by Jim Stark
"That's all for now,” shouted Cadbury as he and Randall rose to leave. “I'm sure the Prime Minister will have something to say this afternoon, in the House."
Chapter 25
I SAW VICTOR
The doctors were surprised by Annette's rapid recovery, both physically and emotionally. Incredibly, she'd been speaking since Sunday, yesterday, the day after the attack, at least during those short periods of time when the drugs weren't knocking her out cold. The only parts of her face that could be seen were her right eye, her right cheek, her nostrils, and her mouth, but there was little of her indomitable spirit that couldn't be seen or heard ... or admired ... by those who tended to her.
Randall Whiteside had pulled a few political strings, and had managed to loosen up the police protection around Annette's room at the Ottawa General. Helen had been over to visit her several times, and now permission had been given for Steve Sutherland to be in her room to watch Randall's noon-hour press conference on the TV.
Steve would have visited earlier, but he hardly knew the girl. He'd only met her last Friday, and danced with her once that evening. He assumed that her boyfriend, that Lou Glassen chap, the dentist, would be by her side whenever Helen couldn't be there. When Helen told him that Glassen was refusing to visit because he didn't want to get involved in the legal process that was sure to follow the assault on the lodge, Steve decided two things. First, he would practice what he had been preaching for thirty-something years, and second, this Glassen fellow had to be a certified goof.
* * *
Annette had never been a man before, and she couldn't get over how different everything looked. Suddenly, other men were unthreatening, and that was wonderful! And women! My gracious! They were ... how exactly to put this ... “scrumptious!” She ... or he ... wanted to talk to total strangers, female strangers, about sex, and send out coded signals of arousal. No wonder men are such a pain, she thought, with such feelings to control all the time, or try to control, or not control.
It was the day of Peru's national election, and an entire village was trudging through the heat—several villages, in fact—in a herd. Annette lagged back and turned away from the peasants, who were walking in a clump towards the Sisco Consolidated Gold Mine office. She desperately needed to hand-shuffle her new body parts. It wasn't unbearable, being a man, but the way those various appendages flopped around, it didn't take much of a shift of shorts to make her ... him ... feel uncomfortable.
On the plus side, she was tanned and shirtless under the Peruvian sun, and no one seemed to take any note of that fact, or care. What a glorious sense of freedom, walking bare-chested in public without having half the population staring at her nipples ... his nipples ... that's if you don't count the eighteen-year-old filly walking with her mom up ahead, the one that keeps glancing back, the one with the great jugs and the tight little...
God, thought Annette, I don't believe I'm having these feelings. I can't get through a damned millisecond without my libido distracting me. How do men manage that?
"Why are you voting for Manuel Valdez?” she asked an elderly farmer she'd caught up to.
The man's head was bent permanently forwards, as if someone had cruelly snipped the sinews in the back of his neck. He rotated the whole leathery works clockwise, just enough to glimpse the youngster with the dumb-assed question. His red-rimmed eyes didn't scold or scoff, but they seemed to know things, ancient truths and secrets that only old farmers are allowed to understand.
"'Cuz he don’ wannit,” he scowled, or the Spanish equivalent. “They checked it out with that beeper thingamabob, and it's for sure he don’ wannit. If they do wannit, they's full o’ shit. If they don’ wannit, well, maybe they's full o’ shit and maybe they ain't."
"Who's the babe with the D-cup hooters?” she asked her ancient traveling companion. Did I actually say that? she wondered. “That testosterone stuff is ... bad dope,” she said aloud.
"Are you ... okay?” asked Steve.
"Steve—uh—hi ... oh, jeeze. I guess I nodded off."
"Boy, you were really squirming around and moaning. I didn't want to wake you, but I was afraid you were having a relapse or something."
"A relapse of what?” she asked fuzzily.
"Annette, you ... almost died a couple of days ago,” said Steve.
She smiled at the memory of seeing Victor, and her dear-departed mom and dad ... so young they were!
