Dream of a Falling Eagle

Chapter 9

At the precinct station house a paramedic patched me up while we waited for the FBI to arrive. Somebody found me a clean uniform shirt belonging to some female officer to wear, and I discarded my torn, bloody, and dust-covered T-shirt and jacket in a plastic garbage bag. In the meantime, an APB was issued to pick up one Dr. Guy Fournier and three gray-suited associates who, I assured the dispatcher, would be instantly recognizable. Fournier and his trio of drug-lobotomized killers had almost certainly gone to ground by now, but the APB was part of the drill- and it assured that cops would be on the lookout for Fournier if he surfaced and tried to go to his home or apartment, wherever it might be. Finally three FBI agents, all of whom I had come to know, showed up, along with the chief, Captain Felix MacWhorter, who had been called at home and who had insisted on coming in to hear firsthand what the "crazy neighborhood dwarf" was up to lately.

I told my story-most of it-and then told it again. I didn't mention the computer diskette I was carrying inside my jeans; I thought the excuse that I might be a tad forgetful, considering what I had been through, would be acceptable. If I gave up the diskette to the FBI, it was unlikely I would ever see it again, and I wanted the first run on whatever might be on it. They were going to be pissed, even more resentful than they already were of Garth and me and the Presidential Commission, and what they considered continued and unwarranted intrusion on their turf, but I couldn't have cared less. I also neglected to mention my source for the information about the voodoo altar and Fournier's picture, or Fournier's affectionate mention of William P. Kranes, or the link between Kranes and the mutilated corpse in Central Park that had been Moby Dickens. I assumed both the NYPD and FBI could already have discovered the link themselves, if they'd worked hard enough at it, and I still wanted first crack at the Speaker of the House myself, before he'd been worked- or glossed-over by anybody else. I figured I had earned that prerogative.

Garth walked in around 8:45, just as, for the third time, I was getting to the part about the zombie dust. I started all over again, for my brother's benefit, and when I was finished I was told I could go. The FBI agents might have suspected I was holding more than a few things back, because they did not look at all happy; but they hadn't been happy with me for a long time. The Fredericksons and the FBI had history. The FBI was a crack outfit that did their job surpassingly well, when they felt like it and when it didn't conflict with their various agendas, and they weren't a bunch of criminals, but my affection for J. Edgar Hoover's clones was only slightly greater than my affection for the CIA, and considering some of the things they had done to us-or failed to do for us-at critical junctures in the past, I thought they should be grateful I told them anything at all.

"Jesus H. Christ," Garth said, looking at me and shaking his head in disbelief as we walked out of the station house into the morning of what promised to be a very hot and humid day and headed toward the brownstone. "You've got shit for brains."

"Hmmm. Reading between the lines of that characteristically metaphysical and enigmatic statement, I take it to mean you're not pleased about something. Bad drive into the city this morning?"

"You were a fool to pull that stunt last night by yourself, Mongo," Garth said, deadly serious. "I suppose you've come that close to dying a few times before, but right now I can't think of any instances. Fournier would have kept for twenty-four hours, and longer. Then I'd have been with you as backup."

"Okay, so I got impatient. I didn't expect the evening to be that eventful. I was just going to do a little simple breaking and entering to get at his computer and have a look-around."

"There hasn't been anything simple about a single thing we've done in the past six months."

"Hey, Garth, does it sound to you like I'm arguing the point? You're right."

"Don't do anything like that again."

"I managed to make a copy of what was on his computer. Right now the diskette is threatening my manhood."

"Bully for you."

"Ah, you know how I thrive on praise. Incidentally, don't brush up against me. I've still got this yellow shit on my jeans, and I don't recommend coming into contact with it. These pants and sneakers go into a plastic bag when we get home. I'm going to send them over to Frank's lab to have the powder analyzed."

"So, you really think those guys were zombies?"

"A rose is a rose is a rose. What's in a name? I don't care what you call them. I know what I saw, and that was three men who looked worse than dead, moved like Frankenstein, and unquestioningly did whatever Fournier told them. Something made them like that, and from the way Fournier was so eager to get some of that yellow stuff into me, I'd say it's the chemical agent. I have no desire to find out firsthand what it does."

