As they settled in the living room, Paul leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, and the silence stretched out between them for almost a full minute.
“Any idea why Leslie doesn’t fully trust you yet?”
Bryce looked up in surprise. The man could still be very deceiving. He could sit for ten or fifteen minutes, his eyes staring off at something, a hollow vacancy filling his face, then pow! he would come off the wall with a comment that caught Bryce completely off guard.
Bryce almost tried a quip, changed his mind and merely shrugged.
Paul said, “It’s more than the fact that you used false pretenses to find her.”
Again Bryce tried not to show his surprise. Had Leslie told him about the John Carrol thing?
“She’s afraid for me.”
Bryce sighed again, this time with great weariness. “Yes, I know.”
“Are you going to make trouble for me?” he said slowly, and suddenly the green eyes bore in with fierce intensity.
“No, sir,” he said quietly. “Nor Leslie. I wouldn’t do anything that would harm your family.”
There was silence for several seconds as the eyes continued their steady probe, then finally they closed again. “I know.” He laid his head back. “Don’t give up on her.”
Bryce was staring at him but the eyes stayed shut.
“Just give it time.”
“I plan to.” And at that moment, he made up his mind what he was going to tell Lewis and Jessie and Neal. “I really plan to,” he said again, with more firmness.
Paul Adams’s mouth pulled into a tiny smile. “I know that too,” he said softly.
Chapter 21
“Look,” Bryce said, deciding there was no use in prolonging the issue, “I’ve got to be honest with you.” He spread out his hands. “I can’t go with you.”
They were in another safe house, this time in Arlington. Bryce had gone to see Jessie Lambert the previous night as soon as he had got home from Leslie’s and told her they needed to meet with Lewis. This evening, he had waited until dark, then caught the bus to Arlington, met Jessie and Neal, then spent nearly an hour moving through the city, carefully checking to be sure they were not under surveillance. Once they were in the safe house, Bryce plunged in the moment Lewis sat them down around the kitchen table.
“You don’t need me. Sure, I’m from the United States, but that doesn’t help you much. I don’t know the country between here and there. I’ve never crossed the demilitarized zone. I’m just not going to be that helpful.”
Jessie shot a quick look in the direction of Lewis and her son. There was a definite impression of surprise, but it was certainly not dismay, which of itself caught Bryce off guard.
“Have you talked to Leslie or her parents about this?” Lewis asked.
Bryce shook his head firmly. “No, they know nothing about it. Nothing.”
Again there was the quick exchange of glances, and Bryce had the sudden suspicion that he was missing out on something.
He looked at Jessie, realizing how much he owed this quiet woman and her son. “I feel lousy, after all you’ve done.” He turned. “And you, Lewis. You’ve given me clothes, money, papers, found me a place to live—and now this.” He sighed. “But I just can’t walk away from Leslie.”
Jessie shot Lewis one more searching look, at which he smiled slightly and gave a quick nod. She turned back to Bryce. “Suppose we told you we don’t want you to go.”
Bryce’s head came up slowly, causing Neal to laugh softly at his expression.
“Suppose we told you we’re not going either,” Jessie continued.
“What?” Bryce was staring. That’s all they had talked about since they had fled the New England Confederation. “Why not?”
Both mother and son looked to Lewis. He took a deep breath, then plunged in. “If we could make it to the United States it would be wonderful—” There was a long pause. “For us.”
“What does that mean?”
“It would be great for whoever ends up going, but who else does it help?”
“I still don’t understand.”
“How widespread do you think the resistance movement is here in CONAS?”
Bryce shrugged, a little surprised by the question. “I don’t know.”
“If you count the New England Confederation, the Confederation of Canadian States as well as the Atlantic States Alliance, we estimate that we have somewhere between five and seven thousand actively involved.”
Bryce gave a low whistle. Seven thousand!
Neal leaned forward eagerly. “And for every person actively involved we have five to ten more who support us.”
