But DeWitt understood that a snitch—no matter how much patriotic fervor you wrapped around it—was still a snitch.
He’d also reasoned that there had to be a way—through charm, contacts, payoffs, or less traceable favors—to use the expensive education he was getting (inside and outside the colleges) to move up. Move out.
To win!
And midway through his junior year, he found it.
The camera pushed in tight on the attorney general’s face. “While my college education prevented me from enlisting in the armed forces, I did see much of Asia in my travels. And while I never saw communist Asia, I can tell you from its impact on the noncommunist nations that it is not universally viewed as a sleeping dragon or monster, waiting to devour the rest of the region. In fact, there are many in Asia who would welcome a larger, more community-of-nations role for the People’s Republic.”
The camera was tight now, his face filling the tiny screen on the mountainside.
“And my friends, we must always remember that it is the warlords who founded Taiwan.”
Valerie looked up as the television was switched off from behind.
“It’s time, Avidol said as he started for the door.”
Valerie sighed, ran her fingers through her hair, straightened the borrowed dress—she would not be allowed to appear in slacks—and slowly followed.
It was a stupid waste of time, she thought. For all the posturing (sincere or otherwise) of Franco’s act, power systems just don’t reverse themselves. Ever. It’s what maintains their power, she knew, having been a part of one of the biggest power systems in the world.
A thing she no longer felt any part of.
So Franco would die tonight, and others who openly supported him—if there were any—would die alongside him. And Valerie would be given over to the Chinese.
Xenos, well, whatever moral outrage he’d mustered in the hours after the attack seemed to have calmed in him. Now he spoke quietly, in monosyllables of generalities. Not the man to put his life on the line to do a job that couldn’t be done, anyway.
But at the door to the church hall, she straightened herself, put on a strong expression, and started in.
It would be good practice for when she faced the Chinese.
The “hall” turned out to be a large rock amphitheater with a constructed roof over the back half, giving the impression of a building. Over five hundred people lined the seats and rock ledges, sitting quietly looking down at the well of the theater where Franco stood… alone.
Each person in the place had a white card and a black card. Some kept them in their laps, others folded in pockets or laid carefully under their seats. But none were far from hand.
Franco wore tight leather pants and a loose, open-to-the-waist red silk shirt. His hair slicked back, his manner insolent, he looked confident, arrogant… almost noble.
A glass bell was rung from somewhere in the amphitheater’s depths and the crowd stood solemnly as the Council walked in.
After they were seated, a long table was carried out and placed in front of them. In front of each man was a six-inch-long stiletto.
Franco bowed to the Council, bowed insolently to the crowd, then sat down. A table with a stiletto was brought before him.
The bell rang again, and the crowd sat down. Il tribunale had begun.
For over an hour three survivors of the attack (all suitable to both the Council and Franco) gave gruesome, impartial accounts of the night that had become known as the place of the bleeding children. Members of the Council asked questions to bring out just how deep Franco’s involvement had been in bringing the fugitives to Toulon, in setting up the security, in opposing negotiations with the Chinese.
Franco asked no questions, just polished his fingernails on the side of his spectacular shirt, the picture of disinterest.
For another hour a Corsican investigator (again, acceptable to both sides) recounted the history of the Council meeting in La Sortie, where Franco had openly challenged the manhood of the respected elders, where he’d had to be physically restrained when they’d decided to submit—for the moment—to the Chinese.
Franco asked no questions but seemed deeply involved in peeling the skin from each of the grapes in a plate that had been handed him.
Finally a report was given on Canvas himself, his background—as was known—his connections with the Chinese, their plan as Valerie’d outlined it. With emphasis placed on the resources of the Chinese and the malignancy of Canvas himself.
Franco still asked no questions, just spit out some grape seeds as the investigator walked past him.
The audience was getting nervous now. The case against Franco had built step by step, with overwhelming evidence, with no rebuttal of the facts by the man facing the knife’s edge.
But there was something in the air, something from the man’s casual disregard, the disdainful shaking of his head, the contemptuous look he gave the witnesses and the Council.
Finally the old man in the center chair stood and addressed the groups in Corsican, a rarity since most of the audience spoke primarily Italian or French.
“My brothers,” he said in the ancient dialect, “the case has been made clear. The Council’s orders were directly challenged and this has not been denied. The Council’s judgment was questioned and this has not been denied. The Council’s honor was most clearly savaged and this has not been denied. The evidence is clear.
“For centuries we have survived as a people by using our power judiciously, carefully. Doling it out in spoonfuls, not great promiscuous buckets. All who have come to this island have been defeated—in time—by our tradition of remembrance and slow retribution. Had we, had they (our sainted ancestors) attempted to attack in force, to overthrow in one night the might arrayed against them, most of us would not be here to meet in tribunal.
“This was the Council’s judgment, this remains the Council’s judgment—our life’s traditions—and it will remain ever so. We therefore ask you to raise the black and reclaim clan honor and dignity.”
He sat down.
The audience took a deep breath, then turned to Franco, anxious to hear him present his case.
