He signed off and, as he did so, saw the clock. It was late but he would still make it for the better part of the meeting.
As he drove, a smile came slowly to his face as he thought about Morgan. Perhaps he had been too hard on the man. Perhaps Morgan wasn’t mocking him, but admiring him when he coined that nickname. After all, he was a bit of a genie. Ambrose Patriota’s wish was his command. Sometimes, Ambrose didn’t even have to make a wish for Eugene to grant it.
Magic.
“I’ll come get you, Jo. I can catch the next plane.” – Archer
“Don’t come. I’ll make my flight. I’m at the airport now.” – Josie
“Call me when you’re on the ground. You have carry on, right?”- Archer
“Yes.” – Josie
“We’ll leave Max with Faye. I’ll have her cover your stuff at the office for the next few days. Just take it easy when you get back.” – Archer
“No. I need to work. And I want to see, Max. I want to see you. Do you think that girl was Hannah?” – Josie
“No, Jo. She wouldn’t have left you.” – Archer
“She did once.” – Josie
“She didn’t have a choice then. Get some sleep on the plane.”– Archer
“It could have been Hannah.” – Josie
“I don’t think so.” – Archer
“But he said…” – Josie
“Don’t cry, babe.” – Archer
“I’m not. I’m not.” – Josie
CHAPTER 8
Josie put her phone away, finished her drink, and sat staring at all the things she had collected that night. She didn’t know how long she sat like that or what prompted her to snap out of it. At some point she realized there was not going to be an epiphany sitting in a now closed bar at Dulles in a stupor. Josie did the only thing she could think to do: she dug in her purse for the tags she’d taken off the suitcase in Ian Francis’ room, shoved away from the table, hitched her bag, and took them to the first United Airlines counter she came to.
“Excuse me. Could you tell me where this flight originated?” She passed the luggage tags across the counter. The woman in the uniform started typing. A minute later, she had the information Josie wanted.
“Really,” Josie muttered. Then she said: “Can you book me through from LAX?”
“When would you like that?” The woman asked.
“What’s the first one going out tomorrow?”
“It leaves at seven in the morning. You won’t have much time between flights.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Josie handed the woman her credit card. When she was done, Josie dialed Archer again.
“I need you to meet me at the airport with a few things,” Josie said.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I’m going to Hawaii.”
***
“Ambrose?”
Lydia Patriota opened the door of the den smoothly, making her presence known with that one perfectly modulated word and a hint of extraordinary perfume. Although she called to her husband, the other men in the room immediately acknowledged her with admiring looks. She rewarded them with a quick and winning smile.
Lydia Patriota was a lovely woman many years the senator’s junior but blessed with a grace and carriage that belied her youth. She was the second Ms. Patriota, the first having passed on some fifteen years earlier leaving behind Ambrose and two children who were now grown, successful, and above reproach. Of Lydia’s many charms, the fact that the second Mrs. Patriota did not want her own children despite being of childbearing age was high on Ambrose’s list of things he liked about her. He had no desire to be the butt of jokes about his virility, nor did he wish to leave a child orphaned should life not bless him with immortality, neither did he have time to spend with a little one. That he and Lydia loved one another as perfect, powerful, pretty people can was just icing on the cake. He had no doubt that, at his passing, she would be a most lovely widow and that she would truly mourn him. Luckily, she would not be wearing weeds anytime soon.
“Is there anything else you gentlemen need for the evening?” Lydia asked.
“Thank you, dear, we’re fine.” Ambrose answered for the four men in the living room.
“I’ll be going upstairs then,” she said. “Don’t keep my husband up too late. And Woodrow, I don’t care who you are, honey, don’t smoke in the house. Standing next to an open window does not draw the smoke out on a night like this. You’ve only succeeded in making the room chilly and stinky.”
