“Who is it?”
Sam wiped another bead of sweat from his face.
The room fell still and cold again.
“Albert Fuentes,” Sara said into the silence.
Everyone turned to her, but that was all she said.
Ammon shot a puzzled look to Sam, asking with his eyes. “Yeah, she’s right,” he said.
Ammon turned back to his mother. “How did you know that, Mom?”
She stood in the middle of the tiny kitchen, her hands shaking at her side. If she’d been staring at a monster—which she was—she couldn’t have looked more scared.
Ammon took a step toward her. “How did you know that, Mom?” he repeated, his voice as gentle as a whisper.
Sara swallowed and looked away.
The room was still and silent.
“Your father told me,” she finally said.
“The totalitarian phenomenon is not to be understood without making allowance for the thesis that some
important part of every society consists of people who actively want tyranny: either to exercise it themselves or—much more mysteriously—to submit to it. Democracy
will therefore always remain at risk.”
—Jean-Francois Revel
“ . . . because of the power of Satan who did get
hold upon their hearts.”
—4 Nephi 1:28
Chapter Twenty
Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex
Southern Pennsylvania
It was a small group, two women and five men, not including the new president of the United States. With the exception of the lean, thick-haired man who found himself in the amazingly unfamiliar position of sitting in the president’s chair, the members of the group knew each other intimately, having worked together from behind locked doors, aboard private jets, and inside luxury villas for many years. Along the wall before them, a secure conference system brought in video feeds from Paris, London, and Berlin. Altogether, thirteen people were on the line. And though he sat at the head of the conference table, President Albert J. Fuentes didn’t control the meeting, set the agenda, or have very much to say.
He was a weak man, a coyote of a leader, doomed to follow the pack, with no more intelligence or talent than the average man out on the street. The only things he had in great abundance were good looks, an empty character, and hot, burning, soul-selling, back-stabbing ambition. He also had camera presence, having started out as a television newsman, reading other people’s words from a teleprompter as if they were his own.
It was a deadly but useful combination. And the reason why he just might be the perfect choice.
The old man sat on the same style of black leather chair as they all did, but he hunched lower, old and shriveled, almost pygmy-like against the enormous conference table. The others watched him carefully, listening to his every word. He gestured toward Fuentes. “This is him?” he asked.
The others only nodded.
The old man raised an eyebrow. “He’s the best you got?” He smiled weakly as he said it. Fuentes thought that he was kidding. The others knew he was not. “I don’t know. I really don’t,” the old man went on. “I feel like I’m on the iceberg watching the Titanic bearing down. It’s a full moon. We’ll see the bodies. This is going to be a freaking mess.”
The newly appointed vice president, the man who’d chosen Fuentes, sat forward in his chair. He was intense, moody, brilliant, and one of the wealthiest men in the United States. He had already mastered money; now he mastered power. “It’s going to work out,” was all he said. There was significant, if unknown, meaning in his words.
Sensing their mood, Fuentes shifted angrily. He did not know the old man, had never seen him before in his life (and he knew everyone who was anyone, or so he thought), and his indignation rose. “I remind you, sir, that you are speaking to the president of the United States.”
The old man didn’t even answer as he stared at him.
“He’ll do what we tell him to,” the new vice president went on, speaking as if Fuentes weren’t there. “And remember, he was the next in line of succession. We had to follow protocol. We couldn’t push too far. I mean, we’ve already had to kill one of them, put another into a coma. We thought it best not to have to kill him, too.”
“You’re going to have to kill him eventually. Might as well do it now.”
Fuentes’ face grew white, his lips tight. Was it him they were talking about? He couldn’t even tell. Surely not. He must have missed it. No one looked at him.
The vice president brought his elbows atop his armrest and put his fingers to his lips, building a small tent before his face. He patiently glanced at Fuentes. “I trust him,” was all he said.
The old man pulled on his feeble chin. It was covered with white hairs, scattered and wispy, some of them far too long, as if it was hard to shave between the deep creases on his face. And something about him smelled. It wasn’t strong and it wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but there was something odd, almost unworldly. Fuentes sniffed the air, trying to identify the odor. It was . . . old . . . stale air released from a sealed room within an ancient temple . . . an old book that hadn’t been opened for many years . . . an old house . . . a rotting tree . . . it was, what? He couldn’t tell. And maybe it was that simple. The old man just smelled old.
The man cocked his head to the right, then leaned toward Fuentes. “Do you love your country?” he asked.
Fuentes hesitated. What was the answer he was looking for? “There are things I love about it,” he finally said.
“Do you think it can be rebuilt?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you think it should be rebuilt?”
The president of the United States looked down. This was where they had him. He answered carefully. “We have made mistakes. Plenty of them. There are many things we shouldn’t have done. We’ve hurt the world, there is no question. Most of the world hates us now, and who are we to blame them, when we even hate ourselves? We’ve oppressed and robbed and plundered. Pumped our filth into the air. We’ve started wars to keep the oil coming, spilling blood to prime the pump . . .”