After two long minutes, after a murmur of discomfort and unease went through the crowd, Franco looked up, confusion in his eyes.
“Oh,” he began in a genuinely surprised voice. “Is it my turn now?”
Some laughed, others were shocked because he was speaking in English, a language never used before in any tribunal.
“My apologies, my friends, brothers,” he said as he stood up and casually began wandering through the well of the theater. “But my ears were full of wind.” He exaggeratedly put a finger in his ear as if to clear out an obstruction. When he pulled it out, he carefully examined the fingertip.
“Dusty.” More laughter. “The wind was filled with the dust of the ages. The breaths of dusty old men who see distant history as not lessons, but requirements for the future.”
All laughter instantly stopped.
“These old fools”—he shook his head and chuckled—“well, what can I say?” He smiled at the Council. “Fools who have outlived their usefulness to us all.”
People leaned forward, moved to the edge of their seats. Something in the soon-to-be-dead man’s voice compelled them, forced them, invigorated them.
Franco turned back to the audience. “A young boy is entrusted with money of the Brotherhood to secure a valued service for the Brotherhood. He disappears and they do nothing.”
“The young boy is savagely murdered only because he becomes an inconvenience to a plot that he cares nothing about, and they do nothing.”
He seemed to suddenly remember something. “Oh yes,” they send three of their own to talk. His voice took on a deeply sarcastic tone. “They dearly love to talk. But then you’ve witnessed that yourself. Those of you who remained awake.”
“Finally…” His tone lowered and became a dangerous living thing that moved among them on
a knife’s edge. “Finally, when eleven of our brothers and sisters are slaughtered defending children in a hospital under our protection—when twenty-one of those angels are torn apart by these savages—they stop talking and act.”
He was quiet for a full minute.
“They act … and the ghosts of our brothers back to the beginning of time rise as one and spit on their soon-to-be graves!” His voice echoed off the rocks, through the people, becoming a part of the air.
“Brothers, I stand in opposition to the Council. I deny them their authority. They are not Corsican. They are not men. They are not human.
“For no human, no man, no Corsican, could possibly allow all these crimes against God and the Brotherhood to go unpunished. Join me and we will tear out the throats of the monsters who have raped our souls and the old men who are allowing it to continue.”
There were whispered conversations everywhere. Angry discussions. Livid hushed tones. Then a chill went through the crowd.
Franco pulled off his shirt, picked up the dagger from his table, and made two deep diagonal cuts parallel to each other over his heart.
“I call for the day of the plague.” He held the bloody knife out to the crowd. “I call for you to join me in the day of the plague on la Cina.”
The old man in the central chair jumped up, red-faced, furious, pounding on his table for attention.
“Franco, scaricatore di porto. You yourself have said that you cannot defeat these men! Have you suddenly been endowed with magical spirits? Would you lead these people into inevitable destruction? Stronzo!”
“No,” Franco answered in a strong voice that rang off the rock. “I cannot lead them to their just revenge.”
“Chi, allora? Who, then? Or will you answer that only after more of our people have been led down the road to slaughter and ruin? Chi, allora?”
Slowly Franco raised the knife toward the cliff behind the Council seats. Higher and higher he raised it as the crowd followed with their eyes and hearts and hopes.
“He will,” was all he said in the dreadful silence.
And standing on top of that sheer cliff, the full moon behind him—as though he were a holy symbol on a consecrated Corsican shield—was a man, his bare chest still bleeding from the recent cuts of dedication.
“Dureté!” someone yelled out.
“Il Diavolo,” others—men who had known him—whispered as they crossed themselves.
“The day of the plague!” Xenos’s voice carried to the heart and soul of every man in the crowd.
Franco forced down a smile as he turned back to the assemblage. His voice was soft but strong, and carried to the farthest reaches of the amphitheater. “Il giorno della peste.”
The crowd stirred as Fabrè stepped out of the audience, took the knife, and boldly cut his chest. “Il giorno della peste,” he said with emphasis as he held the knife out to the crowd.
“Il giorno della peste.” The crowd gasped as Vedette stepped forward, accepted the knife, and marked himself as a holy warrior.
“Il giorno della peste!” Albina … and the die had been cast.
It took thirty minutes of shouts and proclamations before more than three hundred of the men had marked themselves for battle.
Amid it all, no one noticed the Council led quietly away.
Their time was over.
The day of the plague had begun.
Thirteen
It was almost enough to make her question her commitment to the cause.
Almost.
But then the coming payoff was so great, the possibilities so exciting, that she could probably put up with yet another day of madness, chaos, and debris.
Since Valerie’s disappearance, Barbara had been doing a balancing act—appearing the loyal staffer trying to put the best spin possible on her boss becoming a fugitive.
Working to undermine Valerie’s credibility wherever possible the rest of the time.
Running the office on her own, reporting irregularly to her next up in the Apple Blossom chain, had left her tired and irritable. She wasn’t sleeping, was eating sporadically, snapping at everyone she came in contact with.
