Wycliffe waited for the crowd to calm. “We may not have cause to gloat, but we most certainly have cause to celebrate. A message has been sent to the wealthy, to the corrupt and greedy who would control our lives. We will not tolerate them! We are coming for them! And now let us celebrate, for tonight has been a victory for the United States of America!” A fresh roar came up from the crowd. “And now President-Elect Jones would like to say a few words.”
Wycliffe stepped to the side as Jones took the podium. He considered using the Voice to dictate Jones’s speech and decided against it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Jones, his voice magisterial, his face solemn and presidential. “I have only two things to say. First, I would like to thank all the campaign workers and volunteers who have labored so long and so hard. This victory would not be a reality without your diligent and faithful labors. And more thing.” An appropriate level of emotion welled up in his voice. If nothing else, Jones was a good actor. “God bless the United States of America!”
The crowd cheered again. Wycliffe and Jones smiled, shook hands, and disappeared behind the curtain once more.
“We did it,” said Jones as they walked through the back corridor to Wycliffe’s offices. “We actually did it. President of the United States. I can hardly believe it. I’d wanted to be President since I was a little boy, you know. But…I never thought it would actually happen, not at my age…”
Wycliffe snorted. “Do you seriously think I have a spent a year and tens of millions of dollars in order to lose a presidential campaign?”
Jones shook his head. “No. I suppose not. We have a lot to discuss, Thomas. Quite a bit needs to be decided. Appointments have to be made and so forth.”
“Tomorrow,” said Wycliffe. “It’s late and it’s been a very long day. We can decide matters tomorrow.”
“One thing first,” said Jones. “I want Secret Service protection. Immediately.”
Wycliffe stopped. “What?”
Jones quivered a bit but did not look away. “Secret Service protection. I want it at once. You refused it during the campaign. That’s all well and good, but I want it now.”
Wycliffe raised an eyebrow. “You don’t feel safe with my bodyguards? You’ll hurt Goth’s feelings.”
Now Jones did look away. “Goth…I don’t think he and the others have any feelings at all. I want Secret Service protection, Thomas, and I will get it.”
Wycliffe was astonished. Did Jones have a backbone after all? Perhaps he had planned to rebel after the election all along, hiding behind the office of the presidency. If so, then Wycliffe would nip this little insurrection in the bud. “Go to bed, old man,” said Wycliffe, the full command of the Voice behind his words.
Jones jerked, a muscle in his face shaking.
“We will discuss this in the morning,” said Wycliffe. “Now go to bed.” Jones turned and marched away, stiff-legged. Wycliffe sighed and watched him go.
He might have to give Jones to Goth sooner than planned.
###
“Excellent, excellent,” said Wycliffe. He had plugged a microphone headset into his phone, freeing his hands to type at his computer. “I’m pleased we were able to come to agreement on this matter.” He had countless more phone calls to make in the next few days, thanking supporters, congratulating the new Gracchan congressmen and Senators, compromising with opponents. “Now, I believe that wraps everything up…”
Someone knocked, and Wycliffe glared at his office door. No one was to disturb him until after lunch. He hung up and removed the headset. “Come in. And this had better be important.”
The door opened. Goth stalked inside, ominous in his black coat.
Wycliffe dropped the headset on his desk. “I did not want to be disturbed.”
“The sniveling worm is here to see you.” Goth had taken a strong dislike to Senator Jones. “He insisted. I would have killed him, except you wish him kept alive.”
“Gracious of you,” said Wycliffe. “Very well, let him in.” He smirked. “It’s time the new president and I had a chat. And if it doesn’t go the way I hope, well, I may give him to you sooner than I had planned.”
Goth’s grinned, yellowed fangs visible for a moment beneath his fake beard. Then he disappeared through the doorway. A few moments later Senator Jones strode into the office, clutching a sheaf of papers.
“Ah, Thomas,” said Jones. He pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down. “It’s time we had a discussion.”
