“Dad told her he had called and left me a message and that I called back to tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I no longer considered myself a Decenti and that he could go to you know where.”
Paul shook his head. Just when he wondered whether Ranold could sink lower . . . “Then Aryana must have been surprised to hear from you.”
“You’re telling me! She was frigid when I called. I asked her what was wrong, and she asked what did I care. I said, ‘Aryana, I love you. I care about you. I’m hurting for you because of your loss, which is also my loss.’ That’s when she told me the service had already taken place and what Daddy had said. Honestly, Paul, if he’d been in my presence, I can’t say I wouldn’t have tried to kill him. How awful is that?”
Pretty awful, but Paul was through trying to make it better. He might have tried to throttle the general himself, under the circumstances. This man was going to push too far someday, and Paul just might have to take him on. It wasn’t a matter of physically fighting an old man. Ranold was trained in combat, and because of his size might have bested Paul in his prime. But not now. That wasn’t the issue anyway. Paul had worked around his father-in-law for so long, it had become second nature. But now the man compounded his lie about Jae’s breaking her own mother’s neck with this invention about divorcing herself from the family.
On top of all that, Ranold was behind the directive for the destruction of the Columbia underground, intending to annihilate a thousand people. There were days, like this one, when Paul wished it was just him and Ranold, mano a mano, kill or be killed.
“What are they doing about remembering your mother?” he said.
“That’s a whole ’nother story, as Connor would say. Do you know Daddy had Aryana convinced you had brainwashed me into killing Mom?”
“Can’t say it surprises me. That’s the story he’s told the media.”
Jae’s hands were balled into fists. “To her credit, Aryana never bought that story. I told her exactly what happened, and she said she figured as much and that she had never seen me treat my mother with anything less than love and respect. She said, ‘Now if someone had told me you strangled your father . . . ’ I had to laugh. I mean, I was crying, but I had to chuckle, Paul. Aryana is new to our family and barely knows me, but she knew there was no way I killed my own mother.
“As for a service, Dad assured Aryana that Mom had always been quite clear that she didn’t want a funeral of any kind.”
“That doesn’t sound like her.”
“No, but it sure sounds like him, doesn’t it? You know, in the middle of all this, Aryana says Dad’s going to Bern on Friday.”
“You don’t say.”
“Guess he’s been invited by Chancellor Dengler to welcome him to his new job—director of NPO USSA.”
“Interim.”
Jae started. “You know this? Of course you do. You know everything. So it’s just interim?”
“Of course. They don’t hand out jobs like that to old men, even as undermanned as they are.”
“Then does it make sense that Dengler would fly him all the way to Switzerland for a handshake and a picture?”
“You tell me, Jae. I mean, the NPO is important to the international government, and Dengler has to approve the move, but they really are separate bodies.”
“So it’s more likely this trip was Daddy’s idea, and the rest is just his spin.”
“Mrs. Decenti didn’t raise no dummies. Hey, Jae, why don’t we have our own memorial services for Berl and your mom? The kids need to know she’s gone too, and they need some closure.”
* * *
Straight was finally feeling his age. Ever since he’d been sober and alone, he had not had to admit that. And while sixty was younger than it used to be, the stress of living a double life wore on him. The news out of Michigan that the underground had been asked about making room for a thousand soon to be displaced from Washington left Straight depressed. Especially the reason . . . which he chose not to even think about.
He sensed, however, that Paul needed to hear from him, and so Straight called.
“What are we going to hear from the salt mines?” Stepola wanted to know. “Can they accommodate us?”
“Hard to say yet. It won’t be easy. But most seem to like that idea above parceling you out here and there. You know I would take Jae and the kids.”
“Yeah, that’s all you need.”
“I would, Paul.”
“I know you would, brother. You know enough to stay away from our house, right? The Chicago bureau has it under surveillance, as if I’d be dumb enough to try to sneak in there for a few things.”
“Figured as much.”
“Straight, you sound terrible. You okay?”
“I guess. Tired. Old, you know.”
“Yeah, you’re old. I should be so old.”
“Feelin’ it, that’s all.”
“How’s your inside guy working?”
“The surgeon? Looks legit. I told him I needed something from the deal. You know, as Abraham suggested. Within forty-eight hours we had traded info. I put him onto two government guys who are now sleeping longer and more soundly than they have in a long time. I mean, they’re fine, just logy and slow to perk up. And he’s put me onto a couple of terminal patients, both of which could provide great identities for you.”
“Don’t think I need ’em just now, Straight, but I’ll let you know.”
“I’m starting a database. It’ll let your people know what’s available. I’ve got a hunch you’ll need these sooner than you think.”
* * *
Wednesday evening, January 30, Paul and Jae sat the kids down after dinner and told them that not only was their uncle Berlitz dead, but so was their grandmother. When Paul saw their faces, he wondered whether he and Jae had made the right decision.
“How did she die?” Brie said. “Car wreck too?”
“Heart attack,” Jae said quickly.
“What’s that?” Connor said.
“Your heart stops beating. She was so upset when she heard her son had been killed, and with everything else that was going on—our having to come here, all that—it was just too much for her.”
