Leslie went to his side and grasped his elbow. “He's dead. Let go of him.” She switched Gun to her left hand then reached out and pried his fingers out of the guard's hair. “We'll be dead too, if we don't move now.” He loosened his grip, and the head dropped and bounced on the cobblestones, some of its hair still stuck between Roger's fingers.
"Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you're right.” He straightened, tripping on the body, which rolled slightly when he moved his foot. He ran down the alley. Gun still ready, Leslie followed.
The lift car was a quarter of a mile away, off a street that yielded a view of the gray harbor below it. They climbed in, dripping. Roger started the engine, flicked on the auto-pilot and vomited on his feet.
9
After he was called to Jefferson's office, Tom Russell waited twenty minutes before the secretary let him in. He sat in the lobby, thinking. He knew Jefferson wasn't busy—the asshole wanted him to wait. The childishness of it maddened him. Did Jefferson honestly think this would shake him up? That it would put him so off balance he'd cooperate in any way the man wished? That it would make him gladly give Leslie up to whatever fate Security felt appropriate? Tom was in a delicate position. He knew more about Leslie than anyone else—that made him indispensable.
But he was sympathetic to her, and that made him an obstacle. And his role in Leslie's entry into the head mem project, her secret identity, made him extremely vulnerable. Now this SOM character with her had killed a security operative. It wasn't good.
Tom wondered what Leslie was thinking. Right now, she didn't know which way to go. She perceived betrayal at every turn. Tom could hardly blame her. But she was being driven in a direction that terrified him. The further into the SOM she went, the more likely she was to meet her father. Tom was the only person who understood what this meant. He knew all too well what kind of a person Everett was.
On the other hand, if Leslie's dad gets involved, I might be the only person still in Security able to anticipate his moves, the only person who still knows his Adirondack haunts, his hideouts. Maybe that would come in handy.
When the secretary finally motioned him to the door, Tom still hadn't decided how he was going to play this meeting. He took a deep breath as he stepped into the dark room. Jefferson never seemed to have his lights on, or his blinds drawn. Only the dull blue from his computer cast its glow across his ridiculously young face. “Close the door,” he said softly. Tom clamped his teeth and drew the door behind him. He crossed to the thickly cushioned chair by the left corner of Jefferson's desk and settled into it.
"You wanted to see me, Andy?"
Jefferson squinted angrily at the use of his first name. “Do you know what I've been doing for the last two hours?"
Tom refused to let this stupid little bureaucrat make him nervous. He forced his tightening hands to relax, and rested them lightly on the arms of his chair. He crossed his legs. “My guess would be you've been briefing Father Washington's aides."
"That's right.” Jefferson leaned forward and Tom got a whiff of his breath. It was a mark of his control Tom didn't gasp. He only closed his eyes for a moment. “Would you like to give me some explanation as to why I had to inform them of a fatality on the crew you sent to Boston Fun Park?"
"Come on, Andy. You know field work's dangerous—"
When Jefferson's fist slammed the desk, Tom forced himself to react slowly. He uncrossed his legs and sat up.
"I will not tolerate your insubordinate attitude today!” Jefferson screamed. “They killed Rhodes! Can you give me one reason why you shouldn't be dismissed for your negligence and sheer incompetence?"
"Rhodes’ death was an accident of circumstances. All our intelligence on this Roger Calvin shows a man of habitual docility, too afraid to stand up for or against anything."
"He did pretty well standing up against Rhodes."
"That's why I'm saying this was an accident. We couldn't have foreseen this event."
"Maybe you couldn't have foreseen this problem. And that's why I'll be taking you off this operation and giving it to Meyer."
Tom felt his pulse slug to his fingertips, almost painfully. Then his face flushed. “You can't do this, Andy."
"Watch me. Operation Gentle Net has been a failure from the start. You've let Leslie slip through your fingers twice. Furthermore—"
"Leslie ran because of your interference in the first place. I told you it was a mistake to pressure her when she met with the Calvin idiot. You supplied her with a reason to run. My only mistake was in allowing myself to be a part of it. Now she thinks I am her enemy."
