Samson took a sip, then sat on the stool beside the kitchen desk. “Crisis?”
“Real bad, man. If it’s half of what Jeff told me it might be… you ain’t gonna believe this, Eminence.”
Carter’s story wasn’t a crisis. It was a disaster with a number of decidedly ugly heads. A Hydra dropped into the Creek like a plummeting meteor.
Gayle had seen a number of people in Washington and talked to a number of others. Things were looking very bad for Peter, for the Party, for everyone. First was Guralski. Evidence indicated it had indeed been a warning to Peter that somebody, or a number of somebodies, were out to get him right this time. The Cult of the Six. Evidence suggested the killing had been ordered, if not performed personally, by Perrin Bronsen, the undisputed leader of the outlaw gang. Although the man had not been seen in public for over three years, he was known to still be in charge. Many thought he was the recipient of some expensive plastic surgery and some ventured he had an infiltrator in either the Sancter or Acer apparatus.
Everyone took it for granted there were operatives of the Cult in all the Parties but it was a cost of doing business. Protecting against spies was a difficulty they all encountered and it only took one mistake, one oversight, for a rust spot to drip in and start damaging the plumbing.
“Maybe I’m one of ’em,” Carter said. “But again… maybe you’re one of ’em.”
“Cost of doing business.”
It worked both ways. The FBI had a shill or two in the Cult and Party had a couple, although their identities were known to only a few members of the Cabinet. But the sense was that the shills weren’t high in the structures. The Cult—after it went underground—adopted the model of most sophisticated terrorist organizations: small cells of operatives. Each cell perhaps knowing only one member of an adjacent cell. There had been some deaths in previous years. Deaths known to be the fallout of the struggle between the Party and the Cult.
Deaths about which the media knew nothing.
It was said that Peter and Donovan exchanged information about the Cult. It was known that Cardinal Valenti and FBI Director Mark Silverheels had an ongoing relationship. On the surface, separation of Church and State aside, the Federal Government and the four square mile sovereign colony had to have a continuing dialogue. The American public, however, would never be privy to it, national security and executive privilege the easy answers whenever FIAs were filed.
“FBI thinks Bronsen’s behind it?”
“They got a lead from the Central Ignorance Agency. One of their agents in Rome picked up some info a month ago and they’ve been following it since then. They’re getting pretty close.” He paused. “Shit. I wouldn’t be surprised if Pete didn’t even know about it. I guess him and Donovan have been having a few problems of their own recently.”
Samson thought about the half-conversation he’d listened to earlier in the day between the two chief executives. “Like about his daughter’s marriage?”
“His daughter’s what?”
“Peyton. The President wants Peter to perform the ceremony.”
“Are you serious?” Carter asked, his lips resting on the rim of his glass, eyes all wonder. “You don’t think old Ronnie couldn’t just call up Pete and say Father? Could you please report to the Rose Garden for a short visit? Shit. Pete would go in a minute. The way I hear it, Ronnie is giving Pete’s nose a little tweak by having Bowden do the ceremony. The way I hear it, Ronnie thinks he’s gotta pull back on Pete’s leash.”
“Who told you that?”
“Just an impression I got from Jeff. External Affairs and Security signed off a couple weeks ago on Pete doing the ceremony and Pete agreed to it. He’s just waiting for the phone call from the President. But that’s a phone call that probably isn’t going to come.” He hesitated and lowered his voice. “The way I hear it, those cats in Washington are picking up a little here and there that maybe Pete ain’t the best person to have around these days. I think Donovanarama wants to put a little distance between the Oval Office and the Creek.”
“But he was responsible for the Creek in the first place. Why would he suddenly decide to put… for his only daughter’s wedding?”
“Look at it this way. Ronaldo’s got an election next year and he’s already getting flak from some quarters about his relationship with us. Even in the best of situations that’s not gonna sit well with a lot of voters. Throw in some of the new complications and it could turn into only one term at La Casa Blanca. You add it up.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“There’s more to this than nuptials, Ter. We’re talkin’ big time potential damage.”
“How?”
“Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”
Samson stared, captured by the strange look in his friend’s eyes. So serious, so sober. Scared. Carter knew how to roll with the punches, knew how to take a kick in the guts and keep plugging away as if nothing had happened. But now there was doom about him, a frightened countenance the type of which didn’t help Samson’s escalating anxiety. Less than 24 hours previous he was cruising in Chariot II with Frank, not a care in the world except the lack of a tie. Now the whole world he lived in was collapsing like a rotted-out silo, yielding to the eternal forces of change: the constant struggle between men of power, the inevitable loss to one the gain to another. A high stakes game of adult pick-up sticks controlling the delicate balance.
“Yeah, I’ve been listening. But so far all you’ve told me is that maybe Guralski got offed by the Cult and that maybe Donovan and Peter are doing a little sparring. Big deal.”
“Think about it.”
Samson did, but it still didn’t seem that important, especially the Cult bumping someone off. They’d done it before.