“Where is she now?” Connor said. “Will we see her again?”
“We won’t see her here on earth again,” Jae said, “because they have to bury her and we have to stay here for a while.”
“Is she in heaven?” Brie said.
Paul felt Jae’s glance. Despite their recent growth spurts, the kids had never seemed so young. Paul said, “You know, not everyone who dies goes to heaven.”
“They do if they have Jesus in their hearts,” Brie said. “Did Berl and Grandma?”
“We don’t know,” Jae said. “We hope so, don’t we? I’m pretty sure Grandma did.”
“What happened to Jesus when she had the heart attack?” Connor said. “I mean, if He was in there?”
Where was Paul supposed to go with that? Did he need to get into the fact that Jesus wasn’t physically inside a person’s body, let alone their heart?
“Because I’ve got Jesus in my heart,” Connor said. “Brie does too.”
“You do?” Jae said. “Tell us all about it.”
28
IT HAD COME TO RANOLD in the middle of the night, two days before he was to fly to Bern. Normally he was a sound sleeper, but his eyes popped open at about two in the morning, and he realized deep in his gut that something was wrong with his most trusted inner circle.
He swung his feet off the bed and sat in the darkness, trying to put his finger on the pulse of the problem. Bia was tired and wounded, fine. She was his most trusted aide. But the five men. What was it with them? Eye contact? He watched for that instinctively. Had it been missing or even inconsistent? Two of the men were in their fifties, and he had known them for years. Two were in their early forties with the résumés younger men would kill for. But what about the younger one? The tall, thick man with the smooth face and short blo
nd hair.
He wasn’t so young, really. Dick Aikman had worked his way up through the NPO and was in his late thirties, a family man. He had suffered no close losses in The Incident, but that was because he had only daughters. Ranold recalled some mention that he may have lost an aging uncle.
Why did Aikman stand out to Ranold? Just a hunch? He tried to replay their meetings in his mind. He could see through sycophants too, and while he enjoyed deference and respect—even admiration—as much as the next guy, he knew better than to surround himself with yes-men. They could make you feel good, but in the end, a leader needed the truth. Once he made a decision, then he wanted yes-men. But during the planning process, he needed hard, honest input.
And Ranold believed he was getting that. From all his people. But was he getting the eye contact and the body language to go along with it? Were team members catching each other’s eyes during meetings and communicating with looks and other nonverbal cues? Could he have a turncoat, even at this level? More than one? A mutiny?
Ranold didn’t want to make more of his discomfort than he should, but he was fast changing his mind about exempting his inner circle from signing the loyalty oath, and he wasn’t beyond insisting on lie-detector tests. Perhaps he would have Bia administer those immediately to put his mind at ease before his trip.
Ranold padded to the kitchen for a snack and then left a phone message for Bia, instructing her to get the oaths signed and polygraphs administered by noon. He was finally able to sleep, and soundly.
But when he arrived at the office, Ranold was surprised to find Bia waiting in his outer office. It was clear she was piqued. He invited her in.
She began before she had even sat. “I have long appreciated your openness to the truth, hard as it may be and even when it initially contradicts your wishes. As you are fully aware, I have always been a loyal subordinate and have followed directives to the letter.”
“That is why I chose you for this most crucial—”
“Forgive me, sir, but it’s a mistake. The message you left was tagged with a wee-hours-of-the-night time frame, and I’d like you to consider that your idea was the result of something you ate or dreamed.”
“I’m listening.”
Bia pursed her lips. “You say you’re listening, but you look as if you’re not.”
For all his confidence in his own ability to read physical cues, Ranold suddenly became aware that he was sitting rigidly, leaning back, arms folded uncomfortably over his barrel chest. “Well, you may be right about that,” he said. “I’m listening but I’m not liking where this is going.”
“Let me assure you, Chief, that as long as I am your subordinate, I will follow your orders, but I request your indulgence in at least attempting to talk you out of this.”
“Fair enough.”
“I fear this is going to reflect poorly on you and put serious questions in the minds of your most trusted people. You chose them from the entire organization for their skill and experience and because their loyalty is unquestioned. Am I right?”
He nodded.
“If you direct me to force them to sign the oath of loyalty—not unlike what we all signed when we were hired—”
“But which might have changed in their minds since then,” he said.
“—and then follow it with polygraph tests, no one will ever again be able to say that their loyalty was unquestioned. Will they?”
Ranold pressed his lips together and shrugged. He could still overrule her, but he was beginning to see that she had him.
“It will put doubt in their minds about your view of them. . . .”
“Especially if they all pass.”
“Of course. They’re proven loyal and you look paranoid. How will they ever forget that you had a question? If you can’t trust these people, you’re in trouble.”
Ranold was fast weighing his nagging doubt against Commander Balaam’s counsel. What if they were both right? What if he had a bad apple but didn’t pursue his suspicions because of how it would reflect on Ranold himself?
“I need a traveling companion and bodyguard for my trip. Perhaps I should take one of the men.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“Let’s all meet at one today.”
“Can do.” She pulled from her pocket a shiny white stone. “You wanted this.”
