“Helen, oh, you’re still there.”
“Yes, sir. I’m here.”
“Could you come down to my office? Are you busy?”
“No, sir. I’ll be right there.”
Glad she hadn’t gone home, Helen stood and walked out of her office. Since the building was mostly empty, few lights were on. She went ten feet to a T-intersection in the hallway, turned left, and proceeded down the dark twenty-five-foot corridor, which was lined with religious artwork of diverse cultures and beliefs. Thin beams of flickering illumination shone from the slightly ajar door to Wilkins’s executive space.
When she reached the entrance, Helen knocked.
“Helen? Come on in.”
She pushed open the door. The spacious office was lit only by candles. Wilkins sat at his broad oak desk, which faced the large wall-sized picture window overlooking Aquia. He stared at the storm raging outside as lightning struck over the water.
“Four o’clock in the afternoon and it’s darker than dusk,” he said as she approached. “It means something, Helen.”
“Sir?”
He turned to her. “Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs normally used by the assistants. Helen dutifully sat and folded her hands in her lap.
He was quiet. Distracted.
“Are you all right, sir?” she asked.
“Huh? Oh, yes, yes, I’m sorry. I asked you in here for a reason, Helen,” Wilkins said. He turned his throne-like swivel chair away from the window and faced her. “Have you heard the latest news?”
“Not today, sir.”
“The New Model Army attacked two federal buildings, one in Pittsburgh and one in Philadelphia. One is completely destroyed and seven people were killed. The other sustained extensive structural damage and one person died. Many others were injured. It’s deplorable. Cromwell released a statement that it’s in retaliation for Dana Linder’s murder by the government of the United States.”
“But, sir, that’s not true, is it?” she asked.
“Helen, you don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ Please, call me Charlie.”
“I can’t help it, sir, I’ll always think of you as a ‘sir.’ ” She let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry. Okay, Charlie. I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
“So is it true? About the conspiracy?”
“It’s all speculation stoked by the media, Helen. There’s no proof. That rifle could have come from anywhere, if it was really stolen from that base. What disturbs me is there are some who believe I am somehow connected to Cromwell. And that’s just not true.”
“I believe you, si—Charlie.”
“I want you to start working with George about coming up with a PR campaign to dispel that myth.”
Helen nodded. George, one of the other assistants, was a competent copywriter.
“All right.”
“And there’s another task I’d like you to start on tomorrow.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I want you to be the liaison between my presidential campaign team and everyone here at Greenhill.”
At first she didn’t catch what he’d said. “Yes, sir, I’d be glad to.” Then she blinked. “Wait. Presidential campaign?”
“Yes, Helen. I’ve decided to throw my hat into the ring. It’s a little late, the election is next month, but someone in the America First Party has to step up to the plate. It’s essential. And I suppose I’m the guy that needs to do it.”
Helen put her hands to her mouth. “I’m sure that’s what Dana—” She stopped herself. Perhaps that wasn’t an appropriate thing to say.
“What, you think that’s what Dana would have wanted me to do?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, so do I. And I think I’m obligated to do it. Get George on the phone and ask him if he’ll come up to the house. Tell him to bring his umbrella. I’m going to announce my candidacy tonight on national television. We need to get a speech ready, pronto.” He rubbed his hands together.
“Will do, sir.” She stood and moved quickly toward the door, then paused and turned to him. “Sir? Charlie?”
“Yes?”
“I think you’ll win, sir. I really do.”
Wilkins raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. His signature pose for the media.
“So do I, my dear,” he said.
When he was alone again, Charlie Wilkins picked up the secure landline phone and made a call.
A man answered. “Charlie.”
“My, my, you’ve been busy,” Wilkins said.
“I told you so. It was for Dana, sir. You know that.”
“Cromwell, I can’t condone violence. People died today.”
