Quinn gave a short laugh to himself. More surprises than one, he thought in satisfaction. As the prime minister was announcing to the world the greatest triumph of his career, namely the arrest of the leading figures in the rebellion, mortar and rocket attacks would be launched against five targets within the city. The assault teams would strike quickly and move out, maximizing the shock value and drawing the military and police forces in the city away from the television station. The five targets had been chosen specifically with those two purposes in mind. They were the parliament building, the presidential palace, the building housing the offices of the prime minister and the Central Committee, the Ministry of Finance and headquarters of the national bank, and, finally, ISD headquarters. If all went well, in just under ten minutes the entire city would be thrown into panic. The streets would still be jammed with people from the parade, which would hamper the movement of police and military. Command centers would be paralyzed with the simultaneous strikes. And that was critical to what would happen next.
Quinn became very sober as he thought about the next phase. Already smuggled inside and hiding in the attics and storage rooms of the television station were a dozen of Quinn’s best men. Precisely at 11:10 A.M., about the time the prime minister was triumphantly presenting his captives to the television cameras and announcing their public trial, those men would come out of hiding and make their move. Using tear gas, stun grenades, and total surprise, they would move into the studios swiftly, overpower the guards, and take the prime minister hostage. At the same time, Quinn, who would be waiting outside with another hundred heavily armed men, would launch an attack on the forces outside the station.
Quinn turned into a deserted alley, turned off the headlights and let the small truck roll to a stop. He sighed deeply, already starting to feel the churning in his stomach that always accompanied this kind of an operation. If all went well—and there were so many things that could fall apart—then at that point Paul Adams would take center stage, go before the cameras, and provide the millions watching a very different show than what the prime minister had promised. Ten minutes later, assuming Quinn had successfully controlled the outside forces, the “captives” would be gone, leaving the prime minister to pick up the pieces of his disaster as best he could.
There were a lot of ifs in this one, Quinn thought. And if they failed they had deliberately given some of their best people to Mannington and the ISD. As he unlocked the warehouse door and slipped inside, he shook his head. If they succeeded… Oh, man! If they succeeded, it was worth every risk they had taken, for they would have struck a blow that would ignite the fires throughout the entire land, his own as well as CONAS.
Quinn stopped, suddenly alert. No one was waiting for him inside the cavernous area. He reached inside his jacket and pulled the pistol from its holster, moving slowly now, every sense alert. He had left four men there earlier to guard the weapons cache and wait for the rendezvous. Now the warehouse was empty.
There was sudden noise behind him, and he whirled, pistol coming up fast.
“Hey, man,” cried a voice, “don’t shoot, it’s me, Lewis.”
Quinn straightened slowly as the familiar figure stepped out from behind a crate. “Lewis! What are you doing here?”
He lowered the gun as Lewis walked toward him. “Something went wrong, Wes,” he said. “Bryce isn’t coming.”
“What? What happened?”
“This!” Lewis’s arm whipped up, a pistol filling his hand. “Drop your weapon!” Two more men, rifles trained on Quinn, jumped out to join him.
Quinn was no fool. For a split second he debated, then slowly relaxed his fingers to let the pistol drop to the floor. Whether he hesitated a moment too long, or whether the one soldier saw the movement and thought he was going to try for it, would never be clear. There was a shattering blast, a flash from the muzzle. The bullet caught him full in the stomach, slamming him around hard into a pile of cardboard boxes. Quinn’s body toppled to the cement floor with a sickening thud and jerked convulsively for a moment. Then it was still.
Chapter 31
Though Bryce’s guards did not speak to him when they got him out of bed and marched him out of his cell block, he was not surprised when they came for him. As they marched down the corridor, he peered into the other darkened cells, but there was no sign of Leslie or the others.
They drove into the city, circled around the Mall, and started up what should have been Constitution Avenue but was now called Liberation Boulevard. The car slowed as it passed the squat, ugly building. Bryce looked once out of the window of the prison van, then sat back. MINISTRY OF INTERNAL AFFAIRS, proclaimed the granite sign on the lawn in front. He had expected nothing more.
It was the morning of the twentieth of October. A heavy overcast had moved in from the ocean and the day was gray with a misty rain just starting to fall. As they pulled into a stall in the underground parking terrace, his two guards were out instantly, weapons up. As he climbed out stiffly, he saw four others forming a perimeter around him. He smiled fleetingly. No more chances, he thought. As they moved toward the door to the building, it opened and Colonel Anthony Burkhart stepped out.
“Well, good morning, Bryce,” he said cheerfully. “I think the minister is ready to see you.”
Mannington leaned back, in a jovial and expansive mood, and took a long draw on his cigarette. Finally he turned to Bryce, who was still heavily manacled and cuffed to the chair.
“You see,” Mannington said, waving toward Lewis, who sat relaxed and pleased in the chair across from Bryce, “Lewis, as you know him, is what in this profession we call a mole, a deepcover mole. For the past six years he’s been in place, working his way slowly up the resistance hierarchy, building trust, gaining confidence.”