“And,” Jessie broke in, “the vast majority of the population hate the government. They are sick to death of the oppression, the stagnant economy, the constant fear.”
Bryce looked back and forth between the three of them. “What are you suggesting?” he asked warily.
Again the three of them looked back and forth. Again there was the imperceptible nod, then suddenly Lewis stood and walked to the door leading off to the bedroom.
Half a block away, in a small van crammed with electronic gear, Captain James Rodale leaned forward over the radio, listening intently to the sudden silence. He could clearly hear the footsteps of the man they called Lewis, but nothing else. He grabbed his walkie-talkie. “All units stand by,” he whispered. “If they start to move, close in fast.”
He had done his work well, putting a rolling surveillance on Sherwood and the Lamberts all the way in from Hillsburg. It took an incredible amount of manpower, one person following for a block or two, then passing them on by radio to the next shadow. But Burkhart had given him the teams, and he used them well. He was sure his people had not been spotted.
At that moment the door to the van opened and Colonel Anthony Burkhart stepped inside.
“Glad you’re here, sir.” Rodale turned and took the notes from a stenographer. In addition to taping the conversation taking place in the safe house, Rodale was keeping summary notes of the dialogue. He handed the sheets to his commander.
Burkhart nodded crisply. “The minister should be here in a few moments.” He dropped his eyes and started skimming quickly. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a tight line as he read.
Suddenly over the speaker came the sound of a door opening and shutting and more footsteps. Rodale held up his hand for silence.
Lewis opened the door and stepped back. From the hallway came a medium-built man in his mid-thirties. He was dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers. His hair was sandy and tousled, the eyes a light blue and filled with soberness, his body that of an athlete in superb shape.
“Bryce,” Lewis said, “let me introduce Wesley Quinn…”
The man stepped forward, extending his hand. Bryce stood and accepted the grip, which was firm but not crushing.
“…a representative from the Agency for Internal Security.”
“Good to meet you,” Bryce said, liking the man’s face almost immediately.
“The AIS, or Agency for Internal Security,” Lewis went on, noting Bryce’s lack of reaction to the title, “is the primary espionage agency for the government of the United States of America.”
That got the reaction Lewis had hoped for. Bryce’s jaw dropped. “The United States?” he echoed.
Lewis chuckled and moved back to the table, gesturing for them all to sit down. “We thought that might get your attention.” Then instantly he sobered. “Wes is taking a tremendous risk to be here, so let’s jump right into it, shall we?”
Wesley Quinn took the chair directly across from Bryce, leaned forward on his elbows, and started to talk, quietly, with little dramatic expression—but the words staggered Bryce.
“I’ll be brief and to the point. The United States of America, along with the Republic of Latin American States and the Canadian Republic, or Free Canada, as you call it, are tired of sharing the continent with states that threaten our way of life. We
’re tired of states that seek the overthrow of our governments. We’re tired of states that try to subvert our peoples through propaganda and infiltration. And we’re tired of states that publicly declare that their goal is to bring all of North America under their dominion.”
He stopped, but Bryce was still just staring at him, so he took a quick breath and continued. “We are not willing to declare open hostilities—unless of course, they do first—but earlier this year a secret agreement was signed creating a Western Alliance of Free States. One of the articles of the agreement states that the Western Alliance will actively support any viable movements within CONAS that seek to change the existing order of things.”
He leaned back, letting that sink in.
“So you’re saying…“ Bryce stopped, the enormity of the thought suddenly hitting him. He turned to Jessie, then Lewis.
Lewis nodded soberly. “If we leave CONAS, we help no one but ourselves. If we stay, our influence could become immeasurable.”
Quinn picked that up. “For the past few months we’ve been exploring options, looking for some way to crystalize the various resistance movements within CONAS.”
