Empire

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History is never proved, only supposed. No matter how much evidence you collect, you’re always guessing about cause-and-effect, and assuming things about dead people’s motives. Since even living people don’t understand their own motives, we’re hardly likely to do any better with the dead.

Keep testing your guesses against the evidence. Keep trying out new guesses to see if they fit better. Keep looking for new evidence, even if it disproves your old hypotheses. With each step you get just a little closer to that elusive thing called “the truth.” With each step you see how much farther away the truth is than you ever imagined it to be.

In only a few minutes, Cole told the colonel in charge of the task force everything pertinent that he knew, and Colonel Meyers assured him in return that they had already intercepted the convoys heading both directions up and down Highway 12.

“Good job capturing the command center intact,” he said. “And Verus alive. News teams already have him on film.”

“Broadcasting?” asked Cole.

“No way to keep it secret when we went across the border. Lots of uproar on the news about it. So Torrent preauthorized us to allow the embedded news teams to broadcast live any evidence that we had taken the right place. I decided Verus’s face qualified. Along with those rows of mechs still inside. And the convoys.”

“I look forward to watching the coverage,” said Cole.

“You’ve got no time for that,” said Colonel Meyers. “Torrent wants you to go straight back to New Jersey.”

“Jersey?”

“He wants you with the cops who go back in to accept the surrender of the city.”

“They’ve surrendered,” said Cole.

“Not yet,” said Meyers. “Which is why you’ve got time to get there.”

“But I have a prisoner,” said Cole.

“No, sir, I’m sorry. I have a prisoner. You have other orders.” Meyers put a hand on his shoulder. “But you trust these other guys of yours, right? They can stay right with Verus all the way to Montana. We’ll treat his wound and get him back to Andrews and they’re with him, all right?”

Cat grinned at him. “I want to hear him say ‘owie owie’ when they treat his hand.”

“They don’t need me in New York,” said Cole.

“True,” said Meyer. “I think Torrent wants you there for the cameras. Last American soldier out of the city, first one to go back. It’s all for the cameras, guys. We want to get the message out—this is one country, with one Constitution. Your face is part of that. Like it or not.”

Cole was escorted to the chopper that was taking him back out of the battle zone. In the air, he found out that Averell Torrent had been confirmed by both houses of Congress as the new Vice President of the United States, and took the oath of office in the Senate chamber. But it was still Torrent’s operation, and during his few minutes on the ground in Montana before boarding an eastbound military transport, he was given a cellphone whose number Torrent had.

Four and a half hours later, he was standing at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. Captain Charlie O’Brien was there to greet him. So were the cops that Cole and Rube had led out of the city a month ago.

By now, Torrent had briefed Cole by telephone. “The city council has assured President Nielson that all their previous actions and statements were made under duress. They would welcome liberation by United States forces. They ask us to be careful to avoid bloodshed.”

“I’d like to arrest their asses,” said one of the cops. “Nobody minded them killing us.”

“I believe,” said Cole, “that one of the sacrifices you’re being asked to make is to pretend that you weren’t stabbed in the back. Just remember that the cameras will show you coming back into the city as the lawful police force—what’s left of it. It’s your show. I know you’ll do it with class.”

That was Cole’s own decision—that the cops would lead the way. Torrent had tried to persuade him that he and Charlie O’Brien should be the point men, but Cole refused. “This isn’t the U.S. Army or the New Jersey National Guard entering New York, it’s New York’s own. New York’s finest.”

Torrent conceded the point.

So they got into Humvees and headed on through the tunnel until they were thirty yards from the entrance. An advance team had already ascertained that there was no ambush waiting for them.

O’Brien and Cole followed the uniformed policemen up to the tunnel mouth, where the news cameras from inside the city were waiting for them.

Cole couldn’t hear what was being said—but he knew the message well enough. Because the police force had been nearly destroyed during the invasion by the traitors, they had deputized members of the New Jersey National Guard and U.S. Army as auxiliaries to the New York City police. They were there to help arrest those traitors who laid down their weapons and surrendered, and to kill any who resisted.

The moment was carried live on all the networks and news channels. It was not known how many of the Progressive Restoration would refuse to surrender. In the end, only one mech operator fired at them and was immediately killed. A few of the rebel soldiers were apprehended trying to escape. No doubt some did escape.

Everyone else surrendered.

The Second American Civil War was over. By far the largest group of casualties were New York City policemen and firemen. The second largest group consisted of rebel soldiers killed by Cole and his comrades in Washington, D.C., and, later, at Lake Chin-nereth.

