by Robert Graf
"Thank you for you time." The reporter’s image vanished.
Swales sat in his chair, shaking with rage, his stomach in knots. He wanted to scream in frustration. The reporter had shown him the original Security Document, with his signature, with the incriminating sentence justifying the operation. That's impossible, he’d destroyed every copy, yet his eyes told him otherwise. He knew with absolute certainty where that document had come from. Oh yes, there would be a reckoning.
Think, damn it, you can contain this. Another horrible suspicion struck him; there were other memos, what if they weren't destroyed due to some fuckup? With shaking hands he opened his tablet's address book and selected his campaign manger’s link.
In seconds a window popped up with Duncan's frowning face. "What is it, Jonathan, I 'm in the midst of finalizing our latest campaign ad." The frown changed to a grin. "It looks pretty good, if I do say so, your information proved spot on. We'll have them on the run."
"Never mind that, get the damage control team together, we have a major crisis."
"What now? Some old girl friend telling all?"
Swales glared at him. "No, you fucking idiot, this is serious. Someone has fabricated a realistic appearing document purporting to show my involvement in an old war crime, and the Guardian is preparing to publish it."
Duncan's grin vanished, replaced by grim concentration "Holy shit." He looked away a second then back. "OK, give."
And Swales did, detailing dates, names, units, and court dates, everything he'd pushed from his conscious years ago. He missed the last few words from Duncan. "Say again, I was trying to recall something."
"I said this is similar to the fuss over that SS document when Waldheim ran for president of Austria."
"You're suggesting I admit the document is real? Are you daft?"
"Calm down. The Austrians hated Jews so they didn't give a shite if he'd killed a bunch or not. They elected him anyway. You were there, at this mud hole in Afghanistan, and involved in the subsequent investigation but not the operation, right? And this document is suggestive, not definitive?"
"Yes."
"So it's a case of 'he-said, she-said'. The Americans have a phrase, 'plausible deniability' that fits. Your position is that someone further up the chain of command set you up. You don't know who or why, and you're shocked and saddened. There'll be a stink for a bit, and it will blow over. Now relax while I get the team rolling." The window vanished.
Swales took a deep breath and exhaled. Everything will turn out all right, all he had to do is not panic. There is one thing he could do —verify his suspicions. The engineer had shown him that the machine could only test events prior to its manufacture date, but that might be good enough. Yes, time for another visit, the first one had proved wildly successful. Good thing he hadn't been hasty in deciding the engineer's fate.
He switched on his desk intercom. "Gwen, what appointments do I have this afternoon?"
"You did have a meeting with the Municipal Water Board, however they canceled due to the weather."
"Good. Have the Rover brought around. I'm going over to campaign headquarters."
"Sir, the weather is awful, rain and wind predicted to get much worse."
That's why he had the Rover, old as it is; nothing gets in its way. The Jag was fair-weather only. "A little weather is no bother."
"Yes, sir," she replied in that school mistress voice she used when she disapproved of his behavior.
Getting out of London had tried his patience, though the snarled traffic made it easy to call ahead and warn the guards. The last hour on A34 after the exit from M4 had been difficult driving. Rain heavy enough at times to overwhelm the wipers filled the roadside ditches and overflowed the culverts. He had to strain to make out the minor side roads, but he was close.
There it was— the small stone wall at the curve. He slowed and turned onto the shoulder leading to the old stone bridge and stopped. The Rover’s headlights illuminated the brown, swirling water, deep enough that he couldn't see the bridge approaches yet loud enough he could hear it. That's a hell of a lot of water. If he remembered rightly the stream was ten or so yards wide and as many deep. More of the bloody global warming. No problem, he shifted to 4-wheel drive and gently stepped on the accelerator. The front wheels spun then grabbed, and the Rover lurched onto the bridge.
