Aftermath (54 page)

She turned to Wilmer. "Stay out of sight unless I tell you it's all right. If they get me, keep heading east. Try to get to Washington and warn people about what Pearl Lazenby is doing."

She walked out onto the road, turning when she got there to make sure that Wilmer was invisible in the shadows. The first car that came along was driven by a woman in her fifties. She gave one frightened look at the muddied scarecrow waving from the shoulder of the road, and speeded up.

Celine spent the next ten minutes rubbing mud off her face and clothes and doing what little she could with her tangled hair. Maybe it worked, or perhaps the driver of the little blue pickup was a brave woman.

She braked and leaned out of the open window. "In trouble?"

"Sort of. We were in an accident"—no point in making things complicated by talking about the Mars expedition or the Legion of Argos—"we need to get to a telcom."

"Lucky if you find one these days that works. But I can take you to a telcom nexus in Woodridge." The woman cocked her head at Celine. "You said
we
?"

"Two of us." Celine faced into the darkness at the side of the road and called, "Wilmer." She turned back to the woman. "He looks a mess, but he's all right."

The woman watched Wilmer shamble out of the darkness. "I'll take your word for it, ma'am. But if you need a ride again, I suggest you don't take turns standing in the road. And don't feel insulted, mister, but I'd rather you didn't trek that mud into the front here."

"No worries." Wilmer hoisted himself over the tailgate, while Celine climbed into the passenger seat.

"We really appreciate this. How far is Woodridge?"

"Eight or nine miles. Where you heading?"

"Washington."

"That's a hundred or more. No way you'll do it tonight. You'd best stay in Woodridge."

"Is it safe?"

That earned Celine a puzzled look from the driver. "I always thought so, though these days who knows? Five men shot in Charlottesville last week, but that was for riots and looting. Let's put it this way. I doubt you'll see anything in Woodridge as scary as your buddy in the back there."

"You weren't scared by him."

"You think so?" The driver reached down to her left and produced an old but well-polished gun. "I think maybe this helped."

She dropped them off in the middle of town. As Celine got out she said, "We really appreciate this."

The woman squinted up at her. "You're not on the run, are you? You don't seem the type."

"Not from the law. We're just looking for somewhere safe."

"Aren't we all?"

* * *

The telcom nexus doubled as a transport repair center.

"Lucky for you," said the man who ran it. He was outside, working on the engine of a big diesel runabout. When Celine rapped on the hood he emerged from under it with black oil smears on his hands, shirt, and forehead. "If it weren't for these fix-ups, I'd be long closed. The telcom system's unreliable. Hardly anybody tries to use it."

"We have to," Celine said firmly. "We have to reach the office of international space activities in Washington."

"Do you now." The mechanic wiped his hands on his pants. "You got money?"

"Not a penny."

"So how you propose to pay?"

While Celine was considering her answer, Wilmer said, "We'll tell you a story. It's worth more than the price of any telcom call."

The man looked Wilmer and Celine up and down. "You know, I might just be inclined to believe that. Let's go inside. Australian, aren't you? Then I reckon you won't say no to a beer while you're talking."

37

The storm moved quickly through the city. By seven in the morning, the only signs of its passage were ravaged trees and sheets of standing water on the Mall.

Sarah Mander sat at the highest level in the Capitol, stared vacantly toward the Monument, and sipped spiked ginseng. Last night's deluge had been replaced by a warm, gusting wind from the southwest. Shallow pools of water dwindled and dried as she watched. In the bright light of morning her face was pale and tired and revealed the faint lines of expert surgery.

"I am not," she said at last, "a morning person."

"Don't be upset if I say that's obvious." Nick Lopez was smiling, bright-eyed, and brimming over with energy. "I suggested that we meet here this early only because it's quiet. And I already checked this room for bugs. It's clean. Every bugging device I know about died when the chips did."

"What time did you get here?"