Garth put one of his big hands on my shoulder, gently squeezed it.

"After what you did last night, a little behavior modification in you might be an improvement."

"Damn, there's another one of your knee-slappers. I've always marveled at your keen sense of humor."

"You must be exhausted. We'll get you home and into a shower, and then into bed."

"We'll get me home and into a shower, and then I'll nap on the plane."

"We're going to Washington, I presume?"

"Or Huntsville. Wherever Francisco tells me Kranes is holed up for the day. We've got to stay ahead of the curve on this thing, and I've got a bad feeling that events are going to move very quickly now that Fournier has been blown. It's going to be a sprint, and we've got to haul ass if we expect to be winners at the finish line." "Right."

When we walked into the brownstone we found a temp working Francisco's station and Francisco at the computer workstation in my office. He looked up and grimaced, obviously startled by my police uniform shirt and somewhat battered appearance. "Sir, what happened to you?! Your-"

"Not now, Francisco," I said, holding up my bandaged right hand. "I got voodooed, and I'll tell you all about it another time. Right now we're in a big hurry, and I've got a couple of things for you to do."

"Of course, sir."

"Where's Kranes today?"

"Washington. At five-thirty he's scheduled to fly to-"

"Good," I said curtly, taking the diskette out of my jeans and handing it to him. "Make a copy of this and send it by messenger to Special Agent Mackey at the FBI field office. Enclose a note saying it's from Guy Fournier's computer, and I forgot I had it with me."

"Will do, sir."

"Then call the Slurper. Tell him we need him in here right away, and he should bring his toothbrush, favorite pillow, and teddy bear. He can sleep on the sofa. We'll give him premium pay. There's at least one encrypted file on that diskette, and probably more. I want to know what's in them. The files may be in French, so you might want to have a translator on call. Think speed. You sit close to him with a pad and pencil and take down everything he says, as he says it. I know he mumbles, so if you don't understand something he says, make him repeat it. The Slurper lives in the moment, and he couldn't come up with an intelligible written report after the fact if his life depended on it. His feet are only on the ground when he's in cyberspace."

Francisco ran a frail hand over his slicked-back hair, touched his pencil mustache, then made a face. "I don't think the Slurper uses a toothbrush, sir. Does it have to be him? We have a half dozen other hackers-"

"None as good as the Slurper."

"But he's flatulent, sir."

"There's nobody better at crashing into systems and breaking codes, and that's what's required here. Francisco, I know his personal habits are disgusting, but we need him."

"I understand, sir," he said, and slowly nodded. He had the resigned look of a condemned man about to step before a firing squad.

"Good. Now, before you do either of those two things, call Kranes's office. It's vital that you break through to talk to him personally. Mentioning my name should do the trick, but don't take any shit from secretaries or flunkies. Refuse to get off the line until someone does contact him and mentions my name. Only if all else fails do you leave a message. The message is that Garth and I are catching the next shuttle to Washington. We have to talk to him about two matters- one of important personal concern to him, and the other concerning vital national security. He'd damn well better be prepared to meet with us as soon as we get there, or we immediately call a press conference. Got all that?"

"I've got it, sir," he said, reaching for the telephone.

I started to walk out of the office, then stopped in the doorway and turned back. When you'd spent the night being shot and slashed at, sprinkled with zombie dust, and dropping from tall buildings in a single bound, it's amazing the small things that come to mind-my mind, at least. "Francisco?"

He stopped dialing, hung up the telephone, and looked inquiringly at me. "Is there something else that needs to be done, sir?"

"No. I'm just curious as to why you keep calling me 'sir.' I told you a long time ago that you should call me Mongo."

He flushed slightly. "I can't help it, sir. It's habit. You're my boss."

"Garth's your boss too. You don't call him 'sir.'"

"It's different with Garth. You're the one who interviewed and hired me."

"You don't have any prejudice against dwarfs, do you, Francisco?"

