Chapter 32
“So why do they call it the Presidential Palace if it’s the prime minister who lives here?”
They were walking down a long, opulently furnished hallway, flanked on both sides by two armed guards. Bryce was dressed in his prison garb, Nathaniel Gorham was in the navyblue uniform of the ISD policeman. A picture ID, showing he was an official courier for the Signals Division, hung from one pocket.
Bryce spoke quietly out of the side of his mouth. “Because the prime minister is the head of state. He also happens to be the president of the Central Committee. How would I know? I’m a relative newcomer here, if you haven’t forgotten.”
Gorham gave him a quick grin. “For a relative newcomer, you sure have stirred up the pot.”
Bryce didn’t respond, for at that moment a man stepped from a doorway into the hallway in front of them.
“Okay, Laddie,” Gorham said quickly. “Here you go, center stage.”
“Yeah.” Bryce’s mouth set grimly. All the marbles in one bag. And if the bag broke…? He shook his head, not wanting to think about it.
The man was dressed in a suit and had a thin, pinched face. He stepped back, inclining his head toward the open door. Let’s hope he always looks that sour, Bryce thought, and that this doesn’t portend our reception inside.
And then he came to attention, for sitting behind the massive desk was the prime minister, the man whose picture Bryce had seen everywhere he had traveled in the Confederation of North American States. It hung on the wall behind Elliot Mannington’s desk. It was in post offices and bus stations, in the state-run stores, in classrooms and government offices. It was not a particularly striking face, with its broad features, but knowing who the man was and what he represented was impressive enough.
The prime minister didn’t rise, just surveyed the five men who had entered his study. The guards had come to rigid attention. The pinch-faced man moved around, took a seat to his right, and took out a pad of paper and a pencil from a small stand.
The prime minister fixed his eyes first upon Nathaniel Gorham. “Sergeant Gorham?”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“I understand from Carlson here that you have taken a considerable risk to bring this matter to our attention.”
Gorham somehow managed to shrug that off as though it were nothing, yet without seeming to minimize his role in the matter.
“You have my assurance that no retaliatory measures will be taken against you by your superiors.”
That would take some doing on the prime minister’s part, Bryce thought with an inward smile.
“Thank you, sir. That’s very good of you.” He hesitated. “If there’s nothing else, sir, I’d better get back.”
“No. If we need you, we’ll send for you.”
Gorham turned, shot Bryce one quick glance, and exited.
“You may sit down, Mr. Sherwood.”
Bryce did so, noticing that the guards stepped back but still stayed in a position where they could watch his every move and be on him in a split second if necessary.
There was no humor whatsoever in the prime minister’s face as he leaned forward to peer at Bryce. “Be warned, Mr. Sherwood,
that tomorrow is a very big day for me. I am not used to dealing with traitors, and especially not at this hour of the night. If this turns out to be some kind of a trick, things will not go well with you.”
“I understand, Mr. Prime Minister,” Bryce said evenly, “but if you do not deal with traitors tonight, tomorrow will be a far more significant day than you may wish it to be.”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “that’s what Sergeant Gorham reported. That’s why you’re here. Now let’s put aside the veiled threats and innuendos and get to what it is you have to say.”
Bryce noted out of the corner of his eye that Carlson had his pencil poised now. Bryce took a deep breath. “There are some conditions.”
“Somehow I figured there would be,” the prime minister said dryly. “But it occurs to me that you are not in a very strong bargaining position. I can have you put under interrogation and find out whatever it is you think you have to offer me.”
“You could.”
There was a soft laugh, and what Bryce thought was a hint of admiration. “But?”
“But it could take most of the night, and if you are to intervene and stop this threat, you must act swiftly. Even now, it may be too late.”
“Even now it may be too late,” he intoned back in soft mockery. Then suddenly he slammed his fist down against the desk, causing both Bryce and Carlson to jump. “Enough of these games, Mr. Sherwood!” he roared. “What is it you have to offer me?”
“I ask nothing for myself,” Bryce continued calmly. “I ask only three things.”
The thick fingers were drumming rapidly on the desk, and Bryce knew the gamble could go either way momentarily.
“I want Paul and Leslie Adams released and allowed to escape to the United States of America, where they can join Vera Adams who is already there. And I also want Hal Hoffman set free.”
Carlson was staring at him with open mouth. The prime minister’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. “Is that all?” he asked softly.
The anger in his eyes sent a tiny chill up Bryce’s back. “Yes.”
“And what do I get for these small concessions?” The sarcasm was heavy.
Bryce proceeded to tell him, quietly and without dramatics. As he talked, Carlson’s head would keep jerking up to stare at him before dropping back down to follow his furious scribbling. The prime minister simply sat back, his face becoming more and more stony, the mouth setting in a tighter and tighter line.
When Bryce finished, there was a long silence. Finally the prime minister stirred. “And you can prove all this?”
Bryce nodded solemnly. “Not only prove it, but I also have a way to solve it.”
There was no answer.
“I could demand the release of every one of the prisoners,” Bryce said slowly. “This information is worth that much to you, but all I ask is for the three.”
