The City of Mirrors: A Novel (Book Three of The Passage Trilogy)

by Justin Cronin

  “Right.” The officer popped from his chair. “Just a second. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  Peter noted the word “them.” Who else would be attending the meeting? For that matter, why was he here at all? In the hours of mulling over the president’s note, he’d come up empty. Maybe it was just as Caleb had suggested and they really did want him back in the Army. If so, it was going to be a short conversation.

  “You can come right back, Mr. Jaxon.”

  The officer took Peter’s tool bag and led him down a long hallway. Sanchez’s door was open. She rose from behind her desk as Peter entered: a small woman with mostly white hair, sharp features, and a strong gaze. A second person, a man with a tight, bristly beard, was seated across from her. He looked familiar, though Peter couldn’t place him.

  “Mr. Jaxon, it’s good to see you.” Sanchez stepped around her desk and extended her hand.

  “Madam President. It’s an honor.”

  “Please,” she said, “it’s Vicky. Let me introduce you to Ford Chase, my chief of staff.”

  “I believe we’ve met, Mr. Jaxon.”

  Now Peter remembered: Chase had attended the inquest after the destruction of the bridge on the Oil Road. The memory was unpleasant; he’d taken an instant disliking to the man. Compounding Peter’s distrust, Chase was wearing a necktie, the most incomprehensible article of clothing in the history of the world.

  “And of course you know General Apgar,” Sanchez said.

  Peter turned to see his former commanding officer rising from the couch. Gunnar had aged a little, his clipped hair gone gray, his brow more deeply furrowed. A bit of a paunch stretched the buttons of his uniform. The urge to salute was strong, but Peter held it in check, and the two men shook.

  “Congratulations on the promotion, sir.” To the surprise of no one who had served under the man, Apgar had been named general of the Army after Fleet had stepped down.

  “I regret it every day. Tell me, how’s your boy?”

  “He’s doing well, sir. Thanks for asking.”

  “If I wanted you to call me ‘sir,’ I wouldn’t have accepted your resignation. Which is my second-biggest regret, by the way. I should have put up more of a fight.”

  Peter liked Gunnar; the man’s presence put him at his ease. “It wouldn’t have done you any good.”

  Sanchez led them to a small sitting area with a sofa and a couple of leather armchairs surrounding a low table with a stone top, on which rested a long tube of rolled paper. For the first time Peter had a chance to look at his surroundings: a wall of books, a curtainless window, a chipped desk piled high with paper. A pole stood behind it bearing the Texas flag, the only ceremonial object in the room. Peter took one of the chairs, across from Sanchez. Apgar and Chase sat to the side.

  “To begin, Mr. Jaxon,” Sanchez said, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you to come see me. I’d like to request a favor. To put this in context, let me show you something. Ford?”

  Chase unrolled the paper on the table and weighed down the corners. A surveyor’s map: Kerrville stood at the center, its walls and perimeter lines clearly marked. To the west, along the Guadalupe, three large areas were blocked off with cross-hatching, each with a notation: SP1, SP2, SP3.

  “At the risk of sounding grandiose, what you’re looking at is the future of the Texas Republic,” Sanchez said.

  Chase explained, “SP stands for ‘settlement parcel.’ ”

  “These are the most logical areas for moving out the population, at least to start. There’s water, arable soil in the bottoms, good land for grazing. We’re going to proceed in stages, using a lottery system for people who want to leave.”

  “Which will be a lot of them,” Chase added.

  Peter looked up. Everyone was waiting for his reaction.

  “You don’t seem pleased,” Sanchez said.

  He searched for the words. “I guess…I never really thought this day would come.”

  “The war is over,” Apgar said. “Three years without a single viral. It’s what we’ve been fighting for, all these years.”

  Sanchez was leaning forward. There was something tremendously attractive about the woman, an undeniable force. Peter had heard this about her—she was said to have been a great beauty in her youth, with a list of suitors a mile long—but it was an entirely different matter to experience it.