He smiled over at the commander of his Internal Security Division. Burkhart was sitting in the chair next to Lewis. “Even Anthony was not aware of this one. Like you, Lewis was handpicked by me personally.”
Bryce didn’t answer. He was still half in shock, still filled with a burning fury for Lewis and the betrayal, still sick at the thoughts of Leslie and all the others, now with no hope.
“He did well, don’t you think?” Mannington asked, still looking at Burkhart.
The colonel nodded, though he didn’t seem nearly as amused as Mannington.
Mannington actually rubbed his hands together, relishing his moment immensely. “What a catch we have made. Hal Hoffman. Paul Adams and his daughter. Neal Lambert.” He paused, then smiled briefly. “We are disappointed with the little ruse you tried to pull on us. Not that I blame you, of course. It was foolish to even consider putting every major leader of the opposition into our hands. When Lewis told us that for the most part you were going to slip in substitutes, brave volunteers who would stand in the place of their leaders, I was at first very angry. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided it would do. After all, through interrogation, I think we can still get the information we want.”
“This will not only decimate the resistance movement to the point where they may never recover,” Burkhart said with satisfaction, “but with what Hal Hoffman knows, we will hand the United States government and its AIS agents the most severe blow they have ever had.”
Mannington sighed, feigning deep sorrow. “In a way, it’s a pity that Lewis had to surface now. Who knows how high he could have risen?” Then he chuckled and again looked at Bryce. “But I’d say it was worth it, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s not like you to gloat,” Bryce said evenly. “Why am I here? You obviously know everything I know.”
“Ummm,” he murmured, “good question. You always were so perceptive, Bryce. It really is a shame to lose you.”
“So?”
“We have need of your services.”
Bryce laughed right out loud at that, scorn twisting his face.
“Oh, we think we can persuade you,” Lewis said with a sneer.
“We want you to talk to Paul Adams,�
�� Mannington went on. “You know what he planned to say in his speech tomorrow, I’m sure. Something profoundly moving and inspiring, I suppose. Something to fire the minds and hearts of the people. I mean, after all, not only will all of CONAS be listening, but much of the Western Alliance as well. Right?”
Bryce just looked at him, his face expressionless, trying to fathom where this conversation was leading.
“We want you to persuade him otherwise,” Mannington said, leaning forward, and all the banter was now gone from his voice. His eyes were hard and glittering. “He’ll go on television as planned, but I don’t want anything inspiring. He is to be dull, pedantic, boring.”
Bryce was staring, his eyes wide.
“Perhaps,” Burkhart said with a mirthless smile, “perhaps you need to tell Bryce what is going on. I think you have taken him by surprise.”
“Of course,” Mannington laughed. “I forgot. Lewis, would you like to enlighten him.”
The agent known as Red Fox leaned forward, the triumph of the moment lighting his face. “You see, Bryce, your little plan was really quite brilliant. Even more so than you know. While we can’t, of course, let the five assault teams launch their strikes at the five targets here in the city, we feel otherwise about the television station. The five teams have now been neutralized. But the attack on the station will proceed as planned.” He shook his head sadly. “Except, of course, for the unfortunate demise of Mr. Quinn.”
Bryce started.
“Yes, unfortunately, Wes was shot and killed last night at the place where you two were to have rendezvoused. Tragic, but we’ll have to adapt. I guess I, who barely escaped from the raid on the logging camp, will now have to lead that team tomorrow.”
Bryce’s mind was whirling. Quinn dead. The whole plan blown. Then why this talk of attacking the television station?
“You still don’t understand, do you, Bryce?” Mannington laughed right out loud.
“No, I don’t.”
“This public trial the prime minister has planned will be his finest hour. Several of us on the Central Committee have tried to persuade him that bringing all those prisoners into a place that cannot be adequately guarded, simply as a dramatic gesture, is very foolish, even dangerous.” He clucked his tongue. “He just won’t listen.”
And suddenly Bryce understood very clearly. “And so the television broadcast goes on?”
Mannington seemed pleased. “But of course.”
“And when the station is attacked, and Paul Adams takes over the camera and makes his speech, even if he never finishes, the prime minister, foolish man that he is, will topple from the throne.”
“As I said, Bryce, you always were very clever.”
“And you, who have saved the city, will step in at the last moment and turn the tide.”
Mannington sat back, smiling. “Not, of course, in time to save the prime minister from a terribly embarrassing situation from which he may never recover.” He laughed again, and the sound sent chills up and down Bryce’s back. “Oh, Bryce, if only you knew what a wonderful opportunity you have handed us.”
“Paul Adams must at least start his speech,” Burkhart broke in now. “And it will have to go out over the airwaves. But he will say only what we tell him to say.”
Bryce didn’t answer, already knowing what was coming.
“You will talk to him, won’t you?” Lewis said, with a wicked grin of satisfaction.
“Or else Leslie suffers?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Mannington looked to the others. “Didn’t I tell you he was quick?” he crowed with happiness. “Didn’t I tell you?”