He snapped back in his chair, obviously alarmed. "Oh no, sir!"

"Only kidding. I seem to recall one occasion when you did call me Mongo."

He swallowed hard, said, "That was when we thought Garth was dead. I'd just given you the news. I felt so terrible for you. I'd. . never seen you look like that before."

I thought about it, nodded. "All right, Francisco. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to remind you that you don't have to keep calling me 'sir' all the time."

"Yes, sir," Francisco replied, smiling wryly as he once again picked up the telephone receiver and started dialing. "Thank you."

I went up to my apartment, where Garth was waiting for me. He'd already removed my spare guns from my safe and laid them out on the bed. He'd also made me a sandwich, which I much appreciated. I ate quickly, washing down the sandwich with a glass of milk, then bagged the jeans and sneakers that had been contaminated with the yellow powder, showered, and quickly dressed in clean.clothes. We were on our way out when the intercom on the wall buzzed. I went back, pressed the button.

"What is it, Francisco?"

"I was able to speak with Representative Kranes, sir. He'll see you as soon as you get to Washington. He's sending a car and driver to pick you up at the airport."

"Thank you, Francisco. Good work."

Chapter 10

The office of the Speaker of the House of Representatives was furnished in rococo and as large as a handball court. We were ushered into his office, and as soon as the heavy wood door closed behind us he leaped up from behind his desk. His jowly face was florid, and his pudgy hands trembled. "What's this threat of holding a press conference?!" he shouted at me as Garth and I walked across a quarter acre or so of thick, beige carpeting toward his desk. "I suppose you're looking for more money now! I thought we had a-"

"Shut up," Garth said curtly, without waiting to be introduced. "Who else besides my brother did you talk to about your problem with copying other people's poems?"

Kranes opened and closed his mouth, then slowly sank back down in his cushioned leather chair. He seemed nonplussed, totally taken back by Garth's effrontery, or his question, or both.

"This is my brother, Garth," I said as I walked up to the desk and leaned on it. "Now that the introductions are over, be kind enough to answer his question. Who did you talk to about Thomas Dickens after I visited you in Huntsville?" "What the hell happened to you?"

"Never mind what happened to me. We may get to that. Answer the question."

Still appearing thoroughly confused, Kranes looked back and forth between Garth and me with narrowed eyes. Finally he said, "I didn't talk to anybody about him. You think I'm a fool?" "

"That's what we're here to find out."

"As you surmised, it wasn't exactly a story I wanted to get around."

"Close associates? Family? Your wife?"

He shook his head nervously. "I didn't want anybody to know- not associates, and especially not my family. Have you-"

"What about Taylor Mackintosh, the actor? He claims to be a real good buddy of yours. Maybe you had a couple of drinks together, wanted to bare your soul? Did you discuss this problem with him?"

"You do think I'm a fool," he said, making a dismissive gesture with his hands. "Mackintosh would be the last person on earth I'd bare my soul to. I've been avoiding him for years, and I won't even take his phone calls. The man is mentally ill."

"Think real hard. Who did you mention Thomas Dickens' name to?"

"I don't have to think hard," he replied tersely, impatience now evident in his tone. "I told you I did not discuss this matter with anyone. Now, if you're not here to squeeze me for more money, why don't you tell me why you are here? I really do have a very busy schedule."

I glanced at Garth, who looked at me and nodded once. It meant my brother the empath and human lie-detector believed Kranes was telling the truth. Garth took a gold-plated Montblanc pen out of a holder on the desk, wrote on a piece of the Speaker's embossed stationery, and shoved the paper under the other man's nose.

Kranes glanced down at the message on the paper, then looked up sharply. "What?!"

He abruptly stopped speaking when I put a finger to my lips, then motioned with my head toward the door to his office. He hesitated a few moments, then abruptly rose and walked with us to the door, which Garth held open for him.

"Get rid of your Secret Service detail," I said quietly.

"I can't get rid of them."

"Then tell them to keep their distance. I don't want anyone else hearing what I have to tell you-yet."