The instant the back wheels bumped on to the bridge, the Rover began drifting to the left. "Shit!" With all his strength Swales yanked the steering wheel to the right, but the left front wheel slid off the bridge. The Rover nosed into the flood-swollen stream, the headlights vanishing into the turbulence. The current rolled the Rover onto its side and smashed it into rocks, breaking the driver's side window. Thick, cold, muddy water jetted through the shattered window, battering his head. Swales pounded the seat-belt release, but couldn't budge it. Water crept up to his face, filling the cab. He strained to keep his head above it, then the Rover lurched further, and he was upside down. He tried to scream, but choked on the filthy water; only bubbles escaped his mouth. He held his breath until black spots danced in his vision. His last thought was of the California vulture's gaze.
[Sunday, West of London]
Farid hated his beard, it itched. That was nothing compared to the fear and hunger of his daily existence. The greasy meat and potatoes gave him constant indigestion and occasional diarrhea. The last visit from his new captors' boss had been Friday, today was Sunday. The fact the head boss had shown up bode ill.
At least in his latest prison, another aging farmhouse, he'd been allowed to read old copies of the Guardian. He'd found nothing about Global but lots about NASA and Britain’s imminent general elections. He dared to hope he would get out alive, though with each passing day his hope dimmed.
Hana would be proud of him; he'd resumed daily prayers, five times a day. He ignored the sniggers and comments such as "Fucking wog," when he knelt on the wooden floor, bowed in prayer. Though dressed in similar farmer's garb, the guards were kinder than the pair that had killed Maria —may she rot in hell— and brought him here.
He'd finished his hunk of yellow cheese and dry biscuit when the big, bearded guard he called No. 1 put down his phone. "Boss is coming out, so let's make sure your machine is working."
Farid didn't dare tell them the prototype needed no maintenance; once powered up it would stay that way, forever. Guard No 2, the younger, had left earlier on some errand, bitching about driving in the gusting wind and rain.
"Sure." He stood, stretched, then shuffled to the locked door leading to the garage. The ankle chain didn't bother him as much— he'd learned to not take big steps— though his guards missed the entertainment when he fell.
No 1 opened the padlock and pushed the door open.
Farid poked around the prototype perched on the rickety table, the lasers glowing reassuringly green. Good thing the garage got some heat from the house, otherwise it would be too cold for the exotic matter. The displays had timed out so he typed a string of 'A's and sent it. Everything worked, thank Allah.
"Checks out."
"Good. Back inside."
He shuffled back into the farmhouse and sat at the wooden table. Rain and wind lashed the window, and the light was more like night than mid-day. Where was the boss? Did he care?
The guard kept glancing at his watch then outside at the storm, while pacing back and forth, his expression switching from a frown to worry and back.
Farid’s stomach growled. "Can we eat?"
No. 1 glared at him. "Shut the fuck up."
Farid flinched. The guard had never reacted this way before.
True darkness arrived and no boss. No 1 switched on the wall lamps, flooding the room with cheery yellow light. The guard rummaged in the cupboards and tossed a wrapped chunk of cheese to Farid. "Make your own tea."
Farid fixed a cup of tea then sat at the table and ate and sipped and worried.
No 1 tapped his phone and held it to his ear, then dropped it back into his p
ocket, cursing. He donned a slicker and hat, pulled on rubber boots and thumped over to the garage door. He snapped the padlock. "Get over to the cot."
Farid shuffled over to the metal cot and sat on the thin, blanket-covered mattress, his mouth suddenly dry, his pulse pounding.
No. 1 unlocked one ankle then locked the chain to the cot frame. He stared at Farid, a strange look on his face, almost regretful. "I'm off to check on something. I'll be back within the hour." He opened the door, stepped into the rainy, windy darkness, and slammed the door behind him.
Farid awoke, his bladder near bursting. How long had he slept? Wall lamps on and no guards. He heard nothing except rain and wind thrashing against the farmhouse. The urge to pee was now a burning pain. He swung his legs to the floor, stood and tried pulling the cot through the doorway; it jammed, and he couldn't budge it. Desperate, he studied the cot. "Stupid," he muttered. He folded the front and back legs up against the frame, turned the cot on to its side and dragged it down the hall to the bathroom.