They were in separate cells, but across the corridor from each other. They were the only ones on the block, and the guard made it clear they had only a few minutes and then Paul Adams would be taken back to his own place.
The old man sat on the edge of his cot, his head in his hands as Bryce told him all that had happened. When he was finished, Paul didn’t move for a long time. Then, finally, his head came up. The anguish in his eyes was unmistakable.
“There’s really not much point in doing other than what they say, is there?”
Bryce had thought that through very carefully too. “No. If they were asking you to make a pro-government statement, or something that betrayed others, then it would be a different matter. But we’ve already lost. If you try to do something that will make a difference, they’ll just cut you off the air.”
“And Leslie will suffer for nothing.”
“Yes.”
He sighed, a deep, weary sound of pain. “Then you can tell them I will cooperate. They will have their dull, pedantic speech.”
Bryce sighed and laid back on his own cot. He had been dreadfully afraid that Paul would not, could not, capitulate. And he had no illusions about Mannington’s seeing to it that Leslie paid the price for her father’s stubbornness.
“Do you really believe that?” Paul’s voice floated to him as if from some vast void.
“What?”
“That we’ve lost.”
Bryce sat back up. “Don’t you?”
The old man shook his head back and forth slowly.
“If you know something I don’t,” Bryce said with bitter irony, “please tell me. I could use some good news right now.”
“I know only one thing—that evil will never permanently triumph.”
“Maybe not,” Bryce retorted, “but right now, it’s not doing too badly.”
“To the contrary. What is happening proves just the opposite.”
“Well, you’d better enlighten me then,” Bryce said, “because with Elliot Mannington about to seize power, I’m having trouble finding much cause for hope.”
“Ah, but that is the point,” Adams said. “The thing you must remember is that evil is always self-consuming. Even as Mannington overthrows the prime minister, he must himself begin to fear for his own security.” He gave Bryce a searching look. “Do you know who will be his greatest threat?”
The question surprised Bryce. Finally, he shook his head.
“Those who are at this moment helping him come to power.”
“Burkhart and Lewis!” he breathed, knowing instantly that this man across from him was exactly right.
“Yes. And if they someday succeed in bringing Mannington down, then they will have to watch the hands of those who lift them up, and so on and so on forever. And all the while, they must keep the people at bay.”
“Well,” Bryce said with a soft laugh, “I’ve got to admit, the thought of Mannington fighting his own palace revolution is the first thing I’ve heard that cheers me up.”
Adams stood and came to the bars of his cell. “Mannington’s decision to let us go on the air is brilliant strategy for bringing down the prime minister. But for the people…for the people, Bryce, it is the worst possible thing he can do, for they will know that we nearly won. And that will give them hope to try again.”
Suddenly he glared upward at the ceiling of his cell. “Do you hear that, Mannington,” he asked loudly, “with your microphones and secret police? Do you hear that? You know it’s true. Even as you plot, you sow the seeds of your own destruction.”
“You really don’t believe it, do you?” Bryce asked, starting to feel a new surge of hope in spite of himself. “You really don’t believe they’ve won, do you?”
“In a way we failed, Bryce,” Paul said quietly, “but we penetrated right into the heart of their power structure. Right to the heart of it!” He breathed deeply, the fire of pride clearly ringing in his voice. “The world will know that, and whatever the setbacks, they will not forget. They will not!”
There was a clang of metal, then footsteps.
Paul Adams stood up quickly. “We have not lost, Bryce,” he whispered fiercely. “Not so long as the desire for freedom burns in the heart of one person. We have not lost!”
They had taken everything from Bryce except his socks, pants, and shirt, so he had no idea what ti
me it was or how long he had lain on his bunk staring at the ceiling. The light from the high barred window in the corridor had long ago died, so he knew it was night, but that was the only sense of time he had. Hour after hour he had lain motionless, his eyes open and blank, his mind churning like the sea in a hurricane.
When the answer came, it was so simple, so beautifully simple, that he shot to his feet. “Of course!” he cried, then instantly dropped his voice to a whisper. “Of course!”
He sat back down, his pulse racing, forcing himself to run over it again and again, probing every possible oversight, challenging every assumption. After fifteen minutes he stood slowly, knowing it could work. It could easily backfire and get him killed, but it could work! It wasn’t a difficult choice. Who was it that had said not having any options greatly simplifies the decisionmaking process?
But it all depended on one thing. He looked around the darkness of his cell desperately, not knowing if there was a chance in a hundred that he could do the one thing that everything else hinged on.
He stood again, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then in a soft whisper called out into the darkness. “Gorham! Gorham, can you hear me?”
He waited. There was nothing. “Oh, Gorham,” he murmured to himself, “don’t fail me now. Wherever you are, I need you. Come now and I’ll forgive you for everything.”
“Would you consider putting that in writing?”
Bryce whirled and nearly shouted for joy. Nathaniel Gorham was standing just outside his cell door, head cocked inquisitively to one side.
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