“Okay, I thought. Tell me more.”
Carter emptied his glass. “Lemme elaborate a bit more, Eminencette.”
Gayle got the impression Donovan and Silverheels had known about Guralski’s killer or killers for over a month but the information hadn’t been conveyed to the Pope or the Party for disparate reasons. One was that the Cult had managed an operative into the Bureau’s apparatus and the mole was conveying the information uncovered by the FBI to Bronsen and his cohorts. An alternate possibility was that the mole may have been feeding the Bureau bogus intelligence to throw them off the scent and trick them into making moves that would embarrass both the administration and the Church.
“And then there’s the Castro connection,” Carter suggested.
“Juan? How’s he fit in?”
“In a pine box right now. Maybe tight enough it cost him his life.”
“Let’s get rational here.”
“I’m being rational as shit. And I don’t want to end up in a pile along side of it and I don’t want you gettin’ your legs chopped off in the process.”
“The guy had a heart attack.”
“I suppose, Eminence Anthead, that you wouldn’t entertain for the briefest of nanoseconds the possibility that perhaps our dear Carny Juanny met with foul play?”
“Come on.”
“Never occurred to you?”
“No,” Samson lied.
“Some people think so.”
“Who?”
“Jeff for one.”
“I’d have a tough time buying groceries at Dominick’s with that as collateral. Who else?”
“Calvello.”
“And Peter?”
“No comment.”
“He was with him when he died.”
“He was?”
Samson instinctively turned away, opening the door of the refrigerator, looking for the bottle of wine.
“Need another drink, Ter?” Carter asked, tapping the bottle on the island with his glass. “What makes you think Pete was with him when he kicked?”
“I… “
“Good guess, my lad. But not quite on the money. Like half an hour not quite. Rosie called Kopanski and told him Pete got a call from Castro and that he sou
nded like he was sick or something and that Pete wanted the doc to drop by Juan’s and check him out. Then a minute later, Pete calls Kopanski and tells him to come by Compound first and the two of them would drop over to see Juan. So Kopanski reports as ordered, cools his heels for ten minutes in the waiting room. Finally Pete, Clarence and Mitch walk out of Pete’s office like it’s business as usual. Bitchy Mitchy splits, the rest of them cruise over to Castro’s and the Cardinal is DOA.”
“So?”
“Forty-five minutes after he made the call? That doesn’t sound strange to you?”
“No.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Peter had made it sound very different when he’d related the story earlier. Not that he’d said the episode transpired in only a few moments. But that was the impression.
“Right again, Ter. You’re getting better at this. Doesn’t sound strange at all. Why would people be rushing around if somebody just thought somebody else was sick?”
“What’s the rest?”
“Just this particular part of the drill. Jeff laid that one on me and I about died myself. He’s been payin’ a little too much attention lately to Calvello and his conspiracy theories. That’s why we gotta take some of this shit with a kernel of corn. Know what I mean?”
Samson wasn’t sure if he did but was relieved the conversation was taking on a lighter, if slightly morbid, tone. “That’s all you got? You had me going there.”
“How do you think Castro bought it?”
“Clarence told me the big H-A.”
“That’s what I heard, too.” Carter looked to the ceiling. “And I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone, the way he put away the junk food. I’ll bet if they did an autopsy they’d find out half his body was refined sugar and preservatives.”
They both laughed.
“D’you know it’s a closed casket down at Holy Name?” Carter asked.
“No. Why?”
“Cause ain’t no Juan in the box. Pete had him simmered down to a few handfuls of pebbles, had them dropped in an urn and took possession.”
Never. Peter despised cremations. Nicholas, in his will, specifically directed his body be fried. His executor elected otherwise.
“To our departed comrade,” Carter said, offering a toast.
“To our comrade,” Samson agreed, lifting his glass.
“The thing I can’t figure out though is why Pete ain’t having a big deal here at the Creek. Those two were pretty tight.”
“Probably has something to do with the Council coming in. There’s going to be some meetings after the service tomorrow.”
“Council’s coming in for the festivities? Hadn’t heard that.”
Samson’s mind raced, trying to figure an explanation for yet another piece of information he’d again shared with someone he wasn’t supposed to be talking to.
“Rosie said something about making reservations for all of them.”
“They’ve got a lot of shit to talk about. The way Jeff tells it, anyway.” Carter hesitated. “Assuming there’s something to this stuff he’s been hearing. Weird shit.”
“How weird?”
“Like vids of Pete. A disc that shows him doin’ stuff only bad boys do.”
“Who says?”
The Acers. Elliott.” Carter made a noise. “They’re gonna confront him with it this week. Let him take a walk before the primary without damaging the Church.”
“I gotta get going,” Samson said as he took the glass from Carter’s hand and emptied it with his own into the sink. “When you’ve got something intelligent you want to talk about, give me a call.” He thought a beat. “I can see why Peter told me to quit associating with you clowns over at Party.”