"You do as you are told."
Tom suppressed his response. He consoled himself with the knowledge Leslie had gotten away because he'd consciously dragged his feet. Yes, I do as I'm told.
"I still haven't ruled out pressing formal charges against you for obstruction and malfeasance, Russell. My decision will be based on your cooperation now, as we hand the reins over to Meyer. He will need your help."
"My help."
"Yes. You alone know Leslie best. You can help him understand and anticipate her reactions. You have vital information on her personality. You will serve as an adjunct advisor and you will communicate directly to me."
"I've been sensing a remarkable shift in objectives for some time now."
"Not at all. We still wish Saint Leslie back in the fold, unharmed, with as little notice as possible."
"You don't care about Leslie's safety."
"Of course we do, but not at the expense of Father Washington's."
Again, Tom suppressed his response. As much as he wanted to put this shit in his place, he knew it wouldn't help to oppose him openly now. He leaned back in his chair, smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “So what's the next step?"
"That's no longer your business. Not only are you no longer in control, but I'm also placing you on three month's probation. You will receive daily counseling to remediate your poor attitude until further notice."
Tom blinked, swallowed. “Yes, sir. May I respectfully offer you some advice in my capacity as advisor?"
"Certainly, Mr. Russell."
"You're not considering full activation of Leslie's head mem, are you?"
The way Jefferson paused and looked slightly to the left confirmed Tom's fears. Clearing his throat, Tom struggled to keep his voice calm.
"In my opinion, it would be a mistake. You're not taking into consideration all the results of such an action."
"Oh no?"
"We still don't know what could happen. I do know Leslie's personality, though, and if some force inside her head simply takes over all voluntary motor control and moves her like a puppet, it will be more devastating than you can imagine."
"If she could survive her father, then I'm sure she could survive this."
"What about the physiological, neurological, ramifications. It's possible there could be massive misfiring among the synapses of her brain, and her techs don't even know what would ultimately happen. This isn't the simple Agent setup, where personality has been completely circumscribed. This is different, infinitely more variables."
"Well I haven't said this was part of the plan, have I? And if it was, I can assure you it would be a last resort."
"But—"
"We will not discuss this any further."
Chewing at his lip, Tom muttered, “Yes sir.” Play along for now. Fighting will remove you even further from the operation.
"All right, Russell. You're dismissed. I'll call on you if your expertise is needed, unless you have any more insights you would like to share about what we can expect from Leslie?"
Standing, he replied, “Not at the moment."
"Good. Oh, one last thing. Your counseling will begin this afternoon. Your appointment is in psych services at five o'clock. You're going to have to stay late."
Tom's knees were shaking as he walked out of the room.
* * * *
Tom couldn't help thinking the counselor was the
biggest cliché in an office full of clichés. The room was bright with afternoon sunlight, coming in from the windows overlooking the psych services parking lot.
More light, an almost palpable amber in the air, spilled on the leather couch set beneath the ceiling's vision panels. It hung against the Norman Rockwell prints dominating the wall behind the counselor's desk. It brightened the shelves to the right, jammed full of vision replays and iron shelf-ends molded into the shape of Sigmund Freud's scowling face. It left bright, elongated wedges along the mauve carpeting. Above, the vision panels cast soothing images of a still lake at dusk.
The counselor was a bald pudgy man with pink cheeks and a round nose, pinched at the end by fashion spectacles that barely fit. He beamed a broad, stationary smile as he stood beside the desk adjusting his red, white and blue bow tie.
Tom approached the couch and the counselor thrust out a hand. “I'm Doctor Hamen.” Shaking the hand was like squeezing raw dough.
Tom smirked. “You know who I am."
"Ahhh, yes, I've been briefed. Please sit on the couch."