The only U.S. military personnel killed or injured in the war were Major Reuben Malich and one of the military police who protected Cole’s escape in the Pentagon on the sixteenth of June, and then the men who died in their vehicles on MacArthur Boulevard.

Every one of them, on both sides, an American.

After Cole and O’Brien were photographed with the policemen they had helped to save, they were piled into a car and taken back through the Holland Tunnel.

“You ever get your car back?” asked Cole.

“Oh, yes,” said O’Brien. “You owe me a tank of gas.”

“I owe you more than that,” said Cole.

“Hey, how many guys actually got to blow up one of those mechs during this little war?”

“Damn few,” said Cole, “and thank God for that.”

The car dropped O’Brien off in his unit’s staging area, where the same car was parked. Then Cole was driven on to Gettysburg, where the rest of Rube’s jeesh had already been brought. Again, partly for the cameras. But also to be debriefed by Torrent.

During the debriefing, President Nielson came in to Torrent’s office, waving his hand downward for them to stay seated and continue. He listened as Torrent asked his questions. Soon after Nielson, several others came in. Including Cecily Malich.

It was Mingo who interrupted Torrent in the midst of thanking them and bringing the debriefing to a close. “Excuse me, sir, but there’s a member of our jeesh who didn’t live to make this fight. His wife just came in.”

Torrent turned around, noticing Cecily for the first time.

All the members of the jeesh stood up and saluted her.

She rose slowly to her feet, crying a little, and saluted them back.

There weren’t any cameras in the room. So the picture the world saw was the eight of them, still dressed for combat, lined up behind President Nielson and Vice President Torrent at the press conference.

When it was thrown open for questions, Cole tried to get Babe, who was, after all, a public relations professional, to serve as spokesman. But Babe refused. “I didn’t go inside, man,” he said.

So Cole and Cat stood at the podium, with the President and Vice President looking on. The questions were what you’d expect. Sure, they were heroes. But the press was still the press.

“How many Americans did you kill on this mission?”

“As many as necessary to protect myself and my men, and to accomplish our mission,” said Cole. “And not one more.”

“Why did you obey an order to enter a state that had closed its borders to military operations?”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Cat, “all our operations took place inside the United States of America, under orders from the President of the United States. We did not cross any international boundaries.”

“Weren’t you afraid that your attack would lead to more bloodshed within the United States?”

Cole took that one, forcing himself to stay completely calm. “I was in New York City when this rebellion began. I saw the dead bodies of policemen and firemen and one uniformed doorman on the streets of that city, before I fired a single shot in this war. I believe our actions today put an end to the bloodshed that the rebels started.”

“Do you feel you have avenged the deaths of the President and Vice President on Friday the Thirteenth?”

“We’re not in the vengeance business,” said Cat. “We’re in the business of defeating those who wage war against America.”

Cole added, “We know these people were behind the attack on New York, because that secret factory in Washington State was where the weapons they used were manufactured. But whether they had anything to do with the prior assassinations remains to be seen.” Cole could see the President’s staff visibly relax. They didn’t want anything that could be used by Verus’s lawyers to claim he had already been tried in the media.

“Some reports say that you shot Aldo Verus after he was arrested.”

Cole smiled at the reporter. “After I told Mr. Verus that he was under arrest, he attempted to flee. We overtook him. He then drew a weapon. I did not shoot when he pointed it at me. I shot Mr. Verus in the hand only when he pointed the pistol at his own head. I wanted him alive for his treason trial. Since I was fifteen feet away, a bullet to the hand was the only way I could prevent him from taking irrevocable action.”

Cat added, “We didn’t believe we had time to negotiate the surrender of his handgun.”

A lot of people laughed. A lot of them were reporters.

After the press conference, Cecily came up to Cole. “I can’t get over the questions they asked you. Like you were criminals.”

“It was a game,” said Cole. “Didn’t you notice? The guy who asked me about shooting Verus after he was arrested—he was from Fox. He was setting me up for the answer I gave. Bet you that’ll be the sound bite that runs everywhere tonight on the evening news.”

“And not a headline saying, ‘Soldier accuses Verus of assassinations.’ Okay, I see.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Cole, have you called your mother yet?”

“No, ma’am,” said Cole.

“So she’s going to learn about all this by watching the news?”

“Probably not,” said Cole. “She doesn’t watch the news.”

“So you can still call her.”

He nodded.

“You can use my phone.” She led him out of the room.

Her office—which she shared with four other staffers—was empty. She led him to the desk and he sat down to make the call.