The old man raised a hand to stop him. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Some of what you said is truthful, but most of it is crap. You’ve got to learn to see the difference.”
Fuentes hesitated. “We’ve grown weak,” he concluded. “We could be stronger, so much stronger, if we take the proper steps.”
The old man pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapped the box, extracted a filter, and held the cigarette between his dry lips. “Do you realize that you can’t lie to me?” he said.
Fuentes kept his eyes down. Such an unusual thing to say.
“You can’t lie to me,” the old man said again. “You can’t deceive me. I can see into your soul. I sense your deepest thoughts by the flicker in your eye. I know your heart by the way you look at me. I know everything about you. More than you even know yourself. You forget. I never do.” The old man stopped, lit the cigarette, and sat back against his chair.
Fuentes started to fidget, brushing his hands across his face.
“You’re forty-seven,” the man continued. “You used to be a Republican but switched parties when your old boss told you there were better opportunities in the new administration for a man such as yourself.”
Fuentes looked up at the old man, his courage building. That was no secret. Anyone who knew him would know about that.
The man drew a breath of smoke, then broke into an evil smile. “You tell your friends and family, even your wife, that you’ve got a lot of money, but the truth is, you’ve got nothing. Not a dime, as far as I can tell, and you’ve been broke for years. If it wasn’t for credit cards, and a handful of overly generous friends, I think you’d be living on the street.”
Fuentes frowned and started to answer but the old man cut him off. “That’s okay, I can live with beggars. It’s some of these other things I find more inter
esting.” He pulled himself forward by the edge of the table. “When you were ten, you and one of your old buddies, what was his name, David Butter, yeah, I’m sure that’s it, the two of you found a litter of kittens in the old barn behind your grandma’s house. Do you remember that, Albert?”
The president sat lower in his seat, his face growing pale now and sick.
“You put them in a small bag . . .”
Fuentes shifted on his chair. A cold chill seeped into the room. “Stop it,” he muttered quietly.
“You dropped them in the creek. Five little kittens. There was no reason. I’ve got to tell you, I think that’s kind of sick. Then, remember back in high school, that sweet young thing you took to the prom—what was her name? Kristen, yes, I think that’s it. A real cute little girl. So much younger than you were . . .”
Fuentes wanted to scream, but he was silent, overcome with gut-wrenching surprise and fear. Who was this man? How did he know these things? Where did he get his information from?
The old man stared at him. His lips were smiling but his eyes were blank and dark. “Funny, isn’t it, Mr. President,” the name was sweet syrup on his lips, “a man of your background and education; a young television reporter, then Harvard, then state attorney general, U.S. assistant attorney general and now president of the United-freakin-States. Yet you have so many peculiar habits. So many late nights on the computer. What are you staring at all that time! Why does your wife sleep in the basement? What is she afraid of, President Fuentes?”
The old man stopped and drew another smoke. Fuentes kept his eyes down. His hands trembled on the table and his breath was short and tight.
“Look at me,” the old man said to him. “Look at me right now.”
Fuentes barely raised his eyes.
The old man leaned toward him. “You’re not who I would have chosen, but some things are beyond even my control. When you’re a member of the Donner party and someone throws you a bone, you’ve got to take it and chew on it, sucking out whatever marrow you can get, know what I mean? And that’s where we are now. Someone threw you to us. Now we’re going to chew.
“But I want you to remember: I know you. I have known you well for years. Yes, we’re going to use you, but there are many things we have to teach you first, many things you need to know. Who I am. Who these others are. What we intend to do. It will come slowly, but we will teach you, and this is your first lesson: You can’t lie to me. You can’t deceive me. So please, don’t even try. All it will do is hurt you. And we don’t want to hurt you, friend.”
Fuentes took a breath and held it, then looked up at the old man. “I understand,” he muttered, though he understood not a thing at all.
“All right, then. We understand each other. Now, let me ask again. We have a chance to rebuild this nation, but in another way, after a different model, a model we’ll control. Are you willing to support us? It all comes down to that.”
Fuentes pressed his lips together and adjusted his perfect hair. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a dry whisper. “If you say you truly know me, then you already know I will.”
The old man smashed his cigarette. “Let’s get to work,” he said.
* * *
They talked for hours, outlining a final agenda, naming key players and responsibilities, and setting up a timeline to put the plan in place. The last thing they had to decide was when the new president would address the people of the United States.
“It will take FEMA days to distribute the equipment throughout the country,” the vice president announced. “It’s a huge problem, getting working television receivers and satellite systems out to all the cities and towns. We don’t want people to congregate any more than they have to—larger crowds are unpredictable and so much harder to control. We want a television in every small town. We’re talking a couple hundred thousand systems . . . it will take a little time.”
“Four days,” the old man prodded.
They agreed that that would work.
Their business complete, the meeting started to break up.
“There is still one problem,” the new vice president said as the group started collecting their things. They hesitated awkwardly, throwing a glance or two in Fuentes’ direction.