"You were ... dreaming,” Steve said gently.
"God, was I ever,” she said. “What a dream! I dreamt I was a man, and I had my shirt off and...” Her voice dropped off, and her good eye closed. It wasn't easy to maintain consciousness at times. But no sooner had she drifted away than she floated back up to the present moment ... and all of that was okay, she decided.
"Earlier this morning, I laughed out loud for the first time,” she said proudly ... she meant for the first time since she was shot. “There were these two kids down the hall. They were fighting. It was splendid."
The former bishop had been holding Annette's hand while they watched Whiteside's press conference on CBC's Newsworld channel. She had asked him to do that, and he was thrilled ... and scared ... but mostly thrilled. And this lovely wounded warrior had stayed awake and alert almost to the end, and then ... well, it was understandable.
There were a few times when he felt that her squeezes said more than just: “Hey, I'm sick, and I appreciate your being here for me.” He had reprimanded himself silently for thinking it could be anything else, or anything more. This woman had almost died, after all, and he was a priest ... or used to be ... still was, technically.
"Shouldn't you be resting now?” he asked, giving his hand a slight tug, hoping she might realize that it was time to let go.
"Steve,” she whispered, holding on tighter and opening her eye, “watching television for the last few minutes is one of the few things I've been able to do besides rest since the ... accident. I want to talk, okay? And not about my health and not about the God damned LieDeck."
The chair at the side of the bed was becoming uncomfortable, and Steve realized that he was being asked to act like a human being, a male human being, and not like a priest. He hadn't done that, strictly speaking, since he was eighteen or so, and he was afraid of behaving like a teenager if he tried, or let himself.
"Doesn't it hurt you to talk?” he asked.
"Probably,” she admitted, “but I can hardly feel it. The medication I got just before Mr. Whiteside came on TV, it's kicking in now. I was thinking about that nice dinner we had out at the lodge? I was pretty quiet that day, wasn't I? Do you remember?"
"I ... didn't really notice,” said Steve.
"Liar,” she said.
Steve smiled and flipped his eyebrows as if to say, “Well, you can't win them all."
"Okay, I remember,” he said. “What of it?"
Annette winced a little, and sighed. The painkillers were good, but not perfect. Steve wished she would take his advice and get some rest.
"I saw Victor,” she said, as her good eye closed. “And for just a moment, I saw my parents too—and they were young—younger than me."
She must be hallucinating, thought Steve. “I'm ... sorry, Annette,” he said. “You lost me there."
"I died,” she said simply. “I died and went to heaven ... and now I'm back. It wasn't my time."
"You rest now, Annette,” he said affectionately as he stood up. He kissed her on the cheek and extricated his hand. He didn't want to confuse her or upset her by mentioning that Victor couldn't be in heaven since he was very much alive, and it seemed that she was passing out again anyway. “I'll come back again ... tomorrow,” he whispered. “We can talk about it then."
Steve looked down at the woman who had just faded away, to become a man, to drop in on God, or heaven, or whatever. He remembered that glorious dance they'd had at the Beach Barn, and wondered why he had pleaded fatigue that night and fled to the safety of his cottage in Norway Bay. Maybe testost
erone really is bad dope, he said to himself as he turned to leave, but it sure feels fine.
Chapter 26
YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND
Cam O'Connor had never been to the United Nations before, and he found it intimidating to throw his eyes down a row of 195 national flags. It was 12:45 p.m., and he stood under the warm New York sun, admiring the gray tower on the banks of the East River. Dozens of nameless diplomats and international civil servants came and went about the business of the world in the minute that he stood there with his briefcase between his ankles. I'm not sure this is a good idea, he said to himself, but then I'm not the boss.
His meeting wasn't until 1:00 p.m., but he decided he'd better go ahead in. He'd been warned that security at the UN office tower was tight—at times ridiculously tight—so he grabbed his briefcase and set about the business of discombobulating a planet, or saving it from itself, or whatever.