Kranes spoke to his receptionist, then said something to the two dark-suited men sitting nearby. There was no discernible response from either of them, but when we walked through the warren of outer offices they stayed behind at a respectful distance. When we reached the wide marble hall outside the suite of offices, Kranes immediately turned on Garth and snapped, "What the hell do you mean, my office is bugged?!"

"It means just that," Garth replied evenly. "If what you've told us is the truth, then your office must be bugged."

I said, "Let's go get a drink, Mr. Speaker. I think you're going to need one."

"I don't want a drink!" he said sharply, wheeling on me. "I have important appointments all day, and I have to catch a flight to California at five-thirty! I demand you tell me why you think my office is bugged, and who you think is bugging it!"

Garth abruptly gripped the other man by the elbow and gently but firmly escorted him the length of the hallway and around a corner. Kranes walked very stiffly. I followed, and behind me I could hear the click of the Secret Service agents' heels on the marble as they followed behind us all. I wondered what they were thinking about this little tete-a-tete between two strangers-if we were strangers to them-and the man they were assigned to guard.

When we had all made it around the corner, Garth stopped, turned the Speaker toward him, said in the same soft, even tone, "The CIA is bugging your office, Kranes. They've probably got your home wired too. They take the old adage about keeping friends close and enemies even closer very literally. They're keeping tabs on you and your visitors because you're very important to them and all the other fascists in this country."

'That's ridiculous, Frederickson! And don't you imply that I'm a-"

"Keep your voice down. They intend to make you president."

That got his attention. He looked inquiringly at me, then back at Garth. "Are you serious?"

"If you think this is a joke, that was the punch line. You are the CIA's candidate for president, and they know how to run a hell of a winning campaign. Ask the Chileans."

Something, perhaps an image of himself sitting in the Oval Office, must have flashed across his mind, because he suddenly paled, and his breathing became rapid and shallow. "But I don't understand. It isn't my time yet to be president. My advisors all tell me-"

"The company doesn't give a shit what your advisors say," I interrupted, "any more than they care about what you want or the electorate wants. They're apolitical. They only care about what they want, and they want you in the White House. Right now there are some very strange things going on outside these hallowed halls, and what they all add up to is that the CIA is trying to engineer the assassinations of the president and vice president. Voila, President William P. Kranes."

Kranes's eyes went wide, and he glanced nervously at the two dark-suited men standing perhaps fifteen yards away, at the head of the corridor. "The two of you are crazy," he said in a sibilant whisper. " 'Assassination' isn't a word one tosses around lightly up here."

"Oh, that toss was too light for you? I guess I'll have to try my curve, slider, and fastball. You obviously haven't been paying attention to what Garth and I have been telling you."

"Leave me alone," he said, actually shying away. "If you think there's a plot to assassinate the president, it's the Secret Service you should be talking to, not me."

"I've already told the FBI, and I have to assume they've briefed the Secret Service. I can assure you that the FBI is taking this very seriously; check with them yourself if you think Garth and I are telling you some fairy tale. All that can be done is being done, you can be sure. There's nothing the Secret Service can do at the moment but take their usual defensive posture. That's one reason-but not the only reason-we're here talking to you."

"Why me?"

"Because you're in the best position to stop it."

"What on earth-"

"You and I had a deal," I said, stepping closer to him. "It turns out you didn't break it, and neither have I-so far. Our deal is the reason I haven't mentioned the plagiarism matter to any of the authorities, and I've been talking to a hell of a lot of them. But your connection to Thomas Dickens is going to surface eventually. There could be a lot of history written on what's happened, and what's about to happen. Some people may even charge Garth and me with culpability in the assassinations of a president and vice president because we withheld certain details explicitly linking you to Thomas Dickens and CIA-run killers. It's going to come out, Kranes, especially if the president and vice president end up dead-because then we'll have to disclose it. It's better that you do it, now, if you want the history books to be kind to you. Then you'll work with the Secret Service. Like I said, you're the person in the best position to put a stop to their plan, or at least slow it down."