The head of state for all of CONAS got to his feet slowly, watching Bryce with unseeing eyes. He walked to the window, parted the curtain, and stared out at the lights of the capital for a long time. The silence in the room became almost oppressive. When he turned, his face looked drawn and tired.
“And now that you have told me this, why shouldn’t I simply take action on my own? Why should I deal with you?”
That was hardly an unexpected question. Bryce leaned forward. “Because Elliot Mannington is very clever. He has others who stand with him in this. He will have protected his back very carefully. I think I have a way to see that he is not allowed to wiggle out of the little situation he has created for himself.”
The prime minister grunted. He knew his minister of internal affairs better than Bryce Sherwood did, and that was the very thing troubling him as well.
“Actually,” he said, half musing, “losing Paul Adams and his daughter may not be all bad.”
Bryce felt his heart leap.
“In fact, I have pondered what to do with them. I do not need martyrs.” He paused, then shook his head. “Especially I do not need Paul Adams as a martyr. They will be an irritation to me in the United States, but not nearly as troublesome as here.” He turned back, his voice hardening. “But I cannot allow Hoffman to leave. He is the key to the AIS networks in CONAS.”
For one moment, Bryce was tempted to cut his losses and accept what he had won, for he knew it was a major victory. But then he shook his head. The United States would play a critical role in what happened next in this country, and Hal Hoffman was in an influential position to see that the role continued. He decided to push for the limits.
“Hal Hoffman is important to you, yes. But as far as being the key to AIS here, you know that won’t be the case. You can bet that the moment word of his capture went out, the whole agency began scrambling to protect themselves.” He shook h
is head again. “Hal Hoffman can tell you only what was as it relates to the AIS. He will no longer be able to tell you what is.”
As the prime minister’s head came up and he gave Bryce a long appraising look, Bryce tossed in the final chip. “Besides, he’ll play a critical role in what happens if we’re going to stop Mannington.”
“Suppose I agree to these conditions,” the prime minister said thoughtfully. “How will you know that I will carry out my part of the bargain?”
Bryce smiled faintly. “I have thought of that too, Mr. Prime Minister.”
When Colonel Anthony Burkhart stepped into the prime minister’s study and saw Bryce Sherwood sitting in the chair in front of his desk, his face went instantly white.
The prime minister nodded in satisfaction. “That,” he said to Bryce, “is proof enough. I think you and I may have struck a fair bargain this night.”
Then he swung around to Burkhart, whose hands were now visibly trembling. “Colonel?” he said roughly.
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“This prisoner has been making some allegations.”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“About your leader.”
There was a quick flash of hope as Burkhart realized he had not been included in that statement.
“Would you like to save your career, or would you like to go down with Mr. Mannington?”
Burkhart’s eyes darted nervously to Bryce, then to Carlson, then back to the prime minister. He licked his lips, then his shoulders sagged. “What would you like me to do?” he whispered.
Bryce had moved to the sofa in one corner and was fighting heavy eyes when the phone rang. Carlson snatched it up, listened for a moment, then handed it to the prime minister, who was still at his desk, smoking a cigarette.
“Yes. Mr. Hoffman?”
Bryce straightened, watching this cunning old fox very carefully as he listened into the phone.
There was a soft exclamation of satisfaction. “You’d better tell that to Mr. Sherwood.”
Bryce came over to the desk quickly. “This is Sherwood.”
“Bryce, this is Hal.”
There was no mistaking the voice, but Bryce had demanded something more than the voice. He must give me something that only he and I would know, Bryce had insisted. Something so I know he is who he says he is and that he really is clear.
“Are you free?”
“That’s affirmative, my friend. And we are deeply in your debt. Greatly in your debt.”
“What about the others?”
“The man who calls you his young firebrand, and the woman who kindles that fire in you, are now on their way.”
Bryce felt a surge of relief. Only Hoffman would know the significance of the firebrand wording. He sat down slowly, the relief cascading over him. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. They should be arriving in America within the hour.”
“Thank you.”
“Leslie wanted to stay long enough to talk to you.”
Bryce smiled sadly. “Thank you for not letting her.”
“You know what she wanted to tell you.”
“Yes.”
There was a short pause, then Hoffman’s voice became softer. “We won’t forget you, Bryce.”
He looked up at the prime minister, who was watching him closely. “I hope not.”
“We owe you,” Hoffman said again. “Take care.”
“Take care.”
As he handed the phone back to Carlson, the prime minister grunted. “Satisfied?”
Bryce looked up. “Yes. Thank you.”
It was 4:00 A.M. when the man Bryce Sherwood and many others called Lewis entered the old deserted factory building escorted by two armed men. Men with blackened faces looked up from their weapons, some in surprise. A man standing near the back of one of the trucks, checking the loading of some mortars and shoulder-held rockets, looked up. Then his jaw dropped.
He rushed over. “Lewis,” he blurted. “What are you doing here? I thought you were captured—”
“I got away,” Lewis said bluntly. “Wes Quinn didn’t. He’s been killed. I’m now in command.”
“Killed!” echoed the other, his face shocked.
“Yes. I’ll explain later. Get the other platoon leaders together. We’ll have a briefing in five minutes.”