  “History will remember you, Peter, for all you’ve done.”

  “It was more than just me.”

  “I know that, too. There’s more than enough congratulations to go around. And I’m sorry about your friends. Captain Donadio is a great loss. And Amy, well…” She paused. “I’ll be honest with you. The stories about her—I was never quite sure what to believe. I’m not sure I completely understand them now. What I do know is that none of us would be having this conversation if not for Amy, and for you. You’re the one who brought her to us. That’s what the people know. And it makes you very important. You could say there’s no one like you.” Her eyes remained fixed on his face; she had a way of making it feel as if they were the only two people in the room. “Tell me, how do you like working for the Housing Authority?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “And it gives you the chance to raise your boy. To be around for him.”

  Peter sensed a strategy unfolding. He nodded.

  “I never had children,” Sanchez said, somewhat regretfully. “One of the costs of the office. But I understand your feelings. So let me say right off that I’m sensitive to your priorities, and nothing about what I’m proposing would get in the way of that. You’ll be there for him, just as you are now.”

  Peter knew a half-truth when he heard one. On the other hand, Sanchez’s approach was so carefully laid he couldn’t help but admire it.

  “I’m listening.”

  “What would you say, Peter, to joining my staff?”

  The notion was so ludicrous he almost laughed. “Forgive me, Madam President—”

  “Please,” the woman cut in with a smile, “it’s Vicky.”

  He had to admit it, the woman was masterful. “There’s so much wrong with the idea I don’t even know where to begin. Just for starters, I’m not a politician.”

  “And I’m not asking you to be one. But you are a leader, and the people know it. You’re too valuable a resource to sit on the sidelines. Opening the gate isn’t just about making more room, though we absolutely need it. This represents a fundamental change in how we do just about everything. A lot of details have to be hammered out, but within the next ninety days I’m planning to suspend martial law. The Expeditionary is going to be recalled from the territories to assist with resettlement, and we’ll be transitioning to a full civilian government. It’s a big adjustment, giving everybody a place at the table, and it’s going to be messy. But it absolutely has to happen, and this is the right moment.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you, actually. Or at least I hope so. Your position is unique. The military respects you. The people love you, especially the Iowans. But those are only two legs of the tripod. The third is the trade. They’re going to have a field day with this. Tifty Lamont may be dead, but your previous relationship with him gives you access to their chain of command. There’s no question of shutting them down, we couldn’t if we tried. Vice is a fact of life—an ugly fact, but a fact nonetheless. You know Dunk Withers, yes?”

  Peter nodded. “We’ve met.”

  “More than met, if what my sources tell me is correct. I’ve heard about the cage. That was quite a stunt.”

  She was referring to Peter’s first encounter with Tifty at his underground compound north of San Antonio. As a cathartic entertainment, members of the trade leadership would face off against virals in hand-to-hand combat, the others betting on the outcome. Dunk had gone into the cage first, dispatching a dopey with relative ease, followed by Peter, who had taken on a full
-blown drac in order to secure Tifty’s agreement to escort them to Iowa.

  “It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

  Sanchez smiled. “That’s my point. You’re a man who does what needs to be done. As for Dunk, the man’s not half as smart as Lamont was, and I wish he were. Our agreement with Lamont was a simple one. The man was sitting on some of the best-preserved military hardware we’d seen in years. We couldn’t have outfitted the Army without him. Keep the worst stuff in check, we told him, keep the guns and ammo coming, and you can go about your business. He understood the sense of it, but I doubt Dunk will. The man’s a pure opportunist, and he has an ugly streak.”

  “So why not just put him in the stockade?”

  Sanchez shrugged. “We could, and it may come to that. General Apgar thinks we should round up the lot of them, seize the bunker and the gambling halls, and put an end to it. But somebody else would slide into his spot before the ink was dry, and we’d be back to square one. It’s a case of supply and demand. The demand is there—who will supply the goods? The card tables, the lick, the prostitutes? I don’t like it, but I’d rather deal with a known quantity, and for now that’s Dunk.”