“Before you dial,” she said. “And before I leave you alone to talk to her, I just want to ask you. Will you come see me—soon? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“What is it?” She looked worried. What could be wrong now? They had the rebel arsenal. They had New York City back.

“When you come visit me,” she said. “Call your mom.” Then she left.

But when he called for an appointment the next day, she wasn’t in. And the day after, she called him and said, “Look, I was probably wrong. It was just stupid. Come see me and the kids anyway—at home. And I mean really home—the President is moving into the White House now, and I’m taking my kids back home to Virginia.”

Cole could imagine how it might be for her to enter the house she had shared with Rube. “Would you like company when you go back home for the first time?”

“I’ve already been back,” she said. “I’m okay. But thanks for offering.”

He figured that was that. They’d worked well together, even liked each other, but whatever confidence she was going to share, she had changed her mind. And that was fine. Her privilege.

Verus had asked to see Torrent, and Torrent accepted. They did not notify the press. Verus was being held under guard at Andrews Air Force Base; Torrent arrived in a limo and was hustled directly to Verus’s room.

Verus’s arm was in a sling, his hand thickly bandaged.

Torrent sat down without waiting to be asked. “How is your hand?” asked Torrent.

“My own doctor got to examine it and approved of the work they did. As a starting point. There’ll be more surgeries. I’ll probably never get full use of it, but people have suffered worse than that in wars.”

“I thought you hated war.”

“I hate wars that are fought to advance fascism,” said Verus. “I didn’t invite you here to argue with you.”

“Really? Then why am I here?”

“Because you’re the reason I fought this war,” said Verus.

“I didn’t realize I had made you so angry with me. In fact, I thought you enjoyed my seminar.”

“Your lectures spurred me to action,” said Verus. “I realized that it wasn’t enough to lobby against fascists. Bayonets could only be stopped by bayonets.”

“But Aldo,” said Torrent. “If you really believed that, you and General Alton wouldn’t have had to fake up a right-wing coup attempt.”

Verus smiled thinly. “You think I don’t know what you are?”

“We know you’re a traitor, and definitely not a pacifist. What am I?”

“You’re the devil, Torrent,” said Verus. “And we all do your work.”

Torrent rose to his feet. “You could have faxed me that message.” “I wanted to say it to your face. I just want you to know. This war isn’t over. Even if you kill me or keep me in chains, your side will be brought down in the end.”

“My side?” said Torrent. “I don’t have a side.” With that, he left the room.

Cecily moved her children home. Aunt Margaret stayed with them for a while, and when she went home to New Jersey, Cecily came home from the White House. “I was just transitional,” she told LaMonte. “My children lost their father. They need me. But I needed the work you gave me to do. So I thank you for that.”

It was hard, especially because many of her friends—most of her friends—seemed to regard the death of her husband as something that made her too sacred to actually talk to. She got notes. There were flowers. A few visits, with the standard words, “Well, if there’s anything we can do.”

But no calls from girlfriends inviting her to dinner or the movies.

Then, about a week after she moved home, Cat and Drew came by right after dinner, bringing ice cream. They sat around the kitchen table with Cecily and the kids, and told stories about Reuben. What he did in the war. What he did in training. What he did when he was on leave with them.

A week later, it was Mingo and Benny. Same thing, with pictures this time. They’d made a scrapbook and they left it with them.

Babe came alone a few days later. He had made a DVD of a slide show about Reuben. It was really funny. And sweet. At the door, as he was leaving, she asked him, “Did you guys draw lots? Take turns?”

“Oh, did the other guys already come? Have we been pestering you?”

“No, no,” she said. “I love you guys for this. Reuben never talked about his work, not with the children.”

“Before he was a martyr,” said Babe, “he was already a hero many times over. I think when kids have lost their dad, they need to know who he was and why it’s important that he did the things that made it so he can’t come home anymore.” He smiled a little. “I know. My dad died in the Gulf War.”

Eventually they all came. And came back. Along with other friends of Reuben’s from the military. And she began to get visits from military wives that she’d known on various assignments.

But Cole didn’t come.

At first she wondered why—was a little hurt, even.

Then she realized that Cole might have fought with these guys, but he didn’t really feel like part of the group. He had been added in.

And then she remembered telling him she wanted to talk to him, and then changing her mind. Maybe he interpreted that as my having changed my mind about wanting to see him.

Or maybe he’s busy.

I’ll call him.

But she knew that he was different from the other guys. Because he had been with Reuben those last three days. When the President died. In New York. And in the Pentagon, when DeeNee shot Reuben down. If he came over, she would tell him. Even though she couldn’t prove anything. She’d tell him because she had to tell somebody.