“Yeah,” Carter agreed. “It’s probably all bullshit. The Acers are grasping at strawberries. Elliott is getting pretty desperate. The new tracks show him losing ground. He might have a hard time at the convention.”
“That’s his problem,” Samson stated, opening the back door and bowing.
“I guess,” Carter replied as he left, glancing up and down the shore of Knight Lake before taking a few more steps. “But they also say they’ve got some info on one of our guys that could bring us down, too.”
“What’s that?”
Concern betrayed.
“Involves someone in Party. Sensitive position. Found himself in a rather compromising position. Evidently touching some sensitive parts of another as-yet-unnamed individual. They say it happened out on the Coast. Something to do with the Scholastica bash.” He paused. “You were out there for that, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“See anything suspicious?”
“Not me.”
“Good. Probably just more bullshit.”
“Probably.”
“Hey, Cardinal? Enjoy your date.”
Chapter Thirteen
As Samson ambled along Knight Lake Terrace, the Creek looked normal except for the presence of additional VGs. There weren’t as many kids on the streets for this time of evening nor as many adults watching after them.
A few cyclers eased by as he approached Burning Bridge and he said hello in response to their greetings. Nobody he recognized. Though he’d lived in the neighborhood for four years he didn’t know many of his neighbors. There had been a few who he and Kim used to hang with but most had moved on to other things, other acquaintances, different addresses.
He wondered what the two of them would be doing that night if she were still alive, what she’d think of everything that had happened over the past 24 hours. But if she were still alive he wouldn’t have been down in Florida when Rosalita called so…
He’d embraced one of the tenets Peter used as an explanation for all events that transpired in anyone’s life: “Everything changes everything.”
“For instance,” the Cardinal told him one afternoon at the Archdiocese. “Suppose Clarence hadn’t stopped Tony the Tiger’s brother. Suppose he’d killed me. Things would be a lot different.” That was an easy one. “Now suppose he only chopped my arm off at the shoulder. Things would be a lot different but not as different as they would have been if I’d been killed.” Samson agreed. “Now suppose he’d only cut my hand real bad, maybe removing a couple fingers. Things would be different but not as much if I’d lost an arm, right?”
The slippery slope.
“Now let’s say,” Samson had smiled back, “that he didn’t hit you at all because you managed to jump out of the way. Things would be different but not as different if you’d have lost a couple fingers, right?”
“Precisely.”
“But if you’d have just gotten nicked…”
“Requiring a bandage?”
“Okay, a bandage.”
“A big one or a little one?”
“Who cares?”
“I do! It’s my finger we’re talking about!” the Cardinal had laughed.
“A big bandage.”
“One I could put on myself or one somebody would have to put on for me?”
“Somebody else.”
“Here?”
“Where?”
“At the office. Or would I have to go to an emergency room to have it put on?”
“Here.”
“Where?”
“In the office?”
“Sure.”
“Or in the infirmary?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because,” Peter had said knowingly, “if I had to go to the infirmary, I’d have to walk there and I’d be with a bunch of people that were different than the ones who were here in the office so the conversation would be different and their lives would be changed because now they go home or go out for a drink and say to someone ‘Oh, I was with the Cardinal this afternoon when they were putting a bandage on his finger’ and then they’d have to explain why I needed a bandage, whereas if I’d put the bandage on in the office, they’d be telling a different story at that moment in time and that in turn would change the life of the
person they were talking to, and then that person would go somewhere and say or do something, and pretty soon the entire world has become a different place because I put a bandage on my own finger.”
Samson thought he understood but wasn’t sure. “Where do you draw the line? Everything changes everything?”
“You don’t draw a line. And yes. Everything does.”
Samson stopped at the center of the bridge, looking down into the true Sanctuary Creek. What would he be doing if Kim had only had a seizure but recovered? What would he be doing if she hadn’t had one at all and they’d continued their argument when he’d returned from the airport? What would he be doing if she’d been delighted to see him, placed the roses in a vase on the Yamaha and then taken him up to the bedroom to pass the afternoon together? What would he be doing right now if they’d made love just one more time?
Just one more time.
“Well, hello Terence Samson,” he heard a woman’s voice call, dragging him from the sweet daydream.
“Hello, Mrs. Zitzer. How are you?”
“I’m a celebrity, Mr. Samson. I’m a genuine celebrity.”
“Are you now?” he asked as she approached, her basket holding an enormous bunch of flowers.
“Yes I am. Yes I am.” She looked to the sky, the expression on her face one of a person who’d just noticed a flying saucer hovering above though took it as commonplace. Samson followed her gaze but saw nothing except a few clouds tinting pink.
“So when did you become a celebrity?”
“Today. When you did.” She paused. “This must be our celebrity day.”
“I’m not a celebrity.”
“Yes you are. Yes you are.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you are. Just like me.”
“What makes…”
“They said your name on the 5:00 news.”
“Really?”
“Did you see me on the 5:00 news?”
Sanctuary Creek Page 14
