by Jay Brandon
Rachel raised her voice. “I’ve almost finished interviewing the prisoners, Captain. Thank you for standing by.”
They heard footsteps withdraw. Jack smiled. “‘Colonel’?”
Rachel made a wry face. “I did this little thing last year, you wouldn’t have heard about it, and got kind of a battlefield promotion. Besides, out here you have to have rank.”
“What are you doing out here, Rache?”
“Training exercises.” She glanced across the room at Arden.
“What?” Jack asked.
Rachel chewed her lip, then said it. “Our Prime Minister isn’t entirely paranoid. Something bad’s going to happen in Salzburg.”
Jack stared at her. “You have intelligence?”
“No, just a feeling. But my feelings are usually—
“Yes, they are.”
Jack also glanced at Arden. “Is this part of the other?” He might have been asking them both. Arden shrugged.
Rachel lifted her hands in another kind of shrug. “The wrap-up, maybe. It’s such an opportunity for some madman. A peace summit is the perfect place to start a war.”
That was more or less the end of the conference. A few minutes later they walked out of the tent. As they did, Rachel said quietly to Jack, “I’ve just turned you. You’re going off to Italy now thinking you’re doing one thing for your own organization—”
“But you’ve actually duped me into doing something for yours,” Jack concluded. “Duh, t’anks, Coach.”
They walked on. The soldiers around the compound tried to appear not to be looking at them, and failed. Arden walked several steps behind, and for once in her life was not the object of attention. She could see from the expressions on the faces of both men and women that they held Rachel Greene in something more than respect. Arden knew her grandmother had mentioned Rachel when briefing her on Jack. The two of them had been friends at school, had gotten into some kind of trouble that had turned out all right in the end. Granny had been pretty vague about it. Whatever had happened was part of the Real History. It would never appear in any textbook, and might die with living memories.
But just as Jack had needed to come here to talk to Rachel in person, Arden had needed to see them together even to begin to understand their relationship. They gave off ideas like a nuclear reactor shedding neutrons. Arden felt bathed in their inspiration.
They walked out of sight of the camp and Rachel pointed with her shoulder. “Down there’s another helicopter waiting for you.”
“You ordered me a helicopter that fast?”
“It’s mine, actually.” They smiled at each other.
“Maybe I’ll see you in—” Jack began, and Rachel nodded. They were no longer touching. Someone might be watching.
Just before he turned away, Rachel lowered her head. For the first time, she looked very young. Also tired. “Jackie?” Her voice came very low. “Who assigned us to save the world?”
“I think that was in—what?—ninth grade? And I think we aced that assignment.”
Rachel looked up, her eyes alight again. “Mrs. Chavez gave us a B+, I think.”
“She was just trying to keep us humble.”
“Yeah? Did that work?”
They grinned at each other. After another moment Rachel said very earnestly, “Jackie? Be carefree.”
He nodded. Then he turned and jogged. Arden had time for only a hurried goodbye to Rachel, then had to run to keep up with Jack. They came within sight of the helicopter and in another two minutes were in the air. The whole episode on the beach in Israel immediately assumed the quality of a dream. Except that Arden could see its effect on Jack, in renewed energy and quiet thought. She sat thinking herself, wondering what she had just learned, and how much of it she had to convey to Granny.
Exit Interview: The Real History
Once you’d been accepted into the program at Bruton—
The program for training young Circle members?
Yeah, but you didn’t know that at the time. One of the first things that happened is that you went into Mrs. Stein’s history course. It was always a small seminar, maybe half a dozen students. You didn’t sign up for it, you just found it on your schedule.
Mrs. Stein?
Yeah. Ditsy old lady, rumor was she’d lived through half of American history herself, and she was always mumbling silly asides about the things we studied, like that Betsy Ross not only dipped snuff but had Lesbian tendencies.
For once the interviewer seemed outraged by something Jack had said. I ought to slap you!
Hey, I didn’t say it. Some students reacted exactly the way you just did. Those students kind of got eased aside. They found themselves out of the seminar into a regular history class. And our paths began to diverge from theirs.
The interviewer frowned. What happened to those students?
Nothing. They went back to the normal world. While the rest of us started being taught the Real History. Jack quite carefully refrained from making air quotes with his fingers.
The “real” history. Such as?
He looked at his interviewer, obviously considering how much to say. Even now, with everything smashed and destroyed, the Real History was the Circle’s greatest secret. Their legacy. It was all he had left of his friends. To give it away would be the last betrayal.
He and the interviewer stared at each other. Something in her gaze seemed to break him down, much more effectively than the back-and-forth slaps an earlier interviewer had administered. Jack’s eyes filled with tears again.
Such as that Alexander Hamilton was one of our first heroes. Mrs. Stein didn’t tell us about the Circle then, you had to begin to figure it out on your own. But she explained that Alexander Hamilton belonged to a group that was very committed to democracy but didn’t quite believe in it.
Like the Federalists.
