Azrael (18 page)

The Congressman blamed himself. It had never occurred to him that his son would be stupid enough to fall for a girl who was stupid enough to join a group of violent radicals.

What he’d forgotten was that while the boy had brains, and talent, and training, he also had a fully functioning set of emotions and hormones, and this had been his first chance to get any practice with them.

After that, his son had gone on the run, changing his name every few months. When the Congressman needed him, he had to go find him and force him to start the new mission. Only start it, mind you, because once his son got a taste of the action, there was no keeping him back. He was born to do this kind of work.

It was only the boy’s damned pride and stubbornness (inherited, the Congressman knew, from the woman who bore him) that led him to keep up the pretense that he hated it all.

Until now. The Congressman was tired and light-headed, too tired to be doing this, really, but he rolled back the tape and played his son’s report again. He didn’t listen to the words—by now he practically knew them by heart. He was listening for tones of voice, for the attitude that shaped the words.

He was afraid to let himself believe what he was hearing. Or what he wasn’t hearing.

There was no bitterness in his son’s voice this time, no irony, or cynicism, or resignation, or any of the things the old man had gotten used to in these reports. There was not even the tone of hatred for him personally that the Congressman had become used to hearing, and it surprised him to realize how happy that made him. The Congressman had always told himself, and believed, that he had conceived and raised the boy as a weapon of war, unique in the world, as a gift to his country; that he did not need the boy’s love or admiration so long as he had his respect and his fear.

And that, it seemed, had been fine, at least while there seemed to be no hope that the boy would ever feel anything for him
but
respect and fear.

But now. But now. It might be this Cronus business. The boy identified deeply with the children of Cronus, seemed to take a positive glee in fighting that particular operation and the bastards behind it. It might be because he’d fallen in love, and had some notion of slaying the Red Monster and saving the fair maiden and all she loved from its clutches.

Whatever the reason, there’d been a change in his son; from the Congressman’s point of view, a change for the better.

“Just thought you’d like to be the first to know,” the almost-happy voice on the tape said. The Congressman grunted, reached out and hit a button on the tape machine.

Had P—No, he never used the name the Congressman had given him. What was he calling himself now? The Congressman was upset with himself for forgetting. It was his pride that he never forgot anything.

Allan. That was it. Allan, um, Trotter. Lord, I must be getting old, the Congressman thought.

And that was the point, wasn’t it? For security, the Congressman had handcrafted the Agency around himself.
His
Agency would be the one group defending the country that could
act
when action was necessary, without the long gavotte of procedures and clearances the other outfits had to dance. And, with one man making all the decisions, and everyone answerable only to him (who answered only to the President), there would be none of the faultfinding, ass-covering, or excuse-making that sapped an organization’s efficiency and damaged morale.

Of course, that system had one inherent weakness. What happened when the man who was the foundation for this marvelous structure could no longer bear the weight? The day wasn’t here yet, but it was coming. He was an old man, and he was starting to forget things. Like his son’s current name.

His son. That was another reason his son had been born. The Congressman had seen this day coming years ago. Even during the late forties, when the Agency had been born, and McCarthy and his pals were getting wound up, and you couldn’t spit in the District of Columbia without hitting a Russian spy—

God, that McCarthy was a bastard, the Congressman thought. Ruthless and stupid and, in the last analysis, the worst thing to happen to the United States since the Civil War because he had done something so crippling it endangered the very future of the world.
He had given anticommunism a bad name.
His own name, as it turned out. And the Congressman could think of no greater treachery to America than to make any attempt to expose its enemies suspect—

Where the hell was I? the Congressman demanded of himself.

Oh, right. Even in those days he had known there would be no dearth of dedicated, trustworthy, patriotic Americans who might, if anything happened to him, take over his Agency and run it to the best of their ability.

But who would have the ability? Who but someone with the capabilities
bred
into him? Who had been trained from birth in the ways nations maneuvered in the dark? Who but a child authored and raised by him personally?

The Congressman had never mentioned it to his son. The break between them had come too early for the subject to have been broached. And despite all the anger and accusations his son had flung at him, that was one thing he had never mentioned, either.

But it was there. That might have been what the boy was really running from all these years.

But now, there could be hope. He might be able to bring his son home. It would take thought and care. If this Regina Hudson was the reason, was it safe to leave her in the picture? A spy with a wife is a distracted man, and a vulnerable man. On the other hand, the Congressman’s son, even distracted and vulnerable, would be worth the full-time dedication of anyone else the old man could think of. Even Rines, who was a distant second. Which reminded him. Rines should be here about now. They had a lot to talk about. Primarily, they would discuss whether they ought to do something about that weasel Smolinski before the Russians pulled him out and made a big propaganda thing out of him, or if they should just let him slide. The Congressman was inclined to the latter. As far as he could tell, the attitude of the American public seemed to be that if someone had a taste of American life and was still asshole enough to want to go back to Russia, he was too stupid to keep, anyway. It might be a little simplistic, but it was the kind of thing that helped the Congressman maintain faith in his countrymen. Still, he’d listen to anything Rines—

Music.

The Congressman could definitely hear music. Distant violins. He also detected a faint odor of melons.