"Shortly before six. I was up at five." Sarah Mander inhaled steam and blinked as the spiked augment hit her. "Five. In the
morning.
Are you always like this?" And even before his nod, "I hope to God I never wake up next to you. Not that there's much chance of that. I'm sure you're thinking the same thing."

"Sarah, my dear, I would never be so ungracious as to refuse
any
invitation from the House Minority Leader."

"Sure." Sarah placed the plastic cup on the window-sill. "Save the oil for your boyfriends, Nick, and let's get down to business. Why not give me your general impressions, and I'll do this when I disagree." She waved a languid hand. "I probably have enough strength for that. I'll talk more as I wake up. Ready when you are."

Lopez bounced to his feet and began to pace, his footsteps loud on the mosaic of marble tiles. "To say it in one sentence, we are recovering faster than anybody thought possible. All our submarine forces were untouched, and they have as much firepower as they ever had. We have a few working fighter planes—modern ones—in a couple of the western underground facilities. The fix-ups for older ones, fighters and bombers, go faster every day. The supply of chips from deep warehouses is bigger than expected—"

"
Old
chips."

"Sure. But they work, and the main differences are in memory. The toughest problem is making sure that the chips go where they're most needed."

"Do you think Steinmetz is doing a bad job on that?"

"No. His performance is first-rate. Meanwhile, the rest of the world is in deep shit. They're killing each other around the Golden Ring, and they're eating each other in South America. God only knows what survivors in Australia are doing. It doesn't really matter, because I don't think there are many of them. The case for a global Pax Americana grows stronger every day. All we need is for the President to lead it—"

"Which he will never do."

"—or get out of the way. I'm not sure you're right about Steinmetz. He's a bleeding heart, but he's also a pragmatist. And he's no fool. There may be ways to persuade him—or get others to."

"That I want to hear. What do you have?"

"Mixed news. First, I struck out completely with the Secretary of Defense. I don't know if General Beneker mishandled it at Admiral Watanabe's memorial service, but Grace Mackay blew him off. She seems rock-solid loyal to Saul Steinmetz."

"That's what I've heard. And I got nowhere with Lucas Munce. We can forget about the Secretary for the Aging."

"I thought you had his great-niece in your pocket."

"I did—I probably still do. But I've lost faith in her. Athene Willis told me the old man has lost it, that he's become senile and had no idea what she was talking about. I'm damn sure he knew
exactly
what she was getting at. I heard him testify to a House subcommittee a couple of weeks ago on the special problems that Supernova Alpha presents to the elderly. He spoke without notes, and he poured out facts and figures like a twenty-year-old. Highly impressive.
He
manipulated
her.
"

"I thought you didn't like him."

"I don't. He's still a nigger. He just happens to be a
smart
nigger. The worst kind." She stared around her. "This place better not be bugged."

"It seems a little late to worry about that."

"Don't get me wrong, Nick. If we recruited Lucas Munce, I'd work with him as willingly and as cheerfully as I work with you."

"I'm sure you would. I'll take that remark in the honest spirit with which I assume it was intended. But it's no, so far as Lucas Munce is concerned."

"And it's no for Grace Mackay. Mixed news, you said. What's the good part?"

"I decided that since we were having no luck with intermediaries, I would become directly involved. I now have a pipeline right into the heart of the White House."

"Really? I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me who and how?"

"Sarah, you know I would trust you with my life."

"Can it, Nick."

"All right. The person is Auden Travis, that delightful young man who serves as the President's secretary and close personal aide."

"Ah. I should have guessed. That's someone I could never have delivered—though I question whether your pipeline runs into his heart. Isn't he loyal to Steinmetz? Everything I've heard about him suggests that."

"He is. Auden is principled and honorable, and he sees his duty to the President as a sacred trust. But lovers have a special relationship. I serve on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. In any investigation, pillow talk is assumed—no matter how sensitive the issue. Auden pours out to me his dreams, his hopes, his fears, his daily concerns."

"And receives in return?"

"My unstinted and eternal devotion. What else? But Auden is deeply troubled at the moment. He is worried that the President is being led astray by unscrupulous women."