With that, she left the men to their confab and went to her bedroom thinking how interesting it would be when the stairs she climbed were those in the White House. Behind her, the men chuckled their appreciation. There was something quite nice about a beautiful woman who wasn’t afraid to slap their wrists. Ambrose, as Lydia’s husband, took great delight in their delight. For Lydia, after all, belonged to him.
Then Ambrose’s eyes fell on Eugene. The boy – for that was how he always thought of Eugene Weller – had not enjoyed Lydia’s interruption. Pity. Eugene would do well to hook his horse to a woman. At least then he would have someone to concentrate on besides Ambrose and somewhere to release his nervous energy. Tonight he seemed even more preoccupied than usual and his intensity was wearing. Perhaps it was because he had come late to the meeting; his normally unflappable demeanor had been disturbed by the breach in his scheduling. Annoyed, Ambrose finished his drink, and set aside the glass, missing the marble coaster and landing it hard on the fine wood.
“Better watch it, Ambrose. Lydia is going to have your head tomorrow if she sees a water ring on that wood,” Jerry laughed.
“Lydia’s displeasure is a thing to be feared, Jerry,” Ambrose agreed as Eugene swooped toward the glass.
Ambrose waved him away and rectified the situation himself. His impatience with the boy was starting to feel like the pangs of old age, a speculation he would keep to himself. Age was going to be an issue in the coming election, and it was up to Ambrose and his team to minimize it. His next thought was that his response to Eugene was something else altogether. It might be the itch of familiarity; the feeling a man who has risen to a certain status gets when he looks at the wife who had been his rock but has become his millstone. Perhaps his disappointment was simply a reflection of his belief that the greatest sin was to be reactive. The world was filled with Eugenes waiting to clear up messes and when they finally got the chance, their actions were out of proportion to the need. Case in point, the simple act of misplacing a glass required only that it be put onto the coaster. There was no need for Eugene to lunge for it as if he were saving Ambrose from an assassin’s bullet.
Ambrose wiped the watermark slowly as he considered that small men with myopic vision populated the world. His observation was not an arrogant one; it was objective. The three men in this room – four if one counted Eugene, which no one did in this context – were different. They were Ambrose Patriota’s peers of a sort. If not visionaries, they were powerful men of patience who could accomplish things quietly and effectively.
Woodrow Calister, Chairman of the Armed Services committee, was by far the most like-minded in this very private caucus. He understood the global implication of Ambrose’s ambitions. He was a patriot at heart and possessed a marvelously analytical mind. He believed all things were possible; he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the things he wanted were probable.
Jerry Norn, a member of the subcommittee on Intelligence was a close second on Ambrose’s list of those he admired. What Jerry lacked in patriotism – for he was an opportunist by nature – he more than made up for in enjoying the challenge of keeping the wheels turning. He truly believed that there was no better governing or economic system than that of the United States.
Mark Hyashi, a Senator of Japanese/American decent, had joined them only a few months ago after more than a year of careful investigation on the part of the other three senators. He sat on the Homeland and Government Affairs committee. Such an appointment wa
s coveted and that the seat went to a freshman senator was a testament to Mark’s intelligence and passion. Hyashi’s insight into the ability of the Japanese political social and military culture to mesh and create a complete and selfless consciousness provided Ambrose a counsel that was invaluable.
Mark drew parallels between the Japanese people willing to die in the service of their god-emperor and the more contemporary mindset of terrorists. If only, he had been heard to say, there was a pill that people could take to clear their minds of prejudice. There would be no more warlords, no more religious fervor, and no ideological pressures. People would act for the common good. Ambrose agreed but argued that such a pill would be a moral challenge for scientists and ethicists. Woodrow pointed out it would be better than a wet dream for the military. Jerry added economists to the list. The only thing scientists and ethicists would agree upon is that government had no business in people’s brains; military men and economists, on the other hand, believed that’s exactly where government belonged. Ambrose knew that neither camp had it right. Such power needed oversight and only those who ran the government, the military, and the economy could provide it and those people were the politicians: the right politicians, naturally.