Neal, excitement crackling in his eyes, swung around to Bryce. “Wes thinks they can smuggle Mom out of CONAS to the U.S. She’ll travel through the three nations of the West on a massive fund-raising drive. There are tens of thousands of people who have escaped to there over the years. Our goal is to raise ten million dollars or more to help finance the movement.”
“Like Golda Meier did for Israel,” Bryce said.
“Who?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“In the meantime,” Lewis broke in, “the rest of us stay here. We’ll unify the various freedom movements, try to marshal the support of the people, set up the necessary support structure for a full-scale revolution.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Bryce blurted. “You don’t just wave your hand and overthrow a government, especially a government with as much entrenched power as CONAS has.”
The AIS agent from America nodded soberly. “We know that, but for the first time we think the conditions are right. No one is kidding themselves; it isn’t going to be easy. Even the different freedom movements within CONAS tend to distrust one another.”
Jessie reached across and laid her hand on Bryce’s arm. “But it will never happen unless we start somewhere.” Her eyes were moist and full of quiet determination. “We’ve got to begin sometime!”
Bryce sat back, his mind racing. This was treason talk. What had already been said in the room was worth an automatic death sentence for every one of them. Suddenly, he thought of Nathaniel Gorham’s accusation in the root cellar. Had Bryce really changed that much, or was he just reeling from the intellectual shock of his new environment? There in the cellar, he hadn’t been sure. Now? In the last three weeks he had traveled the land. He had tasted the fear. He had seen the twisted hands and battered lives. The image of a terror-stricken girl cowering before two border guards flashed into his mind. And then he thought of Leslie. He thought of the anger that seethed in him every time he saw what the system had done to her. Always before, when he thought of freedom and the Founding Fathers, it had been in the abstract. Now he understood the fires that drove those early patriots, and suddenly Bryce wished Gorham were here, in this room, at that very moment, asking him those questions again.
He cleared his throat. “What do you want me to do?”
Wesley Quinn gave him a long steady look. Finally, he spoke. “The conditions have been right for a rebellion for many years, but up until now we’ve lacked the spark that will ignite the tinder. We’ve needed something that will seize the imagination of the people and fire their will. The document you brought will help. It’s electrifying! Even in the United States we do not have a copy of the Declaration of Independence. When the time is right, we’ll publish it for the people. It can become the rallying cry for the revolution.”
He sat back, and every eye in the room was fastened upon him. “But something more is needed, something more than a document, something more than just a cause.” He stopped, the blue of his eyes darkening with sudden intensity. “What we need is the right person.”
Bryce laughed right out loud. “Surely you don’t think I’m that person? Look, if you need someone to pass out pamphlets on the street corner, or even throw a Molotov cocktail at a tank or two, maybe I’m your man. But…”
He stopped. Quinn was shaking his head slowly. “You’re not the person we had in mind.”
“Oh.” Embarrassed for jumping to such a conclusion, Bryce dropped his head. “Then who?”
“Paul Adams,” came the quiet reply.
In the van filled with electronics gear, the minister of internal affairs clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall, causing the man monitoring the transmission and the stenographer to jump sharply. “I’ve heard enough!” he thundered. He swung around to Colonel Anthony Burkhart. “Bring them in!”
Rodale, standing next to Burkhart, leaped into action, grabbing his walkie-talkie. “All units! All units! This is a go. Close in on the targets. I repeat, close in on the targets.”
“You’d better not lose one of them,” the minister said, his voice suddenly deathly quiet. “And I don’t want Sherwood so much as bruised.”
“Paul Adams is known all over the continent. He is admired and loved.” The AIS agent from America jabbed a finger at Bryce. “We’d like to call a meeting of all the leaders of the various resistance movements in the next few weeks. They won’t come—they’re too independent, too worried about being caught…unless we can tell them Paul Adams is with us. If Jessie can tell the people in the West that Paul Adams is leading the movement, we’ll double the contributions. The governments of the Western Alliance will know we have a viable movement with Paul Adams leading it.” He suddenly sat back, wearily. “I could go on and on. Paul Adams is the key to everything, Bryce, and you are the key to Paul Adams.”