As the security doctor eased himself into his chair by the couch, Tom sat down. He watched as Hamen struggled out of his suit jacket to reveal great patches of sweat soaking the underarms of his shirt. “Make yourself, ahhh, comfortable.” The heavy door Tom just entered through clicked open, and he turned to see Meyer stalking into the office, his shoulders squared, his gaze darting toward Tom and abruptly turning away. Good. He can't even look at me. I'll still have some power over him.
Doctor Hamen waited as Meyer went behind the desk and wheeled the office chair out to sit on, then said, “I hope you don't mind Guard Meyer sitting in on our sessions for the time being."
Tom enjoyed Meyer's discomfort, as he ignored his presence and only looked at Hamen. “Let's get this started."
"Well, ahhh, all right then. First of all, can you tell me why you think you are here?"
"Simple. I'm here because I have a moral and strategic disagreement with my direct superior, who thinks by putting on this show he will make himself look better to Washington when the shit hits the fan."
"The, ahhh, shit...."
"Yes. When Washington finds out that Security has been withholding—"
"Tom. That's enough,” Meyer interrupted.
"What do you care about what I say?” Tom said, without turning to look at him.
"Airing our dirty laundry here isn't going to do you any good."
"I thought counseling was supposed to be confidential."
The fat doctor still nodded and smiled reassuringly, as Meyer said, “Nothing is truly confidential, and you know it."
"Is that why you're here then, to keep me from saying anything too embarrassing?” Tom returned Hamen's smile.
"Actually, no. That's just an extra I'm throwing in on your behalf. I find it hard to believe you don't understand how deep your troubles are right now. I'm here in the hope you'll listen to reason and tell me everything you know about Leslie before things get even more out of hand."
Doctor Hamen leaned forward. “Mr. Russell, I assure you anything you say here will be kept in the strictest—"
Finally turning to Meyer, Tom said, “How much have they told you about this situation?"
"I know about your relationship with Leslie, if that's what you mean.” Their eyes finally met. “Having an affair with a subordinate isn't too smart, Russell."
Tom maintained his stare at Meyer, scrutinized his expression. When Meyer looked away, Tom almost laughed out loud. It was possible Meyer didn't know what was really going on. Did he actually think this was about concealing an illicit affair?
On the face of things, Tom had never been in more danger. He was one misstep from losing his job, disgrace, and worse. He could be defamed and sent to jail. And Leslie. Poor Leslie. Jefferson would definitely have her killed before he'd let her ruin his career. But if Jefferson hadn't been candid with Meyer as to what really lay at stake, then maybe Tom could use these counseling sessions to subtly influence Meyer, soften his stance toward Leslie. Jefferson was assuming Tom wanted to conceal the truth as desperately as he did. He wasn't considering Tom already considered himself ruined.
The first thing to focus on was getting Meyer to understand the delicacy of Leslie's mental state, and the dangers of head mem activation. Tom allowed Leslie to be raped for the four years he monitored her father. He was not going to let her be raped by the head mem and Security.
"Gentlemen. I suggest we not allow ourselves to bicker and get right down to business here,” Doctor Hamen said. “Guard Russell, why don't you lie back on the couch and try to relax."
Tom turned away from Meyer and smiled again. “Certainly."
"Very, ahhh, good. Now tell me. How does it make you feel to be accused of having an affair with one of your guards?"
Mustering a tone of sincerity, he replied, “It pains me, doctor. My concerns are not for myself here, but for Leslie. She's very fragile. We need to get her back quietly and safely. She's no threat to Washington.” He looked at Meyer. “No threat whatsoever, as long as she's treated kindly. Do you realize Jefferson is thinking about full head mem activation?"
Meyer blinked. “I was told you'd suggested such a course of action to him, yes."
Tom's rage felt like a block of dry ice in his chest. He forced himself into calm, speaking evenly: “You need to understand an abrupt activation of the head mem could cause massive forced synapse firing with more than emotional consequences. We could shock Leslie's nervous system into a seizure-prone state, precipitate a full-blown seizure, even status epilepticus."
"I was briefed on these concerns. In such a scenario, the chances are good we wouldn't lose complete control. And I've been told the continued activation session would actually force a shortening of the possible seizure through its stabilizing effect."
"You can't rely on that. You're taking too great a chance. Talk to her techs. They'll confirm what I'm telling you. Just talk to the techs."
Meyer didn't reply. He glared at Tom, and Tom returned the look without so much as a blink.
Dr. Hamen cleared his throat. “We're getting, ahhh, off the topic of discussion here, gentlemen. We were talking with Russell about the accusation of his affair with his subordinate...."
Tom turned his gaze on Hamen. “Yes, Doctor. I'm so glad to have this opportunity to talk about this. I've been filled with such a burden of guilt for so long. Really, it's a relief to have it out in the open, finally. I just want to make things right.” In his peripheral vision, Tom saw Meyer roll his eyes.
"Now we're getting somewhere,” Dr. Hamen said, smiling.
10
Looking swollen and inflamed, the red sun crested over the hills, burning off the pools of mist hanging over the shadowed forest. Everett gripped the sweaty steering wheel of his lift car with one hand while he rubbed his eyes with the other and yawned. He squinted in the morning sun and looked at himself in the rearview mirror, at his disheveled thinning hair, dyed bright red to conceal more white than he cared to admit. Staying awake all night had deepened the lines splintering around his eyes and harrowing his forehead. Half his face looked back at him in the glass. His eye was blood shot, the iris, usually a dull green, seemed to have fragmented into flecks of amber, gold and emerald, with a central pinpoint of jet black. His thin lips trembled. He couldn't wait to land at the North Creek Atheist cell in Vermont, swallow some vitamins and collapse into his bed.
Just a little further to go. I am definitely getting too old for this shit.
But then, this once, it was worth it. Even if he had to take orders from these stupid Atheists.
The United Sons of Adam. Everett always laughed when American media refused to use that name—official White House sources referred to them as the Sons of Man, so the SOM they were. Everett had joined them out of necessity. Of all the groups organizing against Washington, the USA had proven the most troublesome.
Everett shrugged. What were my options? he
asked his half face in the mirror. I never would've been accepted into the Nation of Islam, and if I had I would've ended up killing one of those dirty black bastards. And while I'd much rather be a member of the Neo-Green Mountain Boys, they simply haven't captured the fears and imagination of the Americans the way the Atheists have.
Still, Everett hated the arrogance every one of these Atheists possessed. They looked at him with a certain disdain and condescension. But no matter how much they looked down on him, they needed him.
And they know it—they know how much they need me. In spite of the fact they know I'm secretly a very religious man. I've brought a whole new level of effectiveness to their organization. Could they have pulled off an assassination attempt before I got involved?
Media coverage in the United States is up eighty-seven percent since I joined the movement. Eighty-seven percent! Even though some of the stodgy old men in charge have balked at a higher level of violence, they know if they want to get any closer to their ultimate goal, to overthrow the powers in Washington, they need a bad mother-fucker like me. Whether I believe in God or not.
The USA leaders were all very aware of Everett's religious background. He proudly considered himself one of the great Truth Seekers of his time, and a seeker of truth lived his life carefully, exposing enlightenment right at the very edge of a society's accepted norms and practices. It was like ripping off a callus, peeling back an epidermal layer toward discovery. A Truth Seeker experimented with spiritual ideas.
During the course of Everett's life, he'd become associated with many different groups. As a young man he had considered himself a Born Again Christian. He'd rolled around in spiritual ecstasy on the church floor with the best of them. He had been healed in faith a couple of times—once for migraines and once for a kind of depression that had sapped him of so much energy he could barely walk—and he'd found his Holy Spirit voice and spoken in tongues. His spirit language had sounded like a cross between Latin and some kind of suburbanized Ebonics.
After that he'd been involved with the Past Lifers, a group he discovered in Albany, who believed human problems originated primarily from a lost or dulled ability to recall the lessons of past lives. Everett learned a great deal during those three years, even though his falling out with the church's leadership led to his expulsion from the group.
The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security Page 11