But tonight was Friday—nothing loomed over the weekend that was urgent—and she hurried to her car in the House staff parking lot with high expectations.
Barring last-minute calls from staff, constituents, or spymasters, she would spend the weekend in Atlantic City, gambling with the constantly replenished account that was a small part of her reward.
As she picked her way through Dupont Circle traffic, she saw the White House rise up in front of her. She smiled.
Everybody had a price, her mother had been fond of saying. And she thought that was about right. For the handsome traitor in the midst of his confirmation hearings, that price would soon be the presidency.
But that was too short-term a power for Barbara. Eight years, and then what? No. Her price held more permanence to it, more of a long-lasting high. A thing that she would wallow in, cover herself with, for the next few decades at least.
With the inauguration of President Jefferson DeWitt, Apple Blossom would end for the ambitious young woman.
As Chrysanthemum would begin.
Then, six short years later—after stints in the Treasury Department and Securities Exchange Commission—Barbara Krusiec would become a senior vice president at the World Bank. From there—with advance inside information on the major economic developments of a planet—it was a short step toward never having to have anyone replenish any accounts.
All for being willing to help here and there, now and then.
She smiled as she pulled out of traffic onto the large superhighway as she headed for a suburban shuttle airport.
It wasn’t treason—what she would do now or in the future—she felt. Treason required an initial allegiance to something. A thing Barbara had never experienced.
Born into the “noble poverty” of the South of the fifties, her mother had worked four jobs to provide for the three children without a father among them. Elaine Krusiec had taken her children regularly to the ramshackle church that promised redemption and salvation, but never explained why the minister had two cars and the congregation was starving.
Barbara ran away at twelve and immediately began reinventing herself. Bright and intuitive, she figured early on who and how to manipulate—emotionally, intellectually, sexually (just another currency to the jaded young girl)—in order to get whatever she wanted.
Which was—primarily—to be someone else.
As she pulled into the exit lane before Rodney & McKean Regional Air Park, she had almost accomplished that. Just a few more days, and her future would be—inalterably—set.
A van pulled up alongside her town car, close to the boundary of his lane, but still legal. Normally Barbara would’ve honked or sped up or slowed down, but there was another van in front of her (slowing down, it seemed) and yet a third behind her.
Muttering the foulest expletive she could think of, she settled in to wait for the exit … as the side door of the van to her left slid open and a ski-masked man let loose with both barrels of his shotgun.
Her windshield and left rear window exploded in a spray of glass and smoke as she jerked the car hard over to the right. Crashing through the railing, she heard two more shots echo behind her as she careened down an embankment. Gripping the wheel with white knuckles, her head barely peeking through a jagged hole in the front glass, she struggled to control the car’s slide.
It came to a stop with a sick thud against four water-filled traffic barrels that had—thankfully—been placed at the bottom of the hill exactly where she’d skidded. They threw up a wash of soapy water, drenching car and driver.
Slowly Barbara checked to see if she was still alive. No broken bones, a slight cut on her left cheek, and with a life expectancy ten years less whatever it had been a few seconds before.
But she was alive.
She quickly climbed out of the car, looking back up th
e hill. The attack had happened at close to sixty miles an hour, so there’d been no chance for the gunman to turn and follow her down the hill, even if he’d been crazy enough to do that.
She was on a service road, chain-link-and barbed-wire-fenced industrial parks across from the embankment. No traffic, people, or phones.
Shaking her head, daubing at her bleeding cheek with a piece of tissue, she returned to her car, pulling out her purse and cell phone.
The battery indicated it was fine, the phone looked undamaged, but there was no sound—even static—on the device. She tried several more times, then gave up. Throwing her purse strap over her neck and shoulder, she headed down the service road.
Then froze.
As a van slowly appeared and accelerated toward her.
She saw the puff of smoke a moment before she heard the shot, but it didn’t matter. She was off and running at the sight of the vehicle.
There was no place to run to, though. The steep hill on one side, the dangerous fencing on the other, and the van behind. Her high heels flew away, her feet tore and ripped on the unimproved asphalt. Her heart seemed about to fly out of her chest as she heard the van get closer and a shot roar through the air around her.
Then, as if in response to her silent shouting prayers, she saw a thin hole torn through the fencing just ahead.
Dodging another shot from the van, she dived through, propelling herself into a maze of abandoned Dumpsters and Porta Pottis.
She hid in and among that putrescence for the next three hours. Never seeing two of the vans pull back to her car and load the lifesaving water barrels.
Or a flatbed almost immediately arrive and haul off her car as other men smoothed out the tracks of her car’s slide.
Or a man remove a cellular line disrupter from under a chicken bucket less than twenty feet from her car, and move it to near the spot in the fence she’d disappeared through.
Three hours after dark, still terrified, breathing heavily and unable to stand her own stench, Barbara climbed out of a Dumpster. Carefully looking around at the deserted storage facility, she took a deep breath and headed for where she hoped the entrance would be. Ten minutes later she found it—using a nearby ladder to climb over the fence and jump onto the trunk of a conveniently parked car.
The 4 Phase Man Page 25