But not yet.

She watched the news assiduously, as she always had.

All the movements to recognize the Progressive Restoration died with the arrest of Aldo Verus. Vermont’s legislature didn’t bother rescinding their resolution because, as their attorney general assured everybody, it had no binding legal force anyway.

America watched with Cecily and her children as the Progressive Restoration forces in New York surrendered peacefully after two days of dithering—and after the city council voted unanimously to declare them to be traitors and request them to leave their territory.

And more and more evidence came out, exposing Aldo Verus’s network of influence and financial control. Many organizations dissolved themselves; others repudiated the financing they had received from Verus and pretended they hadn’t known where it came from and that it certainly shouldn’t be taken as any link between them and Verus’s abortive revolt.

Verus himself waited in a special prison as his hand underwent repeated reconstructive surgeries and he was kept on continuous suicide watch.

The children lost interest. The war was over.

But Cecily kept watching, with special interest in Averell Torrent.

She wasn’t all that unusual. Torrent was enormously popular. Almost movie-star popular. And he was handling it all so brilliantly. There had been talk right from the start about giving the Republican presidential nomination to Torrent, though there were also grumblings about how nobody even knew where he stood on abortion, on marriage, on taxes, on immigration, on anything except defense.

But whenever reporters asked him if he was seeking the Republican nomination, he’d answer, “I’m not a member of any party. I’m not seeking any nomination.” And then he’d walk away.

Then, in an interview on Fox News, O’Reilly said, “All right, Mr. Vice President, I’m going to ask you point-blank. Remember, this is the no-spin zone.”

“I never forget that, Mr. O’Reilly.”

“If the Republicans nominate you, will you accept the nomination and run for President?”

“No spin,” said Torrent.

“And no evasions, please.”

“Here’s the thing. I believe in democracy. Hard-fought elections. But right now—this country’s been on the brink of war. No, we were over the brink. Shooting had begun. And what was it about? The same divisive, vicious, hate-filled rhetoric that has dominated our elections for the past—what, fifteen, twenty years? I’m sick of it. I don’t want to be part of it.”

“I hear that, Mr. Vice President. But you still haven’t answered my question. Am I being spun, sir?”

“I’m being as clear as I know how,” said Torrent. “The only way I’d run for President is if I were nominated by both parties.”

O’Reilly laughed. “So the only way you’ll run is if you run against yourself?”

“I know I wouldn’t smear my opponent and he wouldn’t smear me,” said Torrent.

“So are you asking the Democrats to nominate you, too?” asked O’Reilly.

“I’m asking people to leave me out of all the hatred and bitterness, all the lies and all the spin. I accepted the office I hold now in order to end the impasse in Congress and help return this country to some kind of normality. I expect to step down when my successor is sworn in in January. After that, I’ll see if some university will take me onto the faculty.”

O’Reilly smiled and said, “The gauntlet is down, Democrats. It happened before, back in 1952, when nobody was sure whether Eisenhower was a Democrat or a Republican. Both parties wanted to nominate him. He picked one of them. But Vice President Torrent refuses to choose between them. The Democrats have the first convention. Will they stay with their current front-runner, who just happens to have the highest negatives of any candidate who ran this year? Divisiveness? Or healing? But I give you the last word, Mr. Vice President.”

Torrent smiled gravely. “I miss the classroom. I look forward to teaching again.”

“In other words, you think there’s no chance you’ll be nominated.”

Torrent only laughed and shook his head, as if the idea was ridiculous.

But he didn’t say no.

And despite the front-runner’s most desperate efforts, she couldn’t block Averell Torrent’s name from being presented at the Democratic convention. Too many delegates were announcing that they would switch to him on the first ballot, regardless of what they had pledged back in the primaries.

As one of the delegates said on camera, “A lot has happened since the primaries. If we didn’t have a responsibility to think for ourselves, there’d be no reason to have living delegates come to a convention, they could just tally the primary votes and make the announcement.”

Leading Republicans fell all over themselves to announce that if the Democrats nominated Torrent, they’d nominate him, too.

It’s really going to happen, thought Cecily.

And… I have to talk to somebody or I’ll go crazy.

So she went to look for Cole’s number, and realized: She didn’t know it. She had only the numbers of cellphones that he had long since discarded. And of course his office number at the Pentagon, where his assignment had evaporated when Reuben was killed.

Finally she called Sandy in the White House.

“If you want your job back,” said Sandy, “the answer is hell yes what took you so long.”