Bryce shook his head stubbornly. “You don’t understand. I can’t ask him to risk his life again.”
Quinn shook his head slowly. “You asked me what you can do. I’m telling you now. Get us Paul Adams!”
There was a soft tinkling sound from somewhere behind them, and suddenly Lewis was on his feet, waving his hands urgently. “Someone’s coming!” he hissed. In one leap he was to the light switch and plunged the room in darkness.
But Captain James Rodale had done his work too well. As the five of them scrambled frantically down a back staircase and through the small patch of fenced yard, floodlights suddenly bathed them in brilliant whiteness. Blue uniformed policemen appeared everywhere, rifles steady, and in less than thirty seconds it was over. Five stunned conspirators were handcuffed to the chain-link fence, and Rodale had won his triumph.
Bryce leaned against the fence, feeling the metal of the cuffs cutting into his wrists, not much caring in his dazed shock. The words of the ISD captain had hit him like a fist to the stomach. “You are hereby charged with conspiracy, consorting with agents of an enemy power, treason, and murder.” In that moment Bryce understood perfectly that their conversation in the safe house had been monitored and what that meant to all of them.
But that was nothing compared to the jolt that hit him when the captain turned and spoke to two shadowy figures in business suits standing just beyond the circle of lights. “What about the Adams family?” he called. “Shall we move in on them now?”
Bryce didn’t hear the reply. Suddenly his stomach was twisting violently and he felt that he was going to be sick. All of his promises. All of his assurances. For nothing! He had betrayed Leslie and her father.
“All right,” the captain said to his men. “Move them out. Separate cars. Separate cells. None of the prisoners are to talk to each other or communicate in any way.”
They led the others away one at a time. A uniformed policeman stepped up to Bryce, released the handcuff from the fence, and put it o
n his own wrist. As they started for the van, the two men in suits finally stepped out into the light and moved toward where the biggest of the cars was parked. The taller man Bryce didn’t know. But as the shorter one came fully into the brightness of the floodlights, Bryce stiffened and gasped.
He was short and wiry, built like a marathon runner. The hair was dark and thick and just starting to gray at the temples. The dark eyes were brooding and grim as death. He stopped for a moment and looked directly into the shocked face of Bryce Sherwood. “Well, well,” Elliot Mannington said softly. “Look who we have here.”
Then he swung around to the second man. “Colonel, I am late for a meeting with the prime minister right now. But as soon as I’m back, I want to see Bryce in my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mannington turned back to Bryce, his voice hard. “We’ll have our little talk then, and let me tell you, mister, it had better be good.”
Chapter 22
The events that followed were a blur in Bryce’s mind—the ride in the police van, the arrival at the prison, the hasty booking process, then being shoved roughly into a foul-smelling cell. Now as he sat on his cot, head in hands, two things kept going through his mind over and over—the first was Elliot Mannington, the second was Leslie Adams and her father.
He had been so stunned by the sight of Mannington that he had done nothing more than gape at him. The thought that Mannington might also be present in this sphere had never entered his mind. And yet he knew that was simply his own shortsightedness. Leslie and her father were here. Gorham had said his parents were also here. Then why not Mannington?
But who was he? Now, other details began to come back to him—the unmistakable aura of power and authority that surrounded him, the obvious deference the others had shown him, even the one they called the colonel. And why should he be present at the arrest of a small group of underground resistance fighters?
There were no answers, and finally Bryce would push the questions aside. But that only opened up the way for the waves of guilt as he thought of Leslie and her family. Even at this moment they might be here in the prison. Did Leslie know? Did she know it was Bryce who had led the hounds to their door? From the beginning she had been afraid he meant danger for them. But no, he was so confident, so sure he had escaped from New England without detection. He had looked her father straight in the eye. “I wouldn’t do anything that would bring you or your family danger. I only care for Leslie. Trust me!”
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