“I know, and I’m sorry for the collateral damage, but that’s what it is. We’re at war with the United States government, sir, and they’re going to pay for this terrible crime. I know Burdett and his sycophants were behind it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, but admit it, sir. You know in your heart that it’s true. Look inside; look in your Will. It’s what you always tell me, and that’s what the Will tells me.”
“I’m afraid I agree with you,” Wilkins said. “I do believe it. I’m not so sure it’s wise of me to say so. I’m going to announce my candidacy for president tonight. I’m going to step into Dana’s spot.”
“I was hoping you would do that, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ ”
“I know.” There was a pause. “I can’t believe she’s dead, sir.”
“It’s a terrible tragedy. But maybe I can turn this around into something positive.”
“You know we’ll be behind you, sir. Oh, and just a heads-up. We’re on our way to Virginia. Expect some noise.”
“Cromwell, I repeat, I don’t condone violence.” Wilkins peered through the picture window once again at the dark, wet storm. “But a man’s got to follow the Will. You need to do what you need to do.”
THIRTEEN
Agent 47 found the dilapidated school bus in a bad neighborhood on the western edge of Chicago’s city limits. If there was any doubt that the Windy City had its fair share of poverty, ghettos, and gangbangers, all one had to do was travel to that miserable section of town.
Birdie’s bus sat on Lake Street, right on the northern edge of Garfield Park. As expected, the spot was inundated with pigeons. The birds seemed to have a natural attraction to Birdie, who also kept cages of various types of Aves inside the bus. As for the man himself, Birdie lounged on a lawn chair in front of his mobile home and arsenal. While the underworld black-market dealer did travel about the country, he tended to make Chicago more or less a permanent base of operations.
Agent 47 figured Birdie to be around forty years old. He was very thin and bony, had shifty eyes, and needed a shave, not to mention a shower. Birdie always wore a faded Hawaiian shirt and brown leather jacket, opened to reveal a gold chain. Every bit of his clothing was covered in bird droppings. There was even some in Birdie’s slicked-back, oily black hair. 47 couldn’t understand why anyone would want to live the way Birdie did. The guy had plenty of money; the man just liked to perpetuate the notion that he was poor, dirty, and homeless.
47 had done business with Birdie before, but that didn’t mean they were friends. In fact, there was some kind of unspoken animosity between the two. Birdie always enjoyed taunting Agent 47 to the point of annoyance. Since Birdie had also worked in the past as a killer for the Agency, 47 figured the thin man was jealous of the superior assassin’s reputation and skill. There was no question which one of them was the master of his craft. Still, 47 acknowledged that Birdie was a formidable hitman and could be a very dangerous enemy if one became careless. The contact was a necessary evil 47 had to endure in order to obtain something he needed.
“Well, if it isn’t Agent 47,” the weaselly operative said as the assassin slowly approached the bus in plain sight. “I heard you was in town.”
“How is it that you
still work for the Agency, Birdie?” the assassin asked. “You go rogue, you do what you want, but then you continue to do jobs for ICA. The Agency’s policy is to eliminate former contractors that go off the grid. Why aren’t you dead?”
“Ah, but you see, ‘former’ is the operative word here, 47. I never was ‘former.’ The Agency and I, well, let’s just say we have an understanding. I never really left. I have something of a ‘nonexclusive’ deal with ICA.”
The hitman surveyed the surroundings. As it was midday, the block was relatively quiet. A group of teenagers played basketball on the court in the park. A few mothers were out with younger children and strollers. No sign of any gangs. It was said, though, that a crime was committed every few minutes in this part of town.
“Where’s your pal? Fei Zhu?”
“Fat Pig?” Birdie jerked his head toward the skyline. “He’s in Chinatown on business.” Birdie was almost never without his sleazy—and cruel—sidekick. Fei Zhu did most of Birdie’s dirty work for him. Agent 47 was pleased that he didn’t have to set eyes on the overweight, cocky thug.
“So to what do I owe this surprise visit, 47?” Birdie asked.
“I need some equipment. I understand you might have it.”