"I'm sure you agreed with that. Did Auden Travis name names?"

"Of course—after a little innocent coaxing on my part. The person most under Auden's skin is another aide, Yasmin Silvers. She's actually a relative of mine, a second cousin's child. Do you know her?"

"Enough to talk to. Not well."

"Auden doesn't know that I gave Yasmin the referral to help her get her job at the White House, and I don't want him to. I sense a personal jealousy there. He's convinced that Steinmetz wants to fuck her."

"The delectable Yasmin. Who wouldn't?"

"I wouldn't, to name one. Auden wouldn't, to name another. But the woman Auden is more worried about is Tricia Goldsmith. Which means that it's your ball. Did you talk to her?"

"Of course. We had lunch together, the night after she dined with the President."

"How did that go?"

"For the first half hour, very proper and sedate. Anyone at the next table would have seen a social lunch between two old friends. You have to understand Tricia as well as I do before you can have any idea how much she longs to be First Lady. She missed it once, because of some wrong information she was given. I told her that if she plays along with us, she'll get what she wants this time. Guaranteed? she asked. Guaranteed, I said. You should have seen her face. I thought she was having an orgasm on the spot. She said that the dinner with Saul 'couldn't have gone better.' Reading between the lines, she had him drooling and panting and climbing up the curtains. He's as hot for her as ever."

"Excellent." Lopez paused in his pacing. "Then they had sex?"

"No. He was ready, she could see it and feel it. But she thought she ought to hold out until he made her some sort of commitment. Keep him on the boil. She told him that she was a married woman, even though Joseph Goldsmith has apparently gone off to La-la-land." She saw Lopez's face. "You don't like that, do you?"

"I do not." Lopez towered over her, a frown on his broad brown face. "Now you have me worried. In my experience it doesn't work like that. Tricia should have snagged him when she had the chance. She ought to be having sex with him as often as he can manage it. Keeping him drained, it's the only safe way. Believe me, Sarah, I know."

He went to the window and stared toward a White House hidden by federal buildings. The upper level of the Capitol vibrated to a harder gust of wind.

"I don't like this." With no one but Sarah to see him, he made no effort to hide his intelligence. "How do we know who else is chasing Steinmetz? How do we know that Yasmin Silvers isn't in his office right this minute, offering him a piece of her hot young ass?"

* * *

Nick Lopez was half right. As he was speaking, Yasmin was indeed in the President's office. But Saul was not present. And although Yasmin was breathing fast, it was from nervousness, not sexual arousal.

She told herself that what she was doing was legitimate, that she had permission directly from Saul himself. Back at Indian Head he had agreed that she could try to find out why Tricia Goldsmith had walked out on him before the election. He had also agreed—reluctantly—that she could tell people that the investigation was being done for the White House.

Did it matter that she would be using a telcom line from within Saul's private office? He would be out until about eleven, and so would Auden Travis. The response times here were so much faster.

She had entered Saul's office only ten minutes earlier, but she had been up and working for many hours. Awakened at two in the morning by the sounds of the storm, she had gone to her office rather than lying grieving for Raymond. With the vastly diminished telcom service, she had waited endlessly—often futilely—for data base connections to go through. Many denied her access. Even so, she had exhausted the obvious possible connections between Saul Steinmetz and Tricia Goldsmith. It was time for the more subtle connections.

The President's office, she knew, could key into every national data base. Why settle for anything less?

She examined her scattered notes. It was like a version of an old game. Pick a person, A. Pick another person, B. Now can you name another person, C, who provides a direct link between A and B? In the case of Yasmin and Saul Steinmetz, for example, there had been a connection before she came to the White House: her lying, rapist relative, Senator Lopez. The thought of him, and of poor Raymond, made her feel sick.

She went back to gnaw on the problem. In the case of Tricia Goldsmith and Saul Steinmetz, a particular time and place were involved. The connection had to exist two and a half years ago, and logically it was on the West Coast. Saul said he had been in Oregon, meeting with his advisers. Tricia had been in California, meeting with—whom?