  “So you want me to talk to him.”

  “Yes, in time. Corralling the trade is important. So is keeping the military and the civilian population fully on board during the transition. You’re the one man who has stock with all three. Hell, you could probably have my job if you asked for it, not that I’d wish it on my worst enemy.”

  Peter had the unsettling feeling that he had already agreed to something. He looked at Apgar, whose face said, Believe me, I’ve been down this road.

  “What exactly are you asking?”

  “For now, I’d like to name you as a special adviser. A go-between, if you like, between the stakeholders. We can come up with a more specific title later. But I want you out in front, where everyone can see you. Your voice should be the first one people hear. And I promise you that you’ll be home for supper every day with your boy.”

  The temptation was real: no more sweltering days swinging a hammer. But he was also tired. Some essential energy had left him. He’d done enough, and what he wanted now was a quiet, simple life. To take his boy to school and do a day of honest labor, and put his boy to bed at night and spend eight sweet hours someplace else entirely—the only place where he had ever been truly happy.

  “No.”

  Sanchez startled; she wasn’t used to being denied so succinctly. “No?”

  “That’s it. That’s my answer.”

  “Surely there’s something I can say that will change your mind.”

  “I’m flattered, but this has to be somebody else’s problem. I’m sorry.”

  Sanchez didn’t seem angry, merely puzzled. “I see.” The disarming smile returned. “Well, I had to ask.”

  She rose to her feet, everyone else following suit. Now it was Peter’s turn to be surprised; he realized he’d expected her to put up more of a fight. At the door, she shook his hand in parting.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Peter. The offer stands, and I hope you’ll reconsider. You could do a lot of good. Promise me you’ll think about it?”

  There seemed no harm in agreeing. “I’ll do that.”

  “General Apgar can show you out.”

  So that was it. He felt a little amazed, and wondered, as one always did when a door closed, if he had made the right choice.

  “Peter, one last thing,” Sanchez said.

  He turned at the threshold. The woman had returned to her desk.

  “I was meaning to ask. How old is your boy?”

  The question seemed harmless enough. “He’s ten.”

  “And it’s Caleb, yes?”

  Peter nodded.

  “It’s a wonderful age. His whole life ahead of him. When you stop to think about it, it’s the children we’re really working for, isn’t it? We’ll be long gone, but our decisions in the next few months will determine the kind of world they’re going to live in.” She smiled. “Well. Food for thought, Mr. Jaxon. Thank you again for coming.”

  He followed Gunnar out the door. Halfway down the hall, Peter heard the man chuckling under his breath.

  “She’s good, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” said Peter. “She’s good all right.”

  * * *

  10

  Michael had three things in his bag. The first was the newspaper. The second was a letter.

  He had found it in the breast pocket of the captain’s uniform. The envelope was unmarked; the man had never intended to send it. The letter, less than a page, was written in English.

  My darling boy,

  I know now that you and I are never to meet in this life. Our fuel is nearly exhausted; our last hope of reaching the refuge is gone. Last night, the crew and passengers took a vote. The result was unanimous. Death by dehydration is a fate none desires. Tonight will be the last we share on earth. Entombed in steel, we will drift in the currents until such time as almighty God chooses to take us to the bottom.

  I obviously have no hope that these last words will reach you. I can only pray that you and your mother have been spared the devastation and somehow survived. What awaits me now? The Holy Quran says: “To Allah belongeth the Mystery of the heavens and the earth. And the Decision of the Hour of Judgment is as the twinkling of an eye, or even quicker: for Allah hath power over all things.” Surely we are His and to Him we shall return. In spite of all that has happened, I have faith that my immortal soul will pass into His hands, and that when at last we meet, it shall be in paradise.

  My final thoughts in life are with you. Baraka Allahu fika.