Wycliffe folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Well, good.” Jones hesitated, shuffled his papers, and plunged in. “I’ve come a decision concerning certain Cabinet appointments.” He dropped a list on Wycliffe’s desk. “These would work best. I want you to call them, ask them to serve. And I’d like you to take a speaking tour while I go to Washington for military and defense briefings.” He looked Wycliffe in the eye and trembled a bit. “And I’m going to get Secret Service protection, Thomas. I’m through with those…those monstrosities of yours in the black coats. They’re not safe, and I refuse to have anything more to do with them.”
Wycliffe chuckled. “You’re telling me what to do?”
Jones licked his lips. “I am the President-Elect of the United States, and you are the Vice President-Elect.” His expression stiffened. “I am grateful for all your help during the campaign, certainly, but I will be president, and you will do as I say.” He stood. “I trust I am understood?”
Wycliffe laughed. “William, William, William. I understand completely.” The Voice roared into his words. “Now sit down!”
For a moment Jones struggled against the compulsion of the Voice, and then he plopped back into the chair. “Stop this at once, I insist…”
“Be silent,” said Wycliffe, and Jones’s jaw clicked shut. “Now, listen to me, you gutless worm. You’re quite right that it’s time you and I have a talk. When you walk out of that door…if you walk out of that door…you’ve going to have a clear understanding of your role here, do you understand?”
Jones’s eyes darted back and forth in his terrified face, silver hair falling over his sweating forehead.
Wycliffe leaned forward, scowling. “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear. You did not win the election. I did. You may be President, but you will do as I say.”
Jones’s face twisted as he struggled to speak. “So…I’m…to be a figurehead?”
Wycliffe redoubled the Voice. “I said to be silent!” Jones’s jaw slammed shut. “This is how it’s going to be. You will do as I say. You will do all the speeches, the addresses before Congress, the political appointments, the top-secret briefings, the political appearances, all of it. You will be the President in the public eye. But you will carry out my instructions exactly. You will give the speeches I write, you will appoint the people I tell you to appoint, you do exactly what I tell you to do, no more, and no less.”
“That’s what you’ve really wanted all along, isn’t it?” whispered Jones. “You’re going to be President in all but name. I’ll take the blame for anything that goes wrong. You’ll squeeze two terms out of me while you rule behind the scenes. And then you’ll run under your own name for another eight years.”
Wycliffe snorted. “It’s taken you this long to figure it out? I’d always believed you to be a small-minded fool.” He got up, stalked around the desk, and glared down at the trembling older man. “And I want you to understand one final thing. I don’t need you.”
“What?” stammered Jones. “But…a figurehead…you said…”
“I’m vice president,” said Wycliffe. He grinned. “Try and think about that, old man. How does the vice president become president?”
Jones went white. “You wouldn’t…”
“Would I?” said Wycliffe. “I suppose you’re right. I wouldn’t kill you. Oh, no. I’d give you to Goth instead.” Jones flinched. “He hates you, you know. I’m not entirely sure why. I’m not too fond of you my
self, but Goth despises you.” Wycliffe laughed and leaned closer. “He’d play with you for weeks, before he finally decided to kill you. And it would look like an accident once he was finished. I’d declare public mourning, make a solemn speech at the National Cathedral…and then I’d be president.” Wycliffe shrugged. “So what if I’m president in my own name a few years ahead of schedule? Once my two terms are up, there are other ways to control the new president, just as I’ve controlled you. I could be national security adviser, or the secretary of defense. Or I could even be vice president once again.”
“Someone will find out, eventually,” said Jones, his voice a terrified croak. “Someone will find out what you’ve done.”
Wycliffe snorted. “Pardon my language, but that’s bullshit. I’ve been a politician for eighteen years.” He smiled at the memory of Eddie Carson and the strategy that won a Senate seat. “I’ve used the black magic, in some way, to win every election since the first one. And no one has ever stopped me. Now, Mr. President-elect, here are your choices. You may serve as my figurehead. Do so, and you will have the respect of the world. You will be famous, admired, even beloved. You might even win a Nobel Peace Prize, if some of my foreign policy plans go as I hope. Or you may choose to stand on principle…which you’ve never before done in your miserable life, I must point out…and choose to defy me. In which case, I hand you over to Goth right now. He’s waiting out in the hallway.”