“Oh? And what’ll that be? I see you’ve got your beloved briefcase. Still using those fancy Hardballers? What else could you want?”
“You have explosives.”
“Explosives? My, my, what are we up to, 47? You planning to join the New Model Army or something? I hear they’re taking volunteers. Gonna blow up a federal building or two?”
“Are you going to sell me something or not, Birdie? I don’t have time for your games.”
Birdie sniffed and wiped his nose, leaving a gooey mess on his jacket sleeve. A pigeon must have sensed the treat, for it fluttered its wings, hopped up on Birdie’s lap, and immediately began pecking at the spot on the man’s clothing.
“Can you be more specific?” Birdie asked as he pulled a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket.
47 nodded at the bus. “You keep everything in there, don’t you?”
“Oh, you want to browse? I normally charge a browsing fee, you know.”
The hitman’s patience was coming to an end. “Birdie—”
“But seeing it’s you, 47, I’ll waive that browsing fee.” The thin man stood, flinging the pigeon to the pavement. He took a moment to brush feathers off his pants and jacket, then he stepped toward the bus door. He opened it and went inside. 47 took that as an invitation to follow.
The stench was unbearable. Birds in cages squawked and flapped as the two men passed down the aisle. Feathers flew, and 47 had to use his free hand to wave them out of his face. At last they came to the back of the bus, where Birdie stored several trunks full of goods.
“Explosives, explosives … ah, here they are.” Birdie lifted one case and threw it on top of another to get to the trunk he wanted. He stooped, swirled the knob on the combination lock, and opened it. 47 moved closer to peer inside. “I’m out of TNT,” Birdie said. “But there should be something in there that’ll work for you.” Like Cherry Jones, Birdie stocked a variety of grenades and small bombs, sticks of dynamite, and limpet mines. 47 was interested only in the bricklike white packages.
The hitman reached in and removed one. “C4.”
“That’s right.”
“I assume you have all the accessories? Blasting caps, a timer?”
“Sure. I throw in all that stuff with the purchase. Each of these bricks has a detonation velocity much higher than your average military C4. Let’s say you want to blow up this bus. A quarter of a brick would do the trick. A whole brick would blow a hole in a concrete wall. Three or four bricks … well, if placed correctly at key structural points, you could bring down a building.”
47 examined the brick and determined it was sound. “I’ll take three, and I’ll need a remote detonator.”
“Cellphones or stopwatches are always best for that.” Birdie moved forward in the bus and rummaged through some cardboard boxes in the seats. “Here we go. What do you prefer?” He pulled out two old Nokias. “That’s one thing nice about outdated cellphones. They can always be used for something.”
“I’d rather have a stopwatch.”
Birdie shrugged, dug out one, and showed it to 47.
“Fine.”
“Need any knives? Garrotes? Oh, wait, you have that wire thing you like to use. Never mind. Poisons? How about some plastic zip ties? Excellent tools for securing someone’s wrists behind his back.”
“They’re breakable, Birdie. If you know how.”
“True. Still, most people don’t know how.”
47 thought about the contents of his briefcase and asked, “What kinds of poisons do you have?”
Birdie raised his eyebrows, moved to another seat on the bus, and unlocked a strongbox. He pulled out a vial and said, “Here you go. Clear, odorless, and undetectable in an autopsy. Victim looks like he had a heart attack. Comes in both fast-acting and slow-acting formulas.”
The hitman recognized the label, nodded, and said he’d take a vial of each.
Birdie packed the goods in a brown paper bag from Trader Joe’s grocery store. The two men discussed terms, haggled without malice, and then Agent 47 paid in cash. Business completed, they climbed out of the bus together. The hitman did his best to avoid stepping in bird feces.
“Want something to eat, 47? I have some chicken left over from last night.”
The thought repulsed the assassin. “I don’t think so.” 47 started to walk away.