Getting an appointment with the Secretary General on short notice had been no easy task. Fortunately, Randall did a lot of business in Costa Rica. Cam had made use of the personal relationship between Whiteside and the president of that Central American democracy to get the appointment. The evening before, he had visited the Costa Rican ambassador, and basically traded a LieDeck for the favor. That was the price—a fifteen-hour head start on the pack for the Costa Ricans. Why this obscure country might need or want a head start, or what they might do with it, was a mystery to Cam ... and none of my business, he reminded himself.
"Ambassador Rodrigo,” he said cheerily as he entered the main doors of the UN tower. “Thank you for meeting me.” They shook hands briefly, formally.
"You are welcome,” said the ambassador. “I must tell you, I called my president after you left last night, at 10:00 p.m., and he had me charter an airplane to deliver your device directly to his casa presidential, with all possible haste. It was in his hands, in San José, by 4:00 a.m. I don't know whether you realize it, but this LieDeck is going to make big problems. By eleven o'clock this morning, having possessed your device for only seven hours, six ministers of my Government were fired, and two more were arrested. I have been told that later today, several foreign diplomats are to be expelled from Costa Rica because of the thing. One general in our civilian guard has apparently committed suicide. I cannot imagine what tomorrow's news will be."
"Really?” asked Cam, instinctively, although his own LieDeck, set on the pin mode, made it unnecessary to seek confirmation.
As they arrived at the security desk, Cam put his briefcase on the counter, expecting that it would be searched.
"It's okay,” said the ambassador. “He's with me."
The guard nodded, and the chief of Patriot Security was appalled. If I were a terrorist, he thought, the Secretary General would be toast. I guess it pays to be Caucasian.
The entrance to the United Nations tower was a large rotunda, two large stories tall. It was almost empty, what with the Christians having a good excuse not to go to work on Easter Monday. The two men rode up the glass-sided escalator to the mezzanine floor in silence.
The ambassador was not the same man he'd been the night before. When Cam was at the Costa Rican mission, Rodrigo had been courteous at first, but as he realized what the LieDeck was, how it worked, and what its potential was, he had become effusive in his admiration for the device and lavish in his praise for Whiteside's plan to share this new technology through the United Nations Organization. Now, however, after a sleepless night and a loud, long-distance argument with his foreign minister—who had since been fired—he wasn't so sure he wanted to have anything to do with the LieDeck.
They walked from the top of the escalator to a bank of elevators, and again they rode in silence. Cam made several attempts at small talk, but it was clear the ambassador wanted to keep his word, and nothing more. “I will introduce you to Dr. Denthor Gütsch, according to my instructions,” he said, “and then I must leave.” When they arrived at the large office on the 39th floor, the top floor, Ambassador Rodrigo did just that, leaving Cam alone with a total stranger.
The Secretary General was old, with gray hair and enough worry lines in his face to cover a difficult planet. He was a Dane by birth, but a man of all nations by temperament and profession, a man who took strutting presidents and imperial potentates in stride. This particular rendezvous, however, had been arranged through the proverbial back door and was shrouded in mystery. He felt uncomfortable, manipulated, even a bit frightened. The notation in his calendar read: “Ambassador Rodrigo, 1 p.m., four minutes—urgent.” But now there was no Ambassador Rodrigo in his office, and that was hardly diplomatic, to say the least.
"What is the nature of your business with me?” he asked frostily, without offering Cam a seat or a coffee.
"Dr. Gütsch, a new device has been invented,” said Cam politely, “and it is going to change the world dramatically. By five o'clock this afternoon, one of these devices will be in the hands of every UN ambassador, a gift from Whiteside Technologies, a Canadian firm. I have been instructed to deliver five to you, to do with as you please."
As Cam explained and demonstrated the LieDeck, Secretary General Gütsch felt his heart flop around madly in his chest. “The governments of nations cannot deal with this,” he said abruptly, and the LieDeck in Cam's hand told him that it was true ... or at least that it was the man's honest belief. “Turn that off."