“Now that I’ve been scolded, too, gentlemen, shall we get back to it?” Ambrose directed. “Eugene, if you would.”
“Of course, Senator.”
Eugene raised the remote and pointed it at the huge television behind a frame of carved mahogany. The familiar TED logo came up on the screen and faded in favor of a young Asian woman speaking to a casually dressed man wearing a tightly fit headpiece that looked like the interior strapping of a bicycle helmet.
The senators knew every word of her presentation by heart so the sound was muted. Still, they were glued to the set as the woman typed on the computer keyboard. The camera cut to the computer screen revealing a white circle inside an orange square. The woman stepped back, the man focused on the orange cube, and seconds later that cube filled the screen. In the next instant the man made the cube shiver and retreat just by thinking it so. The senators had seen him do this four times that night and still they reacted with anticipation and then excitement.
“There. Did you see it? A millisecond and that orange thing was gone. Vanished.” Jerry fairly bounced on the sofa cushion and then threw himself back, clapping his hands as he kept his eyes on the screen. “Can you imagine what could be done with that technology? Medicine is one thing, but I bet those two never thought of defense and intelligence applications. With the discipline our troops have, you take a battalion and get them all thinking on one target. Boom. Done. The enemy is thought out of existence.”
“It didn’t disappear completely.” Woodrow, arms resting on his knees, narrowed his eyes at the paused image. He was not as impulsive as his colleague but he was impressed. “I’ll grant you it was damn close. This could usher in a whole new generation of warfare.”
“Or peace,” Ambrose reminded them.
“You’re all reaching,” Mark Hyashi interjected. “That man wasn’t manipulating a solid object. We’re a long way from medical or military relevance without that.”
“I wasn’t serious,” Jerry snorted. “If this could be applied that way, I’d be the first to invest. We’ve never even considered that any of these people are close to physical manipulation. What do you think about it, Ambrose?”
“I think we’re fighting wars with drones and robots. Soon everyone else will be, too.” Ambrose said. “If our people could interfere with our enemies’ software programs, drone controls, perhaps even the minds of the operators, we would change the landscape forever. Engaging in war would be futile.”
“Speaking of our enemies – or even some of our friends – they’ll have this as soon as we do if not sooner. They’ll steal it or pay for it and they’ll have us over a barrel,” Woodrow noted. “We’d do the same if they had anything close to workable.”
“Nothing is ever simple,” Ambrose pointed out. “Nor is it foolproof. We already know that governments around the world are watching that young lady, but she is our citizen and that gives us an edge. She and her intelligent friends think they will cure cancer, feed the starving, and change the climate. We see that it can be used for so much more. Unlike Miss America, we will not just hope for world peace, we will some day assure it by wiping a brain’s ability to hate. It is doable. We must take steps to make sure this and other advances are not left in the hands of brilliant idealists and their tunnel vision.”
“But it’s bulky, Ambrose. Granted, the headpiece is a far cry from the early net caps and electrodes, but it’s hardly subtle,” Woodrow pointed out.
“Except,” Mark Hyashi countered, “once a technology breakthrough is made, improvements follow in months, not decades. Mainframe computers used to fill rooms. Now a woman carries an even more powerful computer in her purse. Fifty years in the making and yet everyday someone builds on the pioneering science. I agree with Ambrose, this isn’t a parlor trick.”
Mark Hyashi wandered toward the television. He tapped the screen.
“Ten years ago that thing he is wearing cost tens of thousands of dollars, but she said this one was manufactured for a few hundred dollars. Two years from now it will cost pennies and the technology will be hidden in the earpiece of a pair of glasses or buried in that guy’s head.” He turned back to the men, his handsome young face clouded with conscience. “The question is what part do we play?”
“We fund it with enough caveats to assure that it belongs to us for as long as possible,” Woodrow answered.