Kranes eyed me suspiciously. "How could the poetry incident possibly have anything to do with this supposed assassination plot you're telling me about, and what would discussing the incident accomplish except possibly destroying my career? Maybe that's what this is really about. You said you talked to the FBI, but why aren't the two of you working with the Secret Service?"

"Because we don't have anything else to contribute-except you-and we have bigger fish to fry."

The jowly man shook his head and laughed nervously. "This is absolutely preposterous! You are trying to destroy my career! Either that, or you're both insane. You say there's a plot to assassinate the president and vice president, but you don't have time to work with the Secret Service because you have bigger fish to fry. What fish would those be?"

"Finding the murderers of a certain poet, you fat shithead," Garth said, his tone soft as a knife slicing through silk as he abruptly reached out and grabbed Kranes's tie close to the knot, lifting the startled and suddenly choking Speaker of the House up on his toes. "You think that's funny? You make me sick. Every time I hear one of you loudmouthed bigots talk about the need for a 'color-blind society,' I want to puke. Where was your mouth back in the sixties? Your family probably owned slaves."

"Uh, Garth," I said, touching my brother's arm as both Secret Service agents started running toward us, reaching inside their suit jackets. "Perhaps it might be a good idea to leave the extraneous political discourse for another time."

The men were almost on us when Kranes, still up on his toes and red-faced, raised his right hand and desperately signaled for the agents to stop. They stopped, but their hands remained inside their suit jackets, on their guns. Finally Garth released his grip on the man's tie. The two agents backed away, but not as far as they had been.

Kranes, wide-eyed, turned toward me. "What's he talking about? What poet?"

"Thomas Dickens is dead, Mr. Kranes," I replied. "He was savagely murdered in the same manner as possible witnesses in our Haitian investigation were murdered, which is one reason we know for a fact that the CIA was behind it. The only reason they could have had for doing it was to save you possible embarrassment before or after your swearing-in. They don't want any distractions or questions about your character. Now, if I didn't say anything to anybody, and you didn't say anything to anybody, and Thomas Dickens didn't even know your real name, it led us to deduce that the CIA must have your offices here and in Huntsville bugged. Get it?"

"My God," Kranes whispered hoarsely. He was beginning to look frightened. "But why. . how. .?"

"You're third in the line of succession, Mr. Speaker. Remember?"

"But I don't want to be president," he replied absently. "At least not yet."

"Irrelevant. With the president and vice president dead, you're it. There's no election to wait out."

Kranes shook his head stubbornly. "But the next election is only a few months away. ."

"I think they may have plans for the next election, and we'll get to that. In the meantime, three months is enough time for you to go through a whole laundry list of executive actions, appointments, and proposed pieces of legislation that would sail right through the Congress that your party controls. The first one or two hundred things you'd want to do as president are totally predictable; they're only interested in two of them."

"This is insane. You're slandering-"

"The men who founded OSS, and later the CIA, were idealists as well as cowboys. They were our great white knights, our Paladins, during the Cold War. A lot of good men and women sacrificed their lives to protect this country's secrets and steal the enemies'. Members of the Operations Directorate rode into hell to save Western civilization."

"Are you being sarcastic, Frederickson?"

"I am not. It's the simple truth. But it's also the truth that when they rode out again they had begun to look to some of us just like the KGB. By the end of the Cold War, they'd only gotten uglier. The Russian KGB is, at the most, operating at very low voltage in their Federal Security Service over there. Ours is still sparking away, and these people are very dangerous."

"I don't agree at all with that characterization of the CIA," Kranes said stiffly.

"I understand that, Mr. Speaker. I also understand that, even if you did agree with it, you'd argue that it's necessary to have such an organization working clandestinely, even occasionally beyond the law, because we still live in a dangerous world, and we have to be prepared to fight fire with fire. Even if our guys have turned ugly, the enemies they're up against are even uglier. You'd say we have no choice but to trust our own people."

"That is exactly right."

"You consider the aims of the Presidential Commission Garth and I are working for to be potentially very damaging to the national security of the United States. In fact, given that the potential damage should be obvious even to a child, you believe the members of the commission and the people working for them to be not only unpatriotic, but very likely traitorous."