Cam turned off the LieDeck. “But surely you—"
"The United Nations is in the business of building trust,” said Gütsch. “I refuse to participate in any process that will bring down the edifice that I have spent a lifetime constructing. I do not accept your gift. Please tell Mr. Whiteside that I fear that he has acted most irresponsibly, imprudently, and tell him I said ... I am not sure if I can say this correctly in English ... ‘Forgive them, Father, for they don't know what they're doing.’ Good day to you, sir. I think you should go now."
Cam placed the LieDeck he was holding back in the briefcase and closed the lid. He was stunned. He had entered this office in awe of its occupant. A scant six minutes later, he was looking at a man who had shrunk to the size of a plastic doll, the tiniest ones you might get as a prize in a box of Cracker Jacks.
Not without a fight, he said to himself. He discreetly lifted a hand to his shirt pocket, inside his suit coat, and flipped a switch.
"One question, and I will go, Dr. Gütsch,” he said forcefully. “Are you certain it's in the interests of world peace to reject this act of faith by Mr. Whiteside?"
"I am,” said the Secretary General with equal force.
"Beep."
"You're lying,” said Cam. He pulled out his own LieDeck and held it at arm's length towards the UN chief, like the condemning finger of the Grand Inquisitor. “And in my inside jacket pocket, on the other side, is a tape-recorder. I will broadcast your lie to the world unless you reconsider your response at once."
Dr. Gütsch had been standing behind his desk, in front of his plush chair, but now he fell back into the seat as if his knees had simply stopped working. “I ... can't do that,” he said quietly.
"Beep."
"I cannot tell you why."
"Beep."
"You wouldn't understand,” he continued doggedly.
"Beep."
"You can tell me, and I would understand,” declared Cam.
The Secretary General dropped his chin onto his sternum and ran both his hands up his forehead, over his thin hair. As they came slowly down the sides of his neck, he raised his head and looked with pity on the fool with the briefcase full of political napalm. “You ... you should have taken my good advice,” he said. “Now I must ask you to go."
"Beep."
O'Connor could do no more, so he left as he had come, with the five LieDecks in his briefcase. As he stood in the elevator on the way down, he felt confused, and suspicious. Then it hit him. His LieDeck had beeped after Dr. Gütsch said, “I must ask you to go,” but not when he said, “You should have taken my good
advice."
He spoke the truth on that one, Cam said to himself. I should have taken his advice. It was a warning, intended or otherwise. He glanced up and saw that he was just passing the ninth floor. He pushed “7” on the panel, and when the doors opened, he walked out, turned right, and strode down the hall, looking for any safe haven.
"Suite 718—Office of the High Commissioner for Refugees,” read the sign on the door, in English, French, Russian, Chinese and Arabic. It would have to do. He opened the door and entered a reception area, where he was greeted by a young Indian woman in a sari. “May I help you?” she asked hesitantly. "Puis-je vous aider?"
Cam knew deductively that something was seriously wrong in the UN. The worst-case scenario? The entire building could be bugged. He touched his lips and made hand and facial gestures that were intended to indicate that he couldn't talk. Then he took his pen from his shirt pocket and mimed a request for writing paper. The puzzled secretary sensed no danger from her unexpected visitor. She can't be part of what's wrong here, thought Cam as she tore off a page from a pad.
"PLEASE,” he wrote, “my life is in danger. I must see your boss. Give this note to him, I beg you."
He gave the note to the woman and placed his hands together in a praying position, shaking them vigorously, with a desperate look on his face. He placed an index finger briefly on his lips, entreating her not to speak, and then got down on his knees to repeat the praying gesture, shaking and all.
The secretary hadn't just worked with refugees in the field; she'd been one. She knew the face of stark fear, and this man had it, in spades. With a nod of her head, she asked Cam to be seated and disappeared into the inner office. A minute later, an old Pakistani gentleman emerged and signaled Cam to enter. His name was Dr. G'lohreah Pavay, by his card, offered and accepted silently.