Back in the front room he unfolded the legs and sat down on the cot. His instincts screamed at him, Get Out! But what if the guards caught him? He folded the cot legs up and carried the cot over to the cupboard. A hurried search produced no food.
He carried the cot over to the raingear, donned a slicker and pulled a hat over his head. There were no boots. He folded another hat and placed it on his shoulder, then put his arm through the springs and lifted the cot to his shoulder. The hard metal pressed painfully, but the hat helped.
With a fervent "Inshallah", he pulled the door open and stepped out into the storm. The light from the doorway spilled out on the water-soaked ground until he pulled the door closed. The hard wind and cold rain battered his slicker; his shoes instantly soaked through. Farid gritted his teeth and sloughed through mud and water, following the path into the darkness.
[Monday, West of London]
A car horn's insistent honk roused Farid from a fitful doze. He opened his eyes to a cold, dull gray morning, thankfully without rain. He shivered violently and sneezed. A small farm truck had stopped on the shoulder next to him. A bearded head stuck out of the driver's window. "I say mate, are you all right?"
He fought to control hysterical laughter and painfully stood. "Please help me, I've been kidnapped," he begged through chattering teeth.
The man's eyes opened wide. "Bugger all, kidnapped?"
Farid was shaking from the cold. "Can you give me a lift?"
"Sure mate, hop in."
Farid shuffled towards the truck carrying the cot. "Do you have something to cut this chain?" he asked, lifting his leg to show the driver.
"Christ! What the fuck happened to you?"
"I was kidnapped," Farid repeated, terrified the man would drive away.
The driver stepped out, examined Farid and shook his head. "Never fit in the cab; we'll park you in back and nip into town to the police." They lifted the cot into the truck. Farid sat in the truck's bed with his arms wrapped around his legs, shivering.
His rescuer drove past neat, weathered cottages and farm buildings into a farming town. Single-story, brick and dressed-stone buildings lined the cobblestone street. They parked in front of a rusty-colored brick building. The driver hopped out. "I'll get the constable," he promised and hurried up the stairs.
Farid dragged the cot to the tailgate. In moments the driver and a tall, blue-uniformed policeman emerged and walked over to the truck. The policeman studied Farid, taking in the metal cot and chain.
"I'm Sergeant Jones, what seems to be the problem?"
Farid held up the chain with shaking hands. "I was kidnapped," he repeated, "Can you cut this?"
The officer didn't blink. "Yank, are you? Right, I've got just the thing," he answered and strode back into the building. Moments later he returned carrying a yard-long bolt cutter. The driver dropped the tailgate, and the officer motioned to Farid "Stick your leg out, please."
Farid stretched his leg out, and the Sergeant snipped the chain; it dropped to the cobblestones with a dull clink. He was free. He stared at the chain, tasting the word: Free. The past weeks’ terror and humiliation and hunger and cold were history. Tears trickled down his cheeks into his beard, and he didn’t care.
[Monday, Petaluma]
The acrid smell from the explosion still permeated the living room, plus the black smelly carnage on the carpet sickened Ann. She left the front door open to air out, and holding her breath stepped around the mess. That meant the heater working overtime, but so what? She’d work in the kitchen until she fixed up the guest room.
She started a pot of coffee, and while it dripped continued reading her newsbot's latest findings. An entry in a blog called Kidspeak caught her eye: "Heard dad bitching to mom about something called an ent saying his company lied about a contract. He's very upset. Seems he's always upset these days."
Hours later another reference: "Wouldn't that be cool if it really was an Ent?"
Kids' gossip? NASA contractors? Is this the start? She added Kidspeak to the list of sources to always check and restarted the app.
The coffee burbled to a halt; she poured a cup and sipped. Might as well get this over with. She tapped Ian's link.
A window opened with Ian's frowning features. "Yes, Ann, what is it?" His expression changed to shock. "Jesus Christ, Ann, what the hell happened?"
He should see her legs. "A letter bomb. My friend got badly hurt shielding me from the blast. The FBI's all over the case. They believe I'm a walking disaster."