“I don’t,” said Cecily, “but it’s nice to know I’ve been missed.”

“I don’t miss you, I just have jobs for you to do,” said Sandy. “So what do you want? Because I’m so busy I don’t have time to scratch my butt.”

“Bartholomew Coleman’s phone number.”

“You call me to get a phone number?”

“Captain Coleman,” said Cecily. “The soldier who was with Reuben when… ”

“I know who he is, I see him every day,” said Sandy. “Home phone? Cell? Office?”

“You see him every day?”

“He’s assigned to the Vice President as his top aide on military affairs. He’s at all the briefings.”

“I didn’t know.” Cecily was dismayed. Had Cole climbed into bed with Torrent? Then she couldn’t talk to him.

“So don’t you want the numbers now?”

“Sure, of course,” she said. “I just didn’t know—yes, all the numbers.”

She could write them down. She just wouldn’t use them.

And she didn’t.

But that night, he showed up at her door at nine o’clock.

“Cole—Captain Coleman. I didn’t know—I didn’t expect—”

“Sandy said you called,” said Cole. “And then when you found out I worked with Torrent, you suddenly didn’t want to talk to ne.”

Sandy was way too observant.

“But I’ve kind of been waiting for you to call,” said Cole. “When you sort of backed off from talking to me a few weeks ago, I figured you wanted to wait. Or something. But… you know I really liked your kids. I don’t want to lose contact with you. I only knew Rube—Major Malich—for a few days, but…” He took a deep breath. Look, I was hoping there’d be cookies.”

She laughed and ushered him into the kitchen. Mark and Nick were still up and they remembered Cole and practically tackled him and dragged him to the floor. Well, Mark did. Nick just watched him, but Cecily saw how his eyes glowed. Cole had made an impression on her sons.

They didn’t talk about Reuben. They didn’t talk about world afairs. Instead Cole asked the boys about things they were doing. They ate ice cream. Cole demonstrated how cupcakes don’t actually have to be bitten into, you can jam a whole one in your mouth at once. Then he made a show of choking before he swallowed it all. “The bad thing,” he said, “is when you cough icing out of your nose.”

At ten o’clock Cecily sent the boys to bed.

“I’ll go now,” said Cole. “It’s late for you, too.”

“No,” she said. “Stay. I do want to talk to you.”

He answered softly, so the boys wouldn’t hear. “It’s about Torent, right? I’m not married to him. I’m assigned to him.”

“His request?”

“He’s vetting the White House staff and the Pentagon. Working with the FBI to isolate the ones who should be under suspicion so the rest can breathe easy again.”

“That sounds like an awfully controversial job for somebody who claims to be against divisiveness,” said Cecily.

“That’s just the point. He’s the one that everybody will accept as being impartial and not politically motivated. He doesn’t have a history with anyone.”

“Actually,” said Cecily, “he does.”

They went down into the basement. Into the office. There she laid out the translations of Reuben’s class notes. “First things first,” she said. She handed him a paper with one paragraph circled.

“Augustus Caesar,” he said. “So?”

She handed him another.

“Augustus again.”

And another.

“He’s a history professor,” said Cole. “Augustus is history.”

“Three different classes, Cole,” said Cecily. “Only one of them even vaguely dealt with Rome.”

“You’re building a case, I see,” said Cole. “So… build it.”

“Read what Reuben said right after that paragraph.”

Cole read it aloud. “’Roman Empire an obsession? Especially Augustus and Trajan’—you didn’t show me any Trajan notes.”

“Keep reading.”

“’Heroes of his. Guy watches two sides fight it out in civil wars. Then steps in, puts a stop to it, Rome hails him as hero who brings peace and unity. Shows great respect to Senate, republican form of government. Modesty. But rules with iron hand. Torrent suffers from empire envy? Always says American empire can’t fall because we’re still in republic phase, not an empire yet. Wishing he could play Augustus and start one?’ ”

Cole set down the paper and leaned back in the chair. “So you think Torrent—what, set up a civil war just so he could come in and be the great conciliator?”

“I’ve read a lot about Augustus and Trajan, since getting these notes translated,” said Cecily. “They were great emperors. Not cruel. They really did seem to want to maintain stability within the empire. Bring Rome to its true destiny. Improve life for everybody.”

“So they were decent guys.”

“But they were dictators, Cole. They played up to the people. To the army. To the Senate. They kept themselves popular. They also had their opponents murdered. They stayed in office till they died. And once you’ve got an emperor, even a good one, you can’t be sure the next one will be an Augustus or a Marcus Aurelius, or a Trajan or a Hadrian.”