“We can attach funding to any number of bills,” Jerry agreed. “Most of our colleagues don’t even read the darn things. We’ll probably be the only four who know the funds have been requested or allocated.”
Woodrow played devil’s advocate and pointed out the obvious.
“Homeland Security is the place for this kind of thing but it isn’t going to appropriate funds for anything like this, Mark. You guys are being watched like hawks. The country has sunk a ton of money into virtual border fences that don’t work, TSA is inept and–”
“Yes, yes. We know. All outdated. All ridiculous programs.” Ambrose waved away the obvious. “Billions have been wasted because no one looked ten steps ahead. We boasted about achievements before they were achievable. We all look like fools and aren’t trusted because of it.
“Did you know our government conducted experiments in psychic driving at one time?” Ambrose glanced over as Eugene quietly took his glass and refilled his drink.
“That was 1965. Someone saw the possibilities of controlling the mind of a driver of transport trains, airplanes, or cars. That was the original vision and what we just saw is the result of that.”
“Who funded that one with the brown paper bag and subliminal messages way back when?” Hyashi chuckled, missing the point or, to give benefit of the doubt, lightening the mood.
“That would be Intelligence.” Jerry Norn raised his hand and pretended to be chagrined.
“I see a certain poetic justice there.”
Woodrow’s laugh was accompanied by the clink of ice. He had gotten up to refresh his drink and when he turned around he was holding the bourbon decanter as if it were a tarnished crystal ball.
“’62. Operation Northwinds. That was my favorite. Or how about False Flag? There was a friggin’ great idea. Hijack a few of our own planes, bomb a few of our own citizens and blame it on Iran. Thank goodness the president saw the light on that one.”
“He had to have some convincing before he gave it up,” Ambrose winked.
“Ambrose. Ambrose,” Woodrow lamented as he put the decanter back. “According to you, you’ve been responsible for half the good decisions every administration made since George Herbert.”
“You wound me. I will take credit for at least ninety percent. However, I fear I was in no position to counsel anyone back then. I’m old, I’m not Methuselah.”
“I doubt there was ever a tim
e you didn’t make sure you were pulling some strings, Ambrose.”
Jerry barked his signature laugh. It was easy to see why he was re-elected time and again. Big and jovial, he could kiss a baby and a call girl with the same aw-shucks aplomb. His PR was so good that only a handful of people knew that he was the biggest skirt chaser in D.C. and that handful didn’t included his wife. Ambrose didn’t like that, but he did like Jerry’s smarts. The man could remember everything: every detail of testimony, every statistic, every word uttered in his presence. He was driven not by power but by the puzzle of politics; a puzzle of how people fit together, why certain ones were pivotal and others passed through life without notice. Of course, Jerry wasn’t Woodrow. Woodrow was the real deal; he was Ambrose’s moral compass.
“I only take credit where it’s truly due, Jerry,” Ambrose said magnanimously. “And when it is to my advantage.”
“Next year you’re going to be elected president,” Hyashi interjected. “Then you will have to take credit or blame for everything. It won’t matter if you make the decisions or not.”
“If I was reluctant, I wouldn’t run,” Ambrose noted. “I don’t want eight years to go by and–”
“I think you better figure four, there, Ambrose. No need jinxing things,” Woodrow warned.
“Eight years. Four is not enough,” Ambrose insisted. He was speaking to the choir but sometimes the choir forgot the tune. “My friends, there are those inside our country who believe our borders are not sacrosanct and that our country belongs to anyone who wishes to claim a part of it. In the extreme, there are those who would like to make us disappear like a little cube on a computer screen. I’m not talking about our troops. I’m talking about all of us. Wiped away. Gone and forgotten.”
Ambrose’s eyes clouded as he thought of the things that pained his heart more than he could say. People who did not understand the exceptionalism of this country, of everything its people had accomplished in a few hundred years, appalled him. But even these realities were nothing compared with the one that cut him deepest.
Forgotten Witness Page 7