“Why not right now, Lewis?”
Lewis whirled at the sound of the familiar voice.
Hal Hoffman had stepped out from behind the truck, a rifle held low in his hands but pointing steady as a rock at Lewis’s stomach.
Elliot Mannington and Colonel Anthony Burkhart sat in Mannington’s office in front of the television. It was 11:00 A.M. on the morning of October the twenty-first. Though Mannington was outwardly cheerful, almost jovial, one could sense his inner tension. As the announcer proclaimed the arrival of the prime minister at the television station, Mannington began to tap on his leg with the fingers of one hand.
Then he frowned. The face Elliot Mannington had come to loathe appeared on the screen, smiling and waving to the small but enthusiastic audience privileged to be in the station’s small auditorium. A hush fell as the prime minister set aside his sheaf of papers and proceeded to stun the audience and the nation by announcing in triumph what had happened two days previously in the mountains of West Virginia.
One could almost sense the shock that swept through the watching millions as the camera turned and followed the manacled group of men being led into the studio. As the prime minister grimly began to recount who and what these men were, the camera zoomed in for a closer look, panning their faces one by one as they took their seats.
Mannington suddenly lurched forward. “Where is Paul Adams?” he cried. “And Hoffman?”
Burkhart straightened. “Perhaps the camera missed them.”
But the camera was pulling back now for a wider shot, lingering on the group. Mannington leaped to his feet. “They’re not there!” he shouted. “They’re not there!”
He spun around to stare at Burkhart, who shrugged helplessly.
“Come on!” he shouted, starting for the door. “Something’s wrong.”
Burkhart came to his feet slowly as Mannington reached the door and flung it open. Two guards swung around, rifles coming up to block the doorway.
Mannington stared, stunned at their presence. Angrily he started to push through but was shoved back roughly.
Burkhart joined him then. “I regret to inform the honorable minister of internal affairs that by direct instructions of the prime minister, you are hereby charged with activities subversive to the state. You are under arrest.”
Bryce had been placed in a small room somewhere in the basement of the presidential palace to avoid any chance that Mannington would learn of his absence from the prison and call for an explanation. In the morning, he would go back to his cell. People’s Day had come to an end and the events that had filled it were now history, though most of the people would know nothing of the inner struggles that had shaken the government.
The sweet taste of victory and his joy at knowing that Leslie was now safe had gradually faded away and the reality of his own situation settled upon him. He was left with nothing but a profound sense of depression. Hoffman had said they wouldn’t forget him, but Bryce was realist enough to know that his chances of seeing Leslie again were very slim.
Suddenly he heard a soft rustling behind him. Even before he turned, he knew who it was.
“Good evening, to you, Laddie.”
“Good evening, Nathaniel.”
The old colonialist moved over and sat down on the narrow bed beside him.
“Taking stock of the day?”
Bryce nodded.
“It was a great one, Son. You’ve every reason to be proud.”
“It was a salvage operation.”
“True, but a brilliant one nevertheless.”
Bryce looked away, and Gorham sighed. “I know what you’re thinking, Lad. And you’re righ
t, of course. Had I warned you sooner of who Lewis was, all of this could have been avoided. But again I must tell you. I am not omniscient. I can’t read the future. And I can’t be everywhere at once.”
“I know.”
“I was gone during all that.”
Bryce looked up in surprise. “Gone! Where?”
“With the council.”
“Oh.”
There was a long silence, then finally, “This will be my last visit with you.”
“No!” Bryce cried.
“Yes.” Again the long pause. “I wish I could shake your hand. You’ve come to mean a lot to me, Laddie.”
Bryce blinked, his eyes suddenly burning. “And you have to me, Nathaniel.”
He smiled. “You always used to call me Gorham.”
“I know.”
“Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”
Bryce looked at him. “You’re not into teletransportation, I guess?”
“Teletransportation? What is that?”
“You point your finger at me, say ‘Presto!’ and instantly I’m transported to wherever it is in the United States that Leslie Adams is right now.”
“I understand.” There was a deep sigh. “Is that really what you would have me do?”
Bryce gave him a sharp look. “Of course. You can’t, can you?”
Sadly he shook his head. After a moment he looked up. “I can do very little.”
“You have done much,” Bryce said earnestly. “For that I will always be grateful.”
The old figure in long coat, breeches, kneesocks, and buckle shoes was suddenly fading. “Wait?” Bryce cried. “Not yet!”
He was barely discernible now. “Good-bye, Bryce Sherwood. Find Leslie.”
“Find her!” he shouted. “How can I find her?”
The room was empty now except for Bryce. “Nathaniel. Help me. Help me get out of here so I can find her.”
“I can do but little,” came the echoing reply. “You must do the rest yourself.”
“The rest of what?” Bryce cried at the nothingness.
But there was no answer, and he knew with sudden finality that there would be no more answers. He sat down on the narrow bed, head in his hands.
Suddenly his nose wrinkled. He sniffed once, then again. Smoke. He could smell smoke. He leaped to his feet. The blanket folded up on the foot of the bed was smoldering, curls of smoke rising slowly. Even as he stared there was a soft puff, and the blanket burst into flames.
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 112