Jones didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do what you want.”
Wycliffe beamed. “Very good, Mr. President-elect. I always thought you were a prudent man. Now go back to your rooms and relax. Have a martini, watch a movie. I have some more work to do. Tomorrow I have a list of announcements for you to make. I shall contact you then.” Wycliffe fluttered his fingers. “Go.”
Jones nodded, rose, and staggered from the office.
Wycliffe was going to have to kill Jones much sooner than he had hoped. Perhaps he could wait a year, have Jones argue with Congress. Then Wycliffe could present himself as Jones’s successor, carrying on the great statesman’s battle against the corruption of the wealthy.
Wycliffe laughed and picked up his phone. “Politics,” he said to himself, “is such utter nonsense.”
The door opened again. Wycliffe scowled. “Now what…”
Vasily Kurkov strolled inside, trailed by two of his security people. He dropped himself in the chair Jones had vacated and propped his feet on Wycliffe’s desk.
Wycliffe sighed. “Ah. Vasily. So good to see you again.”
“Senator.” Kurkov grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Or should I say Vice President? I saw your speech on the television. Very inspiring.” He clapped a few times. “It made me want to stand up and cheer.”
“How I’ve missed your sarcasm,” said Wycliffe. A bit of worry stirred within him “Did you enjoy your trip to Los Angeles?”
Kurkov’s grin widened. “Oh, did I indeed. The weather is far nicer. You ought to have become a senator from California, not from Illinois.”
Wycliffe fiddled with a pen. “And was your trip successful?”
“Yes.”
Wycliffe let out a long sigh of relief. “Good. Finally.”
Kurkov nodded. “I agree. It has been a most trying few months. My organization has suffered tremendously.” He smirked. “Fortunately, the cash outlay for the bomb will go a long way in repairing the damage.”
“Details?” said Wycliffe.
“I have a freighter waiting in Vladivostok.” Kurkov scowled. “To prevent the chance of treachery and incompetence, I have assembled a crew of my own people. The ship will leave port in one week’s time.” He fumbled through his black jacket and produced a pack of Camels and a lighter.
“Please don’t smoke in here,” said Wycliffe. “I’ll never get the smell out.”
Kurkov ignored him and lit up. “So, the ship will leave in a week. My captain thinks it will take three weeks to cross the Pacific safely. Then another week to transport the bomb from Los Angeles to here.”
“Why another week after the ship arrives?” said Wycliffe. “You could get it here in two days.”
Kurkov tapped ash onto the carpeting. “Authorities must be avoided. Customs officials must be bribed. These things take time, as you well know. So we have five weeks to wait. Expect the bomb between December 15th and December 25th.” He grinned. “You may be able to give Lord Marugon a very expensive Christmas present.”
“I should say so.”
Kurkov blew out a cloud of smoke. “The price is up to fifty million, by the way.”
“Fifty million dollars?” said Wycliffe, his voice rising to a shout. “Are you out of your addled mind? The agreement was for thirty million.”
“Expenses,” said Kurkov. “Do you have anything to drink?”
“No.”
Kurkov grumbled. “I took heavy losses during the crackdown in Vladivostok. I must make those losses up if I am to turn a profit from this affair.”
Wycliffe rubbed his forehead. “Fine. Just have the damn thing here by December. If Marugon could have waited until January, I could have given him all the bombs he would ever need. Yet he insists on having the damned nuke as soon as possible. And I still don’t even know what he intends to do with it.” Suppose Marugon intended to use the bomb in the United States? It would not do to start President Jones’s term with a disaster of such magnitude.
Kurkov shrugged. “Does it matter? Let him take the bomb back to his world and blow a city to radioactive slag. He will have to deal with the consequences, not us.” He snickered and puffed on his cigarette. “And perhaps we can make even more money selling him medical equipment.”