“This is private,” the vice said to his new boss.
The president was excused. He left without comment and the group sat down at the conference table once again.
“We think the SecDef is alive,” the vice president announced. “Not only alive, but suspicious. And we can’t find him anywhere.”
The old man’s eyes flashed in anger. “You will take care of him, I am sure.”
The vice nodded. “He’s an old friend. I think I can round him up.”
“And what about King Abdullah?” one of the women wanted to know. His absence from the conference call had not gone unnoticed among the group.
The old man sat back and thought a moment about his good friend, the Saudi king. The group sat in awkward silence. They all knew what he would do.
“You’re going to kill him?” the vice president asked.
The old man stood up from the table. “I don’t think I’ll have to. He’s stupid. He’s too aggressive. And always there’s his foolish, blinding pride. I don’t think I’ll have to do it. We’ll simply let him kill himself.”
Chapter Twenty-One
East Side, Chicago, Illinois
The sound of thudding footsteps rolled down the narrow hallway of the high-rise apartment building. Sam, lying atop a sleeping bag just a few feet from the apartment door, was immediately awake. He sat up and listened carefully to the sound of the passing footsteps, taking measure of them, his nerves on edge, his breathing light. Four people, maybe a few more. Adults. Most of them heavy treaders, probably men. None of them were speaking. They knew where they were going and what they needed to do. The sound faded, the stairwell door slammed, and they were gone. Sam checked his watch: 0345. He stretched, swallowed against the dryness of his mouth, and lay back down. Then, knowing he’d never get to sleep again, he stood.
Luke and Ammon were asleep inside their bags. Luke’s breathing was heavy. It almost sounded sedated. Ammon was curled up, his sleeping bag pushed down around his waist. Sam’s military boots and jacket were lying on the floor beside him. Moving quietly, he pulled on the leather boots, ran the laces behind the quick-lace eyelets, stood, and pulled on his jacket. Turning for the door, he sensed her outline in the darkness and stopped.
“Hey, Azadeh,” he whispered, not wanting to wake his brothers up.
She barely nodded to him, afraid to speak.
He moved toward the door. She followed closely. “Where are you going?” she whispered once she got very close.
“Thought I’d go up on the roof and take a look around.”
She moved a little closer to him. “Can I come with you?”
Sam hesitated. “I don’t know. It might be better if you stayed here.”
She dropped her eyes. The whites, large as they were, were barely visible in the dark. “I’ve been inside this apartment for a very long time. Days. It seems much longer. If I could please just come with you, it would . . .” she hesitated, searching for the right word . . . “it would mean good things to me.”
Sam smiled, wondering what word she had been searching for. “It’s going to be cold up there.”
She was already holding her coat and she stepped toward the door. He helped her put her coat on, then pulled the door back. The hallway was empty and he led the way toward the stairs.
* * *
The moon, a quarter full, waning and burning orange, was already low on the western horizon when they came out on the roof. With no city lights to drown them out, the stars filled the night sky, a million of them or more. A light wind was blowing from the south, and Sam sniffed the air. “A cold front is going to move through sometime in the next day or so,” he said.
Azadeh nodded, pretending to understand though she had no idea what he
meant. Sam watched her, knowing she was faking it, and explained. “A south wind at this time of year and up here in the north,” he pointed to his left, “usually means a low pressure is moving through. The wind circles around a low pressure in a counterclockwise direction.” His voice trailed off. He had lost her again. “It’s going to turn cold in the next day or two,” he said more simply.
Azadeh nodded. That she could understand. She shivered anyway. “It seems cold right now,” she said.
Sam reached out and pulled her collar up around her ears. “I guess Chicago is a lot colder than Iran?”
Her hair was loose and it blew behind her, falling in shadows down her back. Her face was almond colored in the moonlight and her eyes were large and bright. Sam felt his stomach tighten as he looked at her and he tried hard not to stare. “I grew up in the mountains,” she said. “My village was in the Agha Jari Deh Valley. Remember? You have been there.”
Sam remembered very well.
“I am used to the cold.” Still, she shivered. Sam knew that she was scared.
“It’s going to be okay,” he told her.
She looked at him and nodded. “I think it will.” She brushed a strand of hair away. “I saw what you did on that first night, back in the car. I saw what happened to your brother. I saw what you did for Kelly Beth. I don’t understand it. It makes me feel . . . awkward. Is that the right word? I don’t think that it is. It makes me feel funny. There is a strangeness in my chest. It keeps me warm. It makes it so I can’t sleep. I wonder what it means?”
Sam hunched his shoulders, struggling for his own words. He was not good at this and it scared him that he might say the wrong thing and screw it up. “It’s going to take a while to understand it. But it has to do with God. With Allah. He is real. Do you believe that?”
“I know that He is real.”
“Do you believe that He can hear us? Do you believe that He can answer our prayers?”
She looked away. “I have prayed my whole life.”
Sam waited, noticing she had left his actual question unanswered. But her face was softer now and not so full of fear.
The Great and Terrible Page 129