"Good God." His eyes narrowed. "What friend?"
Not his business. "Winslow strongly suggested I hire an executive protection service. You have any suggestions?"
“I told you Roger vetoed my request.”
“Yes. Thanks for trying.”
“Let me think."
She waited, worrying how to fix her living room. Would her insurance cover it? She snorted. When pigs fly.
"Private security is maybe $1000 a day for 24/7 coverage. Do you have that kind of money?"
That meant a live-in, no way. "Would that have prevented Jon's kidnapping?"
Ian shrugged. "Whoever took him are professionals, so probably not; the Oregon setup didn't prevent Doug’s death. As I mentioned before, there are two groups. One wants to destroy the EntComs, the other wants to use them."
Shit. "Are you saying there's nothing I can do?"
"No, but you have to be realistic. I suggest you contact Behrendt Associates, the agency that Roger vetoed, and get three levels of security: First, have your home burglar-proofed with a system hooked to them and the police; second, an obvious stakeout in front in a car or van; and third, a discreet level when you travel, even to the grocery store. Whoever you get, have them contact me so I can vet them before you sign anything."
What choice did she have? It wasn't just her anymore. "I'll let you know. I'm going to take a few days sick leave." She debated whether to tell him about her decision to resign, but hesitated. Not yet. "Thanks for the advice." She closed the connection and looked at the wall clock, 08:33, too early for Alex. Get the living room fixed before he got discharged. That would keep her from worrying.
A Web search produced a company named SafeClean that advertised itself as fast and thorough for fire, crime scenes, and disasters. She called and was connected to a supervisor.
"An explosion you say?" the woman's asked.
"Yes, the living room's a mess. I'd like you to clean it up, replace whatever, and do it today if possible."
"Is this an active crime scene?"
Was it? Winslow told her they'd cleaned up and gotten what they could. "No, the FBI's finished with it. Can you do it?"
"Just a minute, Mrs. Grey." There was a pause. "There is a $1,000 surcharge for immediate service, payable by credit card, and yes, we can send a crew this morning."
Once that amount would have shocked her. She gave her credit card information. "I'll be here." Now for security.
Behrendt Associate
s' website presented a professional, austere layout. She arranged for a Nathan O'Connor to come to her house after lunch to discuss her requirements.
Her phone chirped. A man’s pallid features, maybe fiftyish, appeared.
"Mrs. Grey, I’m Jeff Landers at Adobe Creek Funeral Home. How are you today?"
"Fine,” she lied. “You have news?"
"Yes, we've picked up your husband's body and will cremate it tomorrow. I presume you wish to have a memorial service?"
He sounds so matter-of-fact. How about never. But that isn't fair to family or friends. "Saturday?"
"Let me see. Yes, that's doable. We can schedule it for 1:00 in the chapel if that's suitable."
"That would be fine." What was she saying?
"Do you have a denominational preference?"
Religion? They had only discussed it in terms of the absurdities people believed. “No, what do you recommend?"
"In that case the next of kin or a close friend traditionally gives a brief eulogy, the eulogy I mentioned before. The deceased's favorite music is played in the background. Oh, and a photograph of the departed is usually displayed."
She'd done nothing about the eulogy since Friday. "I'll give the eulogy. Music, I'll have to think about. As for a photo, I'll find something."
"Very good. Let me know no later than Friday." The face vanished.
The utter banality of the whole process appalled her. She had read somewhere that about seven thousand people died and eleven thousand were born every day in the US. Which brought up the old sorrow. Maybe they should have adopted. But they could never agree, and she’d just dropped the subject. She shook herself. Enough.
If strangers were going to be visiting, she'd better clean everything except the living room. And hide the gun. She groaned; she hadn't even looked in the spare bedroom since Isaac’s visit. It didn't escape her sense of irony that her house had been thoroughly searched, photographed, sampled, and who knows what else, by the FBI, ATF, and local police and fire. First she needed to submit Jon's obituary to the Independent Journal.