Ranold weighed it in his palm, then turned it over and over. It was cool to the touch and smooth, save for a one-inch scratch on one side. “What’s the significance of this?” he said.
She shrugged. “Just normal wear, I think. Some have scratches; some don’t.”
“And this thing identifies an underground zealot.”
“In Columbia it does,” she said. “Different states use different talismans.”
“That’s right. Sunterra used that old Lincoln-head penny, didn’t they?”
She nodded. “Do you mind if I ask—”
“What it’s for? ’Course not. Just a souvenir. Don’t you keep souvenirs?”
“I do actually,” she said. “I have one of those myself.”
Ranold chuckled. “You’d do well not to be caught with it.”
“By whom?” she said, and he finally saw her smile. “I doubt I’m under surveillance.”
“Yeah, that would be the day.”
Later in the morning, when Ranold called to confirm something with Bia, her secretary told him she was in a meeting with Dick Aikman. “With just Aikman?” he said.
“I believe so, yes, sir.”
“Have her call me immediately.”
When Bia called a few minutes later he demanded to know what she was talking with Aikman about.
“Sir?”
“You heard me. I let you talk me out of my suspicions and you run to him right after. What am I supposed to think?”
Silence.
“Well?”
“Sir, I was informing him of the one o’clock meeting.”
“Then why not the others?”
“I’m doing it one at a time, sir, as has been our protocol. We don’t want the rest of the staff knowing about these meetings, so we eschew e-mail or phone. I invite them face-to-face. Now if you’d rather I change procedure—”
“No, no, it’s all right. Forget I mentioned it.”
Ranold was embarrassed, and that angered him. He knew he was being irrational and, yes, perhaps paranoid. But hadn’t that aspect of his character put him in the position he found himself today?
At the one o’clock meeting, though breathing heavily and feeling logy after too big a lunch—delivered from a local ribs place—Ranold found himself studying the eyes and body language of his charges all the more. Was it only his imagination, or did Dick Aikman look both relieved and shaken? The man was pale, his light blue eyes darted, and he seemed to be watching Bia.
“Mr. Aikman, what sidearm do you carry?”
“Same as you, sir, being former military. Nine millimeter.”
“How many rounds in your magazine?”
“Ten, sir.”
“But it holds fifteen.”
“Which has been known to stretch the spring.”
“Excellent. You remain proficient with it?”
“I’m at the range at least once a week. Still shoot competitively.”
“You win?” Ranold said.
“Occasionally, but as you know, Chuck Finney remains on the team.”
“Enough said. He was beating me years ago.”
Ranold asked Aikman if he would accompany him to Bern and serve as his bodyguard.
“I’m at your service, General. I shouldn’t think you’d need a bodyguard at international headquarters, but—”
“You never know. Due to the reduction in workforce, we’ll be flying commercial.”
“I always fly commercial, sir,” Aikman said, and everyone laughed.
29
AT THEIR LEVELS OF SECURITY, neither Ranold nor Dick Aikman had a problem boarding the flight to Bern with their sidearms in their ch
ecked luggage and their ammunition in their carry-ons.
“We’re not expecting threats in Switzerland, are we, Chief?” Aikman said.
“Nah. But these days you can’t be too careful. Now listen, if international-headquarters personnel make any move toward steering us through their metal detectors, it falls to you to shame them out of it.”
“Sir?”
“You know how midlevel security people can become: nobodies trying to be somebodies. Running an executive of my level through security on our way to an audience with the chancellor himself would be an egregious breach of diplomatic protocol that would embarrass Dengler to no end. For his sake, you need to ensure it doesn’t happen. I could squawk, of course, but again, such a tiff should be beneath me. Not beneath me personally, you understand. I don’t lord my position over yours, for instance. But beneath the dignity of my office. Understand?”
“I think so,” Aikman said, but Ranold wondered. He was pleased when the commander pursued clarification. “You just want me to take the lead with whomever appears to be in charge, should they try to—”
“Should they insult my office by attempting to process me—or you, for that matter—through security. A well-placed word of advice, hinting at the person’s own dignity, should suffice. Just remind them who I am and that it certainly shouldn’t be necessary.”
“Which it shouldn’t, if I recall international protocol correctly. We both have high enough clearance levels that we should not have to be processed. All we need do is—”
“Prove we are who we say we are,” Ranold said. “I know.”
About half an hour from touchdown in Bern, Ranold asked a flight attendant to invite Commander Aikman to join him in first class. “With this seat empty, General,” she said, “we would have been happy to have accommodated him for the entire flight.”
“Why, thank you. I should have thought of that.” Silly woman.
When Aikman joined him, Ranold had more instructions. “You packed your nine millimeter in your smallest bag, right?”
“Per your instructions, yes, sir.”
“Good. Before deplaning, slip your ammunition magazine from your carry-on so it’s on your person. Obviously, keep it hidden, as we don’t want to alarm any passengers. When we get our luggage, we will likely be aided by someone from the chancellor’s staff who has been assigned to drive us to headquarters. Once we have everything, let’s leave our carry-ons with the aide and each take our small piece of luggage into a stall in the washroom, where we can retrieve our sidearms and load them. You see the point?”
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