“Could be Nero,” said Cole. “Caligula.”

“Then I keep thinking—am I being Brutus? He and his friends were worried about Julius Caesar becoming dictator, and so they conspired to murder him to save the republic. But his death just launched the civil wars that brought Octavian to power, that renamed him Augustus and put an end to democracy.”

“Such as it was, in Rome.”

“It was a lot, for those days,” said Cecily. “And it’s a lot for us, too. They’re going to nominate him, Cole. You know they are. Both parties. He’s going to run unopposed.”

“The two-party system isn’t going to die in one election.”

“If we have another.”

“Come on.”

“Oh, he’ll allow another election, and another, and another. Augustus kept all the forms of the republic. He just made sure that nobody was nominated that he didn’t approve of. He kept control of the army.”

“Torrent doesn’t have that, I can assure you.”

“I know. I’m just worried about nothing. Except.”

“Except what?”

“What if Torrent’s benign image is just that? Just an image?”

“You said he had a history. What?”

“He’s been teaching a long time. And he’s a noted teacher. His books are very popular. So all of this might be coincidence.”

“All of what?”

Cecily handed him a list of names.

The first name on the list was Aldo Verus. He had attended two seminars of Torrent’s, years ago—seminars called “History for Future-minded CEOs.” Cole hadn’t heard of most of the rest of the people, but Cecily provided a description of their activities along with their link to Torrent. They were all prominent in the Progressive organizations that were tied to Verus.

“He had a lot of students,” said Cole.

“I know. I said so, didn’t I? But the thing is, he did have these students.” She handed him another sheet. It contained only two names.

Reuben Malich and Steven Phillips. “I’ve talked to Phillips.”

“He’s not in jail?” asked Cole.

“Nobody can prove that he knew any more than Reuben did what was being shipped and to whom and from whom. I’m not inclined to press it with him, because then people might press it with Reuben, and I know he didn’t know.”

“Me, too,” said Cole.

“Phillips says that Torrent asked him if he’d be interested in being approached for some extra assignments. Just like Reuben.”

“But Torrent didn’t actually give him any assignments.”

“He just asked if he’d be interested. He said the people would use his name. But when the approach came, they didn’t mention Torrent. Same with Reuben. So Phillips—and Reuben—were never sure if these people had been sent by Torrent or not.”

“But they took the assignments.”

“Because they thought the assignment was from the President. And because… because it was secret and exciting and… these are men, Cole. And in the back of their mind, they thought it probably was from Torrent, and they knew he was such a brilliant guy, everything must be on the square.”

“As if brilliant equals good.”

“Exactly,” said Cecily. “But we still don’t know if he had anything to do with it. And we don’t know who the people who approached Reuben and Phillips even were. Phillips doesn’t know, anyway, and Reuben never said and never wrote down anything.”

“So Torrent may or may not be involved with Verus.”

“No, that’s not the point,” said Cecily. “I’m almost sure he’s not part of Verus’s operation. Verus was in control of everything about his operation. People reported to him, and he reported to God. Or history. Whatever he believed in. Not to Torrent. And can you imagine Torrent reporting to him?”

“Maybe. It’s possible.”

“I don’t think so,” said Cecily. “You met Verus.”

“I didn’t see him at his best.”

“But can you imagine that if Torrent worked for him, Verus would sit still for Torrent being nominated by both parties? Essentially handed the presidency?”

“Of course he would,” said Cole. “If it means he wins after all.”

“Okay, maybe,” said Cecily. “But I don’t think so. Because of this.”

She handed another sheet of paper to Cole. It had only one name on it. DeeNee Breen. Took a class with Torrent as an undergrad at Princeton. Got an A.

Cole felt sick. “But it was just a class.”

“From Torrent. At Princeton. Coincidence. Lots of students took classes from him. Not all of them murdered a major in the U.S. Army, but I know I’m reasoning backward. It’s no proof of anything. It’s just… I had to tell somebody. I had to show somebody or I’d go crazy, watching Torrent do this—this rocket ride to supreme power.”

“Who would keep a secret like this?” said Cole. “This conspiracy would be too—”

“Cole,” said Cecily, “who would believe Verus could bring off his conspiracy? Anyway, I don’t know if it was a conspiracy. It might have been more like some kind of evil Johnny Appleseed. Torrent might just have gone around planting seeds. Who knows what he said to Verus that maybe provoked him. Like, ‘You talk about how committed you are, Mr. Verus, but you don’t do anything. You took the name of a Roman Emperor, but you act like a lobbyist.’ That’s the way he talked. Challenging. Goading. He goaded Reuben. Called him ‘soldier boy’ all the time. It made Reuben all the more eager to prove himself to Torrent.”