  Your loving father,

  Nabil

  Michael mused on these words as he made his way through the streets of H-town. He was accustomed to scenes of abandonment and devastation; he had crossed ruined cities that contained skeletons by the thousands. But never before had the dead spoken so directly to him. In the captain’s quarters, he had found the man’s passport. His full name was Nabil Haddad. He had been born in the Netherlands, in a city called Utrecht, in 1971. Michael found no further evidence of the boy in the cabin—no photographs or other letters—but the emergency contact named in his passport was a woman named Astrid Keeble, with a London address. Perhaps she was the boy’s mother. Michael wondered what had happened between the three of them, that the captain never should have seen his son. Perhaps the boy’s mother wouldn’t allow it; perhaps for some reason the man did not feel worthy. Yet he had felt the need to write to him, knowing that in a few hours he would be dead and the letter would travel no farther than his own pocket.

  But that wasn’t all the letter told him. The Bergensfjord had been going somewhere; it had had a destination. Not “a refuge,” “the refuge.” A safe haven where the virus could not reach them.

  Hence the third thing in Michael’s bag, and his need for the man they called the Maestro.

  If the man had a real name, Michael didn’t know it. The Maestro also had the habit of speaking in disconcertingly butchered sentences while always referring to himself in the third person; it took some getting used to. He was quite old, possessing a sinewy twitchiness that made him seem less like a man than some kind of overgrown rodent. He had once been an electrical engineer for the Civilian Authority; long retired, he had become Kerrville’s go-to man for electronic antiquities. Crazy as a caged bird, and not a little paranoid, but the man knew how to make an old hard drive confess its secrets.

  The Maestro’s shed was unmissable; it was the only building in H-town with solar panels on the roof. Michael knocked loudly and stepped back for the camera; the Maestro wanted a good look at you first. A moment passed, and then a series of heavy locks opened.

  “Michael.” The Maestro stood in a narrow wedge of open door, wearing a work apron and a plastic visor with flip-down lenses.

  “Hello, Maestro.”

  The man’s eyes darted up and down the stree
t. “Quickly,” he said, waving Michael inside.

  The shed’s interior was like a museum. Old computers, office machines, oscilloscopes, flat-panels, huge bins of handhelds and cellphones: the sight of so much circuitry always gave Michael a tingly thrill.

  “How can the Maestro be of assistance?”

  “I’ve got an antique for you.”

  Michael removed the third thing from his bag. The old man took it in his hand and examined it quickly.

  “Gensys 872HJS. Fourth generation, three terabytes. Late prewar.” He looked up. “Where?”

  “I found it on a derelict ship. I need to recover the files.”

  “A closer look, then.”

  Michael followed him to one of several workbenches, where he laid the drive on a cloth mat and flipped down the lenses of his visor. With a minuscule screwdriver he removed the case and perused the interior parts.

  “Moisture damage. Not good.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Difficult. Expensive.”

  Michael removed a wad of Austins from his pocket. The old man counted it on the bench.

  “Not enough.”

  “It’s what I’ve got.”

  “The Maestro doubts that. Oil man like yourself?”

  “Not anymore.”

  He studied Michael’s face. “Ah. The Maestro remembers. He has heard some crazy stories. True?”

  “Depends on what you heard.”

  “Hunting for the barrier. Sailing out alone.”

  “More or less.”

  The old man pursed his rubbery lips, then slid the money into the pocket of his apron. “The Maestro will see what he can do. Come back tomorrow.”

  —

  Michael returned to the apartment. In the meantime he’d been to the library, adding a heavy book to his satchel: The Reader’s Digest Great World Atlas. It wasn’t one that people were permitted to check out. He’d waited for the reference librarian to be distracted, concealed it in his bag, and slipped outside.

  Once again, he was called upon for a bedtime story. This one was about the storm. Kate listened with tense excitement, as if the story might end with him drowned in the sea, despite the fact that he was sitting right in front of her. With Sara, the subject of the previous night did not come up. This was their way; a lot was said by saying nothing. She also seemed distracted. Michael assumed that something had happened at the hospital and let it go at that.