"That is also exactly right," he replied, drawing himself up slightly and thrusting out his chin. "You state my feelings more precisely than I ever would, Frederickson."

"So what would one of your first acts in office as president be regarding this commission?"

"I'd disband it," Kranes answered without hesitation.

"Bingo. And what about the work the commission has already done up to this point? What about all the files and raw data? What if the final report had almost been completed?"

This time he did hesitate, and I prompted him with a wiggling finger. "Making public any part of the commission's raw data and speculations would be damaging to national security," he said at last. "I'd order it sealed."

"Right again. You're on a roll. Those are the two things the CIA desperately wants, the only two things they give a damn about. Do you see now why they're so eager to get you into office as quickly as possible? If they can get you into the Oval Office now, even for a few weeks, it won't matter to them who wins the next election. The issue will be moot; the commission will have been disbanded, and all its work product safely squirreled away, or even shredded."

He hesitated again, but this time I didn't prompt him. I wanted him to think about it, let the picture I had painted come into sharper focus and unfold before his eyes. Apparently he didn't like what he was seeing, for he finally said, "I have many personal friends in the CIA, Frederickson. They're decent people. Patriots. They'd never be part of a conspiracy like the one you're describing."

"And they're probably not. Don't misunderstand me, Kranes; I'm not suggesting that the director of the Central Intelligence Agency sits down every morning for a breakfast meeting with the heads of his departments to discuss how this operation is going. The director doesn't know about this, I can assure you; probably only an infinitesimal number of people over at Langley even have a hint of what's going on, and the director of Operations himself probably isn't one of them. This gig is being run by a handful of people in Ops, but the work of this handful of unelected people could be enough to subvert the Constitution of the United States and change the very nature of this country for the foreseeable future. The fact that such a tiny number of men could effectively operate within the confines of such a massive organization shows the extent of the corruption of the entire organization itself. They're supposed to stop people like this, not nurture them, but the CIA isn't going to be able to stop them any more than they were able to bring themselves to finally stop Aldrich Ames, after it was too late."

"This is all just sheer speculation," Kranes said tightly, but fear had once again appeared in his eyes.

"This is a classic operation, Kranes. Ops is manipulating clowns and madmen to bring about a desired end. It's the kind of thing Ops does best, and when they're at the top of their game-which they seem to have been in this case until they murdered Thomas Dickens and gave us a peek under the canvas-there's no covert organization in the world better at it. What they've done in this instance is to whisper in the ears of an assortment of lunatics. They've spun dreams of what life in the United States would be like under the presidency of William P. Kranes, what a hard-right president could accomplish with the aid of a hard-right Congress. Prayer in schools three times a day, and maybe even the United States officially declared a Christian country, all gun control laws rescinded, Roe versus Wade overturned and all abortions outlawed. The list of right-wing social goals is endless, and there'd be no problem in achieving most, if not all, of them once you were in office. After all, you'd immediately have two vacancies on the Supreme Court to fill. You'd waste no time in naming your choices, have the immediate support of Congress for whoever you nominated, and we all know what type of judges you'd offer up. That's the package the CIA has been offering."

Kranes's flesh had turned the color of a dirty dishcloth, and his breathing had become shallow and slightly hoarse. "You can't be implying that-"

"Wake-up call, shithead," Garth said in the same soft, silky tone.

I nodded. "Our conspirators, for whom the CIA as an organization bears responsibility, offed two Supreme Court justices, guaranteed."

"But one died in a car accident, and the other in her sleep!"

"Keep your voice down. They were murdered as part of a pact between these Ops renegades and their flunkies who are going to do their big kills for them. There are any number of wacko Right-to-Lifers who believe that killing abortion doctors is their ticket to heaven. They don't care if they die themselves, because they consider themselves blessed. Imagine how fast they'd get their rocks off at the notion of just two kills that would lead to the total banning of abortion throughout the country. Well, the CIA-our renegades, if you will-has at least two of these people on tap, and they're the boys who are going to carry out the assassinations. With the right equipment and training, you can kill anybody, provided you don't care about dying yourself. These folks can't wait to die carrying out this mission; they believe they're going to wake up in heaven on the lap of God."