Cole remembered that day when Torrent led them through the reasoning process that pointed to Chinnereth and Genesseret. “You’re saying that he already knew where Verus’s operations were?”

“No, no, that’s the beauty of it. He goads Verus. Makes him read history books that will point him to certain courses of action. But he isn’t actually in on it. I think he really did figure out where Verus was exactly the way he showed us. Maybe he had some scrap of inside information—after all, he was NSA, he had access to intelligence reports that he wouldn’t necessarily share with us. But he wasn’t in on it, any more than he was directly in on what Reuben and Phillips were doing.”

“And DeeNee?” asked Cole.

“That’s different. The men who were waiting to ambush you—they’re dead. We can’t question them. Did they know she was planning to kill Reuben? Were they planning to kill him, or just subdue him and get the PDA? Did they work for Verus or Torrent or some third party we don’t know about? It’s all so murky and I don’t know. But she was a student of Torrent’s.”

“Were the guys who were with her?”

“No. Nobody else.”

“I don’t know, Cecily. I just don’t know.”

“I don’t know either. I’m not accusing him. I’m really not. But this stuff just won’t go away.”

Cole nodded. “I guess it’s like having a song on your mind. You can’t get rid of it. You hate the song. So you sing it to somebody else, and now we’ve both got the song on our minds.”

“I’m so sorry!” she said. “You’ll notice that I didn’t call you, you just came over.”

“Absolutely,” said Cole. “And I’m glad you told me. Really. No lie. I’m glad you told me and nobody else.”

“Because they’d think I’m crazy?”

“Because word might get around and somebody might kill you,” said Cole.

She was rocked by that. “Come on.”

“If it’s true,” said Cole. “If it’s true. Then you’re just begging to be murdered. To shut you up.”

She reached over to the papers, turned on the shredder beside the desk, and turned them into confetti.

“Very dramatic, but they’re on disk, aren’t they?” said Cole.

“Not for long,” she said. “And yes, I do know how to overwrite files so that they are truly and completely erased.”

“But you know and I know,” said Cole. “And we’re both going to keep watching, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t think of this as something dangerous.”

“Yet you didn’t talk about it to anybody.”

“I thought they’d think I was crazy. Everybody talks about Torrent like he’s God.”

“The savior of America,” said Cole. “But it might not be assassination. Declaring you mentally unfit and taking your children away vould do the same job, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re scaring me,” she said.

“I’m sorry. But I’m not joking. You’ve planted the seed in my mind. I’ll watch. I promise you. I love this country. I don’t want a dictator. But I don’t want you to talk to anybody else about this. and I don’t want you to do any more research. You had to call people to get this information. You had to go to websites, you had to vrite to people, correct?”

She nodded.

“So you might already be on a list somewhere. Even if it’s only nside Torrent’s head. For what it’s worth, though, I think there’s a good chance you’re completely wrong. Which means you’re safe. But then it’s just as important not to say these things out loud to anyone else because if Torrent’s innocent, then this is… really kind if vicious slander.”

Cecily nodded again.

“Cecily, let’s both watch him. Let’s see how things play out. What he does with real power, when he gets his hands on it.”

“All right,” she said.

“Meanwhile,” said Cole, “I really have missed you guys. I really do like your kids. Can we be friends? Paranoids together, yes, but also friends?”

“Mark and Nick adore you.”

“And vice versa,” said Cole. “I’ll visit now and then, and sometimes we’ll watch Torrent on the news and exchange knowing glances. With any luck, we’ll laugh about what we were thinking tonight.”

“Were we thinking it? Or was I the only one?”

“Oh, you’ve got me thinking it, all right. You got the song on my mind, too.”

They left the office. Cole insisted on rinsing the ice cream dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “First time I’ve done dishes for anybody who wasn’t my mom,” he said. “I mean anybody I liked who wasn’t my mom.”

“I’ll have cookies for you next time.”

“Good, because it’s my life’s ambition to be fat.”

She gave him a hug at the door and he hugged her back. “I can’t help it,” she said. “I feel better now, because somebody else knows.”

When he was gone, she locked the door, went downstairs, got all the confetti from shredding those papers, and ran them down the garbage disposal in the kitchen.

At the Democratic convention,Torrent was nominated for President on the second ballot.

A week later, at the Republican convention, he was nominated by acclamation.