Jack smiled but didn’t let himself be distracted. And Aaron Burr found out about this group. He wanted to be part of it. But the group wanted no part of him. They thought he wanted to use them for his own purposes. Normally in such a situation the person who was confronted by Burr—in this case Hamilton—would have distracted him, gotten someone else to lead him down a different path. But our techniques weren’t as refined then, and there wasn’t time. All Hamilton could do was maneuver Burr into a duel.
You have to remember, Aaron Burr was vice president of the United States when this happened, in 1804. He was headed for great things. And he couldn’t take the secret with him. So Hamilton goaded Burr into challenging him to a duel.
Intending to kill him? the interviewer asked, leaning forward with an uncharacteristic light of curiosity in her eyes.
Maybe. No one knows for sure. But Hamilton accomplished his purpose anyway. Burr killed him, which disgraced Burr for all time. And others arranged for letters to be planted that raised dark questions about Burr’s true motive. He became known as the great traitor, always trying to found his own country or otherwise gain power. He also talked for the rest of his life about a cabal that actually ran America behind the scenes, but no one believed him. He was disgraced, you see. Alexander Hamilton planned that and arranged it.
Getting killed in the process.
Jack was silent for a moment. His eyes were dry again. Part of the point of that story was that sacrifices are required. In every generation.
The interviewer scribbled something on the pad. Jack responded immediately. Then the interviewer frowned. But you said some kids were eased out of this course. Was that the end of their training?
Jack nodded. You had to have the capacity to accept an alternate reality. Most people can’t. Unfortunately, one can’t know that about the candidates until they are taken partly inside. Most candidates wash out, and then they have to be dealt with. They are soothed back into the world they know.
Brainwashed, said the interviewer knowingly.
Not really. They’re just told, “We were only kidding. Things are just the way you think they are.” It’
s a great relief to them.
And the Real History?
Jack shrugged. I think maybe they were told that Mrs. Stein’s seminar was a combination history and fiction class. Designed to stimulate their imaginations, and they’d been stimulated enough after only a couple of weeks.
Some candidates don’t make it, Jack was thinking. Some of those failed candidates are children of Circle members, which is sad for everyone. But the failed candidates might have children who have the capacity. Sometimes it skips a generation. Those grandchildren are watched closely.
He looked at Arden. She was gazing down at the sea. He had no idea what she was thinking.
Jack leaned back in the cushioned seat and tried to relax. Be carefree, Rachel had told him. Not careful; care-free. Because that was when Jack was at his best, when he turned his cap backward and let his thoughts roam free of restraint.
Be care-free. That was hard to do with every important person in the world out to get him and the responsibility for saving humanity on his shoulders. He shrugged, beginning to slip free. He, too, stared out to sea, seeing patterns there, faces. A supersonic aircraft that was actually several planes. And the Circle’s own treasury. Who kept track of that? he wondered.
He and Arden had crossed the Mediterranean again, and it wasn’t yet dusk. They were set down in the bottom of the boot of Italy and their pilot, who hadn’t spoken during the entire trip, lifted off immediately, whipping them with sand and sudden loneliness.
“I assume we’re heading for Salzburg?” Arden said.
“You are. I have something else to do, then I’ll meet you there.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“Arden, something’s going to happen there. Something very bad, and I don’t have a clue what. Even worse, Rachel doesn’t know, and she has the Mossad working for her. The best intelligence service in the world.”
“Maybe nothing’s—”
“She also has a feeling,” Jack continued. “And Rachel’s feelings are not to be ignored. I don’t even know what to look for. But I need your eyes there, and I still have another stop to make. There’s no time to argue.”
She glared at him, but she could see that he wasn’t going to move until she did. Finally she turned and started to jog. Arden still wore the small backpack Jack had given her, and she had credit cards and cash from Granny. She could hear traffic, and knew she could get away quickly. Just over the hill was a highway, she felt sure.
At the top of the rise she turned and looked back. Jack just stood there. She didn’t wave, nor did he. After a moment she just turned and walked down the rise toward the highway.
Jack watched her go. Suddenly he felt very lonely. Seeing Rachel for only a few minutes was like having surgery performed on him without anaesthesia. Now his companion of the last few days was gone too. He’d never trusted her, which was one reason he’d sent her away, and she knew that. But Arden had also saved his ass at least twice. That was another reason he wanted her gone. He didn’t know whether she’d really been protecting him or shepherding him, guiding his steps even while giving the illusion that Jack was in charge. Now he’d see how he did on his own.
He didn’t want to be protected any more.
The first riot broke out, prematurely, while Jack was in Italy. The riot happened in, of all places, South Korea. America had kept bases there for sixty years. The strip between the Koreas was still known as the demilitarized zone, which meant it was heavily militarized on both sides. A peace treaty had never been signed to end the Korean War, which hadn’t officially been a war. Tell that to all the Americans who had died there.
There was probably nowhere else on earth where neighbors were more suspicious of each other. Korea was not one country divided, not any more. On the South Korean side, the suspicion was accompanied by fear. South Koreans had actually cheered when President George W. Bush had included North Korea in his “axis of evil.” North Korea was ruled by one of the most ruthless and ambitious tyrants on earth. He had nuclear aspirations, and maybe nuclear power by this time. But aside from that, he had an army millions strong. Kim Jong Un didn’t have to bomb the south into submission. He just had to set his army marching. They would overrun their weaker neighbor in days.
Only one thing kept that from happening. The United States Army. America had kept thousands of troops posted near that border for decades.
When the bases began emptying some soldiers balked, as had some of their counterparts in Afghanistan. Many of them had families there, Korean wives, homes in town. They weren’t going home. They were home.
More than that, many of them had a sense of mission. They knew they were actually protecting people, and they knew those people personally.
The riot began with a small group of South Koreans attempting to block the gates of the base, to stop the convoys taking soldiers to the airfield. At first the armored personnel carriers tried to ease through them, but when the first Korean was injured that stopped. Then they hunkered down while the commanding officer sent another convoy to another gate. Hundreds of soldiers were evacuated before the South Koreans caught on to that one. It didn’t take long. The base was full of Koreans working in various capacities, and they had cell phones. The commanding officer tried to empty the base of civilians, which worked about as well as trying to sweep the ocean.
Soon the base was surrounded by civilians, hundreds deep. The demonstration made Tiananmen Square look like a couple of picketers. But this was a demonstration of affection. Of need. Even desperation. News sources soon gathered. Pictures went across the world of thousands of civilians asking American troops not to leave. It was the strangest sight many people around the globe had ever seen. Some signs read “Yankees Stay Here.”
The base was immobilized.
“This would be a hell of a good time for the North to invade,” the General of the Joint Chiefs said to the President during his briefing. The President glanced across at his National Security Advisor. The NSA shrugged.
“Tell General Jackson to stand down for now,” the President said. “Halt the evacuation—temporarily. We’ll figure out another way.”
The President and NSA exchanged a glance. But we’re working against a deadline, Dennis Wilkerson thought, and knew he didn’t have to say it. The communication the night the planes had crossed America had been very explicit. This is only a warning. If you don’t pull out of everywhere, the next time would be worse.
And the intelligence services had made zero headway in finding the source of that threat. It was almost as if the services had been infiltrated themselves.
“Dennis?” the President said after they were alone.
“I know, sir. I’ll try to come up with something. But I could use some help.” Dennis Wilkerson was feeling lonely. No one seemed to talk to him these days. At least, no one talked to him more than once.
He excused himself and returned to his office. He glared around the room, realizing he had no expertise at anything that would help resolve this crisis. Not military experience, diplomatic, strategic. He only employed strategic planning on one field.
Maybe that would help. Sometimes he felt that he drew inspiration from his one relaxation. Without any more hesitation, he opened a desk drawer, took out his PSP2, connected to the Internet, and looked to see if his most frequent opponent was online.
Jack was on the train heading west when he realized he’d forgotten to ask Rachel if she’d heard of his being seen anywhere in her area. She would probably have mentioned it if she had, since she had mentioned his being in France.
He was on his way to Nice, to the home of Paul Desquat, a French architect and occasional essayist. The dual occupation was a clear sign. Paul Desquat was a Circle member.
Jack had met him through Madeline, on a short trip to Paris those few years ago that seemed so long ago, because they were on the other side of the great divide in his life. It was only later, when he’d been re-evaluating everything Madeline had done, that Jack thought she m
ust have had a purpose in introducing him to Desquat. Letting Desquat meet him.
None of the people to whom Madeline had introduced Jack had contacted him after her death, except for a few uninspired words of condolence. That seemed a clue now too. Some of those connections should have survived Madeline. Unless her death had been specifically intended to sever them.
So Jack was going to pick up the threads again. He didn’t have time to track them all down, not now. So he had returned to the flat in London. The Chelsea flat had been maintained just as Madeline had kept it, another signal. The Circle owned that flat, and they wouldn’t let a civilian buy it or move into it. Madeline’s mind had been too twisty. She loved puzzles too much. There was no telling how many signs she had left. People had been studying that flat very quietly ever since her death.
But she and Jack had had signals between them that no one else shared. Not many, they hadn’t had a long enough history for that. And maybe everything she’d said to him had been false, even her personality made up for his benefit. But he didn’t believe that, and if it was true everything else he did was pointless anyway.
On Jack’s way to France, Jack had stopped off in London. After making sure he hadn’t been followed, he had slipped into the flat in Chelsea very surreptitiously, he thought, but obviously not, since he’d been seen. The Chair had known about his going there. Maybe it was under constant surveillance. Jack hadn’t spotted any cameras, but he hadn’t given himself enough time to check out the place thoroughly.
Going inside the Chelsea flat was like walking through a time warp. Her things were still there. Her scent leaped into his nostrils. That must come from his memory, it couldn’t still linger here. A faint aroma of violets, coupled with the scent of her own flesh. Jack swallowed and looked around coldly, but he couldn’t stop his flesh from prickling with the feeling that she was about to walk through that bedroom door.