Kranes licked his lips, then swallowed hard. He looked at Garth, then back at me. "I can't believe any of this is possible. Where's your proof?"

"You can believe Thomas Dickens is dead. Call your people in New York and check it out. He was blinded, and had his tongue, heart, and testicles cut out of him."

Kranes blanched, put a hand to his chest, shook his head. "If these CIA conspirators of yours were so clever as to murder two Supreme Court justices and make their deaths look like accidents, why wouldn't they have done the same thing to Dickens-especially if their purpose was to shield me? After he was killed in. . that manner.. the two of you came running right to my office. Why do something that results in the opposite of what was intended?"

"A good question," I conceded reluctantly, disturbed by the tiny gleam of triumph in his eyes, "and we'll have to get back to you on that. My best guess is that there was some initial confusion at operation headquarters on how best to handle the situation. Conflicting signals may have been sent out, and those signals got crossed. There may have been an abrupt change in plans. Their first mistake was in automatically assuming that I wasn't on the level during our conversation in your Huntsville office, and that I intended sooner or later to use the plagiarism incident to publicly embarrass you, no matter what I said. Working on that assumption, they first decided maybe they should just try to buy me off, which is how Taylor Mackintosh wound up in my office waving a checkbook. But before the bagman even got there, somebody may have successfully argued that my purpose was ideological, and it was unlikely I could be bought off. So then a decision was made to change course and simply remove the core source of the problem, and then things began to go haywire. The wrong personnel were chosen for the job, just as Taylor Mackintosh had been absolutely the wrong person to send to me. I won't know how and why those mistakes were made until we can penetrate their command structure, which is that big fish we're trying to fry. But these are the things that can go wrong when you have said clowns and madmen fronting for you."

"What you're saying is that you don't have proof of any of this."

"Taylor Mackintosh's visit is proof that your offices are bugged. You're certainly aware of Thomas Dickens' link to you, and the manner of his death, by the same voodoo hit squad that's been killing our Haitian witnesses, links that killing to the CIA-and our conversation in your Huntsville office. I could go on, but how much proof do you need?"

"Dickens' murder could have been a copycat killing."

"Don't go into denial on me, Kranes. I've seen incriminating photographs that link an admitted CIA operative both to the dead Supreme Court justices and the two Right-to-Lifers the CIA will use as shooters. Unfortunately, that evidence was destroyed in a fire. The FBI can't be more than one or two hills behind us on this, but by the time they gather enough evidence to convince you of what's going on, it could be too late. As of this moment, Garth and I are the only people who are aware of your link to the latest murder victim."

"Presumed link to-"

"By the time the FBI gets around to talking to you, you could already be in the Oval Office-and the chair is going to be covered with your predecessor's blood. Events are going to be moving very quickly now. The other party's convention starts in less than a week; that will present one opportunity for the assassins. But the attempts could come sooner, or later; today or tomorrow-or in two weeks, a month. Just so long as you have enough time to do what they know you'll do, which is to wipe out this commission and its findings. That's why we're here talking to the object of their affection. It really doesn't make any difference whether or not the FBI finds the connection between you and Thomas Dickens; whether they do or they don't, you're still the only person who can put a stop to this thing now."

"You can't expect me to-"