He became the first President since Washington to be elected with all of the electoral votes. And the largest popular vote in history, of course, since it was only divided with a handful of fringe candidates. But there was a huge turnout at that election. As pundits delighted in pointing out, if Torrent had gotten only half the votes he got, he still would have had the largest vote total of any presidential candidate in history.

People believed in him. They were ready for peace. They were ready to be united.

And in a house in Potomac Falls, Virginia, the Malich family watched the election returns with Bartholomew Coleman as their guest of honor. There was no suspense. But the TV stayed on, filling the sound clips of cheering crowds and excited newsmen.

Now and then, Cole and Cessy exchanged knowing glances.

When the polls closed in California, President Nielson appeared on camera. He had been reelected to Congress from his Idaho district in a landslide of his own. He seemed genuinely happy as he said, “I am pleased to announce my resignation from the presidency, effective tomorrow at noon. I was never more than an emergency President, and the emergency is over. There’s no reason for Averell Torrent not to start right away doing the job you chose him to do.”

Cecily broke down in tears. Just for a moment. “That’s just like LaMonte. Have we ever had a President who truly didn’t want the job?”

“Besides Warren Harding?” said Cole.

“Who?” said Mark.

“A dumb guy who got chosen to be President once because he looked presidential and all the people who actually wanted the job had too many people who hated them,” said Cole. “But your mom is right. Nielson did a good job as long as he was needed. And he chose his successor.” He grinned at Cecily. “Just like Trajan and Hadrian and Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius.”

“And you claim you’re not a historian,” said Cecily, wiping her eyes, but laughing ruefully.

Thirty minutes later, Torrent came on the screen.

“I am honored beyond measure by the trust the American people have shown in me. I’m glad that so many people have come to the polls to show they share my dream of a nation united, a single people who sometimes disagree, but always remain friends and fellow-citizens. I will live up to your trust to the best of my ability.

“I am moved by the generosity and humility of my good friend, President LaMonte Nielson. Not only did he raise me to national prominence, but also he trained me for the job that you have voted to give me. His willing resignation from the presidency is in the spirit of Cincinnatus, the great Roman leader who, having saved his city, resigned all his offices and returned to his farm to continue his life as an ordinary citizen.”

“A Roman reference,” said Cole.

“But not an emperor,” said Cecily.

Torrent was still talking. “There is nothing ordinary about LaMonte Nielson, however. He will continue to serve in Congress, and he will continue to hold a place in the hearts of the American people, in gratitude for his excellent service during our deepest national crisis since the Civil War.”

“Exactly the right thing to say,” said Cecily.

“Tomorrow I will be sworn into office as the second appointed Vice President to succeed to the presidency because of the resignation of his predecessor. In January, I will be sworn in again, for the term you just elected me to. But I have not forgotten that last June, on the thirteenth day, foreign terrorists murdered the elected President of the United States, the Vice President, the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and other dedicated servants of the American people in the performance of their duties.

“This was an offense to the entire American people. During the turmoil of the past few months, we have had our minds on problems within our borders. But the outrage committed against us has not been forgotten. Our response will be measured. It will be just. It will be thorough. It will be inevitable.

“But throughout the world, let every nation look to America for friendship. If you live at peace with your neighbors, if you provide fundamental human rights to your citizens, then we will join hands with you in perpetual partnership. We will show you that America longs for peace. We will have it within our own borders. We will help maintain it wherever it is threatened.

“And here at home, we will look at ourselves, not as groups arrayed against each other, quarreling over endless divisive issues, but as a single society, linked together by a shared culture, a shared history, and a shared future. Let’s build that future together, day by day, as neighbors, with respect, as you have joined together tonight in this great exercise of democracy.”

That was it. He was done.

There was no cheering crowd, because he had not given his speech at election headquarters. There was no election headquarters. He had not campaigned. Instead, he had gone from city to city, state to state, wherever the local candidates would agree to appear with him together, on the same platform, and each pledge to support their opponent if he should win. It was as if he were running an anti-campaign.

And now, his acceptance speech was given quietly, while sitting in his living room, with a single camera crew. Behind him, shelves of books. Beside him, his family. The perfect image of what Americans would like to think their Presidents are—intelligent, loving, kind, modest, and surprised by their good fortune.

“I wonder,” said Cole, “if he’ll remember that Cincinnatus speech four years from now.”

“He won’t have to,” said Cecily, “if he’s reelected.”

“He seems like exactly the President I’ve wished for,” said Cole.

“Me too,” said Cecily.

“Hope it’s true.”

“Me too.”

Cole got up from the sofa and stretched. “Let’s have cookies.”