“Perhaps.” Wycliffe stood. “Well, we had best go give Lord Marugon the good news.” Kurkov rose, put out his cigarette, and dropped the butt in the trash. “The entire time you’ve been gone Vasily, that’s all he’s talked about. The bomb, the bomb, when is he getting his precious nuclear bomb? That and the girl.”
“The girl?” said Kurkov. They walked into the hallway, making for warehouse 13A. Goth followed them like a dark shadow.
“You remember,” said Wycliffe, walking into the complex’s yard. Cold flurries of snow whipped across the cracked concrete. “This mysterious red-headed girl he thinks he saw at the honors dinner.” A few of the dockworkers waved as he passed. Wycliffe grinned his Senator’s smile and waved back. “When he isn’t talking about the nuclear bomb, he talks about her. He seems to think she has the white magic or some such nonsense.”
“So have you found this girl?” said Kurkov.
Wycliffe snorted. “No. I doubt she exists. I had my researchers do a few searches, but nothing came up. Frankly, I think Marugon’s mind is…starting to go.” Wycliffe shook his head. “Perhaps the strain of conquest overthrew his reason. But whatever it is, he’s become erratic. He rarely sleeps. He spends all his time muttering spells of the black magic to himself, at least when he’s not complaining about the bomb and the girl.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Marugon plans to go out in a blaze of fire with the bomb.”
Kurkov scowled. “Not here, I hope.”
The squat bulk of warehouse 13A loomed before them. Wycliffe fished his keycard out of his pocket as a van came around the corner and stopped before the doors. The van’s doors opened, and Dr. Krastiny, Schzeran, and Bronsky got out, clad in the dark coveralls of exterminators.
“Dr. Krastiny,” said Wycliffe. “Good to see you again.”
“Congratulations on your successful election, Mr. Vice President-Elect,” said Krastiny. “Quite a remarkable victory.”
Wycliffe swiped his keycard through the warehouse’s lock. “And yet you were not here to share it.”
“No,” said Krastiny. He looked grave. “I was not.”
They trooped into the gloomy warehouse. The door to the Tower stood closed, the dark marble gleaming with a faint green glow. Wycliffe glanced over the meat freezers that lined the walls. He had hidden over two hundred of the changelin
gs within the freezers, keeping them starved and maddened in the dark. Marugon had been right. They would make a useful reserve, should events turn sour. “So tell me. Why were you out and about? I thought you would take advantage of Vasily’s absence and enjoy a vacation.”
“Unfortunately not,” said Krastiny. They reached the elevator. “Lord Marugon gave us an assignment instead.”
Wycliffe went rigid. “What? Lord Marugon sent you out?” Krastiny nodded. “To do what?”
“Senator Wycliffe,” said Krastiny. He looked deadly serious, more shaken than Wycliffe had ever seen him. “It is quite imperative I report to Lord Marugon at once.” Goth shifted, light glinting off his mirrored sunglasses.
Wycliffe scowled. “Very well.” They filed into the elevator. “If it is so urgent, fine. But we have news for Marugon as well.”
The elevator opened into Wycliffe’s bunker. He strode down the corridor, beneath the humming lights and the metal pipes, and to the library door. Wycliffe pushed it open and stepped inside. Only a few of the lights were on. Shadows lay gathered in the corners, pooled beneath the chairs and the tables.
Marugon sat alone in one of the overstuffed chairs, wrapped in his black robes, his head bowed. Wycliffe felt the faint chill of black magic. Was Marugon working a spell?
Wycliffe pushed aside his trepidation and stepped forward. “Lord Marugon.”
Marugon’s gaze snapped up, fixing on Wycliffe. “Senator Wycliffe.” Wycliffe tried not to shudder beneath the weight of that black, empty gaze. “Or should I say Vice President Wycliffe?” He chuckled without humor. “Or perhaps President Wycliffe? I fear you shall soon tire of your puppet Jones, yes?”
Wycliffe swallowed. “That’s right. I’ve won the election.”
“Very good,” said Marugon. His eyes narrowed. “So, I presume you now have time to obtain my bomb?”
“Yes,” said Wycliffe. “And I have some very good news about that. Vasily?”
A Wizard of the White Council Page 15
