on the thing to zip it: daytime diapers, nighttime diapers, wipes, onesies, pajamas, evaporated milk, burp cloths, swaddling blankets, a musical seahorse, picture books, baby monitor, on and on. Add to that the pack-and-play, the travel swing, the bright pink bathtub, and the play mat. Then a box of stuff in case the stay at Amy’s mom’s turned out to be longer than he hoped: d-pads and chargers, Amy’s chef’s knife and favorite pan, workout gear, medication and toiletries, winter coats. Ethan clenched the flashlight between his teeth to free both hands and cleared space for the cat cage. Inside, Gregor Mendel mewled pitifully, his eyes reflecting green.

  “It’s okay, buddy.”

  Atop the cage went a box of litter and a bag of Iams. Alongside it, a lockbox containing their passports, some jewelry that had belonged to Amy’s grandmother, and a bundle of US Treasury bonds.

  Ethan shook his head, then closed the rear hatch and threw his hip to slam it. He was glad they were going. Things were getting a mite too real in Cleveland. And besides, someone kidnapped Abe. There’s no way of knowing whether they’re after you too, but if they are, better to be somewhere else for now.

  The house was already cold. Their furnace burned natural gas, but it took electricity to power the blower that moved the air. A pillar candle on the kitchen counter cast a soft circle of light on the empty cans that had served as dinner. No stove, no microwave, so Amy had ripped off the labels and heated the cans over the candle.

  Clever woman. Lukewarm bean soup is nothing to shout about, but it trumps cold bean soup.

  Amy came down the stairs, Violet in her arms. “I’m going to do a quick dummy check. Can you change her?”

  “Sure.”

  The changing table was in the living room, and barely visible, but he could manage diaper duty with his eyes closed. Violet had recently started sort-of smiling, scrunching up her cheeks and sticking her tongue out. Once he had her clean, he spent a minute biting at her belly until she gave him that goofy grin.

  “I think that’s everything,” Amy said.

  “You sure? Grab me a wrench, I could disconnect the stove, strap that on top of the truck.”

  “Funny man.”

  At the front door, Amy turned to the alarm panel, started punching buttons. She made it halfway through the code before she laughed and shook her head. “Right. Never mind.”

  “It’ll be fine.” He tugged the door closed, then locked the deadbolt. Their block was eerie. No streetlights or porch lights, no glow of tri-ds in family rooms, no music on the edge of hearing. The flickering hints of candles and flashlights seemed tiny against the weight of blackness. Far away, he heard a siren wail.

  Ethan strapped in his daughter, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the car.

  “It looks so lonely,” Amy said.

  “The house?”

  “The city.” She leaned her head up against the side window. “Holy crap.”

  “What?”

  “I can see stars.” Her voice was bemused. “Lots of them. When was the last time you saw stars?”

  Ethan had made the short drive to the freeway a thousand times, at every hour. But he’d never seen it like this. Every building was shadowed, the windows empty sockets. The trees, leafless and November-tossed, loomed ominously. The city wasn’t just middle-of-the-night dark; it was Middle Ages dark. No porch lights, no streetlights, no floodlights on the billboards, no glow reflecting off clouds. The only signs of life were other cars, their headlights watery and weak in the darkness. It was a relief to merge onto I-90; the highway seemed almost normal, the westbound traffic moving well.

  Amy twisted around her seat to look back at Violet. “She’s asleep.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you okay with this?”

  “No harm in waiting it out at your mom’s. Use a little vacation time, burn a little gas, feign interest while your mom talks about gardening.”

  “She’ll be really happy.”

  “She’ll be happy to see the monkey. I’m not sure she’ll be delighted about us sleeping on her pullout.”

  “We can get a hotel. And along the way we can stop at a grocery store, stock up on formula.”

  Ethan nodded. For a few moments they rode in silence, just the hum of concrete beneath the tires. They passed office parks and big-box stores, a huge McDonald’s sign, the golden arches black.

  “Ethan.” Amy gestured with her chin.

  He followed her gaze. There was a spill of light on the horizon, a brilliant pool that underlit the clouds. He couldn’t make out the source, but the glow was hot white, an oasis of light. Ethan felt something in him release that he hadn’t realized was clenched. Light meant power, and power meant normalcy, and they could sorely use some normalcy right now.

  “This is the mall exit, right? I wonder why they have power.”

  “Seems like the light is coming from . . .” Amy trailed off. “Something’s wrong.”

  Traffic was compressing in on itself, everyone merging over to the right. The light grew brighter and brighter. A minute later he saw why.

  Heavy concrete barriers blocked I-90, two rows of them placed at angles. A battery of sodium lights blasted the night to harsh noon. Alongside them, Humvees idled, the big trucks looking like construction equipment, only with machine guns mounted on the back. Ethan could see soldiers manning those guns, little more than silhouettes against the glare of light. He could hear the generators even through the glass.

  A flashing sign with an arrow showed the way—all traffic to exit. Ethan glanced in his mirror, saw cars lining up behind him. He looked at his wife; she said nothing, but th
e tiny creases around her clenched lips spoke volumes.

  Ethan joined the line for the exit. It took five minutes to funnel in. At the top of the ramp, the road north had been barricaded. A tank was parked in the center of the intersection. Soldiers stood alongside the treads, watching the flow of traffic.

  A tank. In the intersection.

  The traffic flowed south across a bridge over the highway. On the other side lay Crocker Park Mall. He remembered the first time he and Amy had come here, how surreal the experience had been to a couple of urbanites: an outdoor mall pretending to be a village, a theme park of commercialism at its most vulgar.

  It was considerably more surreal now.

  The mall had been commandeered by the National Guard, with rows of Humvees parked beside a half dozen more tanks. Soldiers scurried to set up tents in the midst of the parking lot. Generators roared, powering floodlights that colored the sky.

  “They’re turning us back,” Amy said. She pointed to the opposite on-ramp, back toward Cleveland. More barricades and soldiers, and another flashing arrow. The same cars he’d been following westward were obediently queuing up to return to Cleveland.

  “You think there’s been some kind of attack?”

  “Or they’re expecting one.”

  “So what now? Should we go home?”

  He sucked air through his teeth. Thought about their dark house in its dark neighborhood, growing steadily colder. About the freezer that was nearly empty of meat, the fridge that had no fruit or vegetables.

  “No,” he said, and spun the wheel.

  “Ethan, what are you—”

  He pulled out of the line for the highway and aimed to the right, around the barricade at the road going to the mall. He passed four cars, five, and then the Humvee. A flash of the soldiers in and around it: digital camouflage and assault rifles and helmets with headgear. He’d always thought the National Guard was sort of the light beer version of the army, but those men had looked anything but soft.

  “I don’t want to be one of those wives,” Amy said, “who says ‘be careful,’ but please be careful. Our daughter is in the back.”