“Aren’t you gonna say ‘thanks’?” Agent 47 stopped and turned but didn’t say anything. “Oh, I forgot. You have the personality of a fire hydrant. Say, I heard your handler flew the coop. What happened? She got tired of your shiny bald head?”
47 narrowed his eyes at the shifty criminal. “What do you know about her?”
Birdie returned to his seat, reached into his jacket pocket, and tossed some bird feed on the pavement around him. The act initiated a feeding frenzy among the pigeons.
“Nothing, 47. Only that she left the Agency under a cloud. I never met Diana, but I heard she was a looker. A real swan.”
47 took a deep breath to control his temper. There was something about Birdie that made the hitman want to punch the guy. “If you hear anything about her, especially where she might be hiding, see if you can get word to me. All right?”
“Sure, 47. Does this mean we’re buddies now? We can go out drinking together? Chase women? Share our innermost secrets? Join a club and play golf?”
The assassin waited a beat before replying, “No.”
The thin man laughed, but it came out more like a snivel. “You’re a strange bird, 47. See you later.”
47 walked away, briefcase in one hand and brown bag in the other.
He didn’t look back.
FOURTEEN
The Church of Will’s recruitment center was busy.
Ever since Dana Linder’s assassination, Helen McAdams had noticed an increase in membership applications. Ten to twenty people from all over the country showed up at Greenhill daily wanting to join, asking how they could volunteer, if there were any openings for Church jobs … but Helen and the other recruitment staff had to reject them, because all of the on-site apartments were taken. While many applicants could live away from the compound, come and go, and still join the Church, those who wanted to live on the premises were placed on waiting lists or sent to Church branches in other states.
Sundays were particularly popular, not only for applicants but for tourists and the curious. When Wilkins wasn’t available or was traveling, morning services in the sanctuary were conducted by various assistant pastors called “adherents.” These men and women took turns at the pulpit, and most of them were eloquent, captivating speakers. But no one was like Charlie. When it was known that he was present at the compound, visitors flooded the gates to hear him speak. Hundreds always had to be turned away. Helen
considered it a treat when Charlie was present. She supposed it was similar to when lucky Roman Catholics visited the Vatican and the pope was in town to preside over Mass.
Even so, Helen barely had time to work at the recruitment center. Ever since Charlie Wilkins had announced his candidacy for president, all the personal assistants were putting in extra hours per week. Wilkins had hired a completely independent campaign-managing committee, and the key players had moved into the mansion’s guest rooms. Helen’s new responsibilities included conveying orders and requests between the committee and Greenhill administration. Thus, the past several days had been nonstop. Normally all Church members had the day off on Sunday, except for those involved in sanctuary services. However, with the new political developments, Helen and the others were expected to be available at any time.
After that morning’s service, Wilkins had told her she wouldn’t be needed in the afternoon, as he had business with his guests. So, having nothing better to do and not wanting to be by herself in her apartment, Helen decided to work at the recruitment center. Staying active was always a good thing. She found that if she spent too much time alone, unpleasant thoughts crept inside her heart.
For some, memories were cherished. For Helen, the past needed to stay where it belonged.
“Daydreaming again?”
The voice startled her. Helen turned to see Mitch Carson standing by the desk.
“Oh, hi, Mitch,” she said. “No, I was just thinking: Where are all these people going to go?” She indicated the long line of applicants straggling out the center’s front door.
“We’ll find places for them—if not here, then in other branches. But we can always use the volunteer work if they’re willing to keep their homes where they are.”
Mitch Carson was the general manager of Greenhill. That meant he was technically Helen’s boss, but of course any orders by Wilkins superseded what Carson instructed her to do. In his sixties, single, and efficient to the nth degree, Carson was not well liked by most members. Slightly effeminate and possessing a somewhat high-and-mighty demeanor in his dealings with others, Carson was definitely a yes-man to Wilkins and a no-man to everyone else. Because he had been with Wilkins since the Church’s inception in the 1970s, Carson wielded a lot of power at Greenhill on the administrative side.
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