"Your invisible handlers are a government unto themselves, Mr. Kranes. They rule a country where there are no maps or boundaries to begin with, but where they're constantly trying to project and expand their power. Their loyalty isn't to the United States, it's only to themselves. You dream of some pastel, mythical country called the United States as you imagine it was forty or fifty years ago, a place that never really existed, and you pander to the prejudices of millions of people who share the same fantasy. The people who are trying to manipulate you dream of a falling eagle, a kind of fascist America where they're free to do just about any damn thing they please without fear of any embarrassing questions being asked by bothersome elected officials who suspect some of the pranks they pull may not really be in the best interests of national or global security. It's a game to them, Kranes, a Great Game, and the only thing they're interested in is being able to continue playing it without interference. The game is an end in itself. Over the course of the past six months, because they now perceive a very serious threat to their power, they've murdered six Haitians, one American poet, and two Supreme Court justices. Now they're poised to murder the president and vice president-all so that you'll be president long enough to guarantee their survival, and maybe beyond that. They may have promised their flunkies an all-out effort in the November election to keep you in office, and then maybe a repeal of the Twenty-sixth Amendment. All this just to wreck the commission and quash its report. They don't give a damn about the wreckage they'll leave behind."

Kranes shook his head stubbornly. Although it was not warm in the air-conditioned building, tiny beads of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. "Just for the sake of argument, let's say everything you're telling me is true."

"It is. Believe it."

"And you think I can stop it all simply by going to the FBI and Secret Service and telling them Thomas Dickens was killed because I was caught copying some of his poems?"

"No. You stop it by resigning."

"What. .?"

"You heard him, shithead," Garth said. "If you really want to do something for your country, get the hell out of office. The CIA wants you at the altar because you're every fascist's sweetheart. Break up the engagement, and maybe they won't burn down the church."

We'd really hit him where he lived. Kranes wiped at the sweat on his upper lip, but it didn't do any good; even larger droplets had appeared on his forehead, and were rolling down over his pudgy cheeks. He didn't react at all to my diplomat brother's words. We had painted him a nightmare scenario, but that didn't seem to upset him as much as the word "resign."

"You don't have to resign from Congress, Mr. Kranes," I said quietly. "You can go right on representing the people of Huntsville, Alabama, and you can keep on saying whatever you want to say. But you have to resign from your Speaker's post. And you should call a press conference and do it this afternoon, right after we leave. You have to take yourself out of the line of succession. Announce that you're backing a moderate-any moderate, if there's one left in your party-to replace you in the post. Then the CIA will abort. The consequences of failure are too great for them to risk carrying out the assassinations with no guarantee they'll be able to cover their tracks and control whoever winds up being president. Without you as a quick and easy solution to their problems, these people will back off their plan, hunker down, and leave it to the rest of the agency to concentrate on trying to find a way to defend themselves against the charges in the commission's report. Your party, and your ideas, won't suffer; someone to your liking will almost certainly win the November election. And you may even get to keep your little secret."

Kranes did not reply. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, then stared down at his shoes.

It was Garth who broke the silence. "He's not going to do it, Mongo," my brother said evenly. "Fuck him. Let's stop wasting our time and get out of here."

"Is my brother right, Mr. Kranes?" I asked, stepping closer so that I could look up into his face. "Are you going to give these murderers what they want?"

His reaction was to quickly step around me and away from both of us, shuffling a few steps further down the corridor. When he looked up, his face was flushed, his eyes wide. "There's too much at stake for me to resign from the Speaker's post."

Garth said, "Oy."

I said, "What?"

"We're on the verge of making this country right again, and I'm the man who brought us here. My party needs my continued leadership. You come to me with this completely wild story, without any solid proof of any of it, and you expect me to immediately step down from my position of leadership. Even if you're not consciously part of any scheme to bring me down, the two of you may still be pawns of people who are trying to do just that. All of this could be part of some elaborate liberal plot to derail me and our plans for this country. At the very least, I have to have time to think about it. I will not-"

Somewhat to my surprise, he abruptly stopped speaking when I raised my hand. I said quietly, "While you're mulling it over, here's something you can do on your own to check into this wild speculation and the possibility of some liberal plot against you. Loosen up with some of your buddies in the Twilight Zone who you've been avoiding lately for fear they'll embarrass you. Take, say, Taylor Mackintosh out for a few drinks. He may wind up telling you a few things you don't want to hear."

Garth raised his right hand and cocked his thumb and index finger like a gun, which he aimed at the man standing down the hallway. Then he smiled thinly, winked, and said, "You've been warned. Don't come crying to us if you end up having to be president."