Those two things went together somehow. Something he had read, something someone had told him. He was too angry to pin down the memory right now. What damn fool had put music on an official Agency report tape? He’d track them down, dammit—

The tape wasn’t moving. He’d switched the machine off.

The music got louder and the smell of the fruit was sickening. What
did
those things mean?

And where was Rines?

And this damn new office was supposed to be soundproof. And clean. It was supposed to be clean. If he ever caught the person who left fruit here to rot, to stink up the place with a heavy, sickly sweetness that was beyond belief, he’d—he didn’t know
what
he’d do, but it would be something drastic.

This might be secret, but it was a government installation. He was doing
important work here,
and nobody had the right to make it more difficult.

And then the lightning hit him, like Saul on the road to Damascus, and he was flung from his chair to the ground, and even before he hit, the voices started speaking, deep, resonant, demanding voices whose words were not understandable.

The Congressman wondered, almost abstractly, if this was the Voice of God, and if so, was he speaking Hebrew, or some unknown Heavenly language, or what. Then he remembered. Fruit and music. A stroke. A brain reacting to lack of blood, and he was having one, the lightning and the convulsion and the voices. Be funny if all Saul had was a stroke, wouldn’t it? he thought.

Never mind, he told the voices. If you are God, let Rines get here before I die. Please.

T
INA CALLED HIM UP
and asked him over for dinner. Joe said he’d be there. He was tempted to tease her about it, since he’d asked her out a couple of times already, only to be told it “isn’t time yet,” but something in her voice made him decide against it. If this was another step out of her depression over the baby’s death, Joe Albright wasn’t about to smartmouth her back into her shell.

He smiled at himself. Thinking like a social worker now. FBI—Friendly Busybodies Interfering.

He stopped smiling when he realized he should probably clear this with Trotter. He did it because those were orders, and Joe had a healthy respect for orders. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Trotter anymore.

Trotter had
murdered
that dude. He was very polite about it, sending Albright away so he could honestly say he hadn’t seen anything nasty, but that was just a technicality. Wasn’t fooling anybody. The guy might have been a Russian spy, and he might have been trying to kill Trotter, but Trotter had him down and helpless.

Sooner or later, Rines would have to know about this. If Rines told him to forget about it, Joe would have to see. He had no fondness for Russian spies, but these were not the rules they’d told him about when he’d joined the Bureau.

In the meantime, he’d do his job, watch his ass, and hope for the best.

Trotter wasn’t home. Joe left a voice-code message on his machine. He wasn’t at the office, either. Joe left a message there, too. Next he tried Washington, to let Rines know where he was going to be, and couldn’t get him, either. It was beginning to be a drag.

Joe hooked up this electronic gizmo they’d given him and recorded a message on it. Trotter and Rines had little beeper things that would make it play back over the phone for them. They were supposed to be the only two people in the world who had devices that could make the right beeps, but Joe left the message in code just in case.

On the way to Tina’s apartment, he passed a flower shop with a parking space in front. On impulse, he stopped, dashed in, and bought a mixed bouquet of daisies and something pink he didn’t know the name of. “Here you go, Mr. Albright,” the florist said.

Joe looked at him.

“Saw your picture in the paper. Welcome to Kirkester.”

Joe thanked him and left. Tina let him in almost before he rang the door bell. When he handed her the flowers, she began to cry.

“These are tears of joy, right?” he said hopefully.

Tina nodded. She looked up at him, and he could see a smile behind the tears.

“Nobody ever gave you flowers before,” Joe guessed.

“I used to think the only flowers I’d ever get’d be at my funeral,” Tina said, and started to cry again. “Thank you, Joe. I—I—thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“I’d better go put these in water,” she said. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, then ran for the kitchen as if for her life.

Lord, Joe Albright thought, if I’d sent her a
bomb,
I wouldn’t have caused so much commotion. Joe heard water running, more water than it took to fill up a vase. There was no noise for a while, then Tina came back looking as though nothing had happened.

“You like the flowers?” he asked.

She slapped at him playfully. “They’re beautiful. But you made me do my makeup all over again.”

“You’re wearing makeup? You must be doing it right. I couldn’t tell.”

“You could tell if I didn’t use it.”

It occurred to Joe he’d like to find out for himself sometime. “Something smells good,” he said.

“Fried chicken,” Tina told him. “My granny’s recipe. I hope you like fried chicken. I should have asked.”

“Well,” Joe said. “It’s like this.”

“Oh, my,” Tina said.

“Are we alone?”

“Of course.”

“No white folks around?”

“No, there’s no white folks around, fool. What are you talking about?”

“If there’s no white folks around, then I can tell you I
love
fried chicken.”

Tina laughed, real and strong. It was the first time he’d ever heard her laughter, and it was a beautiful sound.

“You
are
crazy,” she said.

“I like watermelon, too.”

“So do I. I should have bought some.”

“At this time of year it would cost a fortune.”

“We’ll get one in the summertime, then,” Tina told him.

Joe said sure, but he knew he wouldn’t be around Kirkester come summer.

“And,” Tina went on, “we’ll invite all the white folks we can think of. Come on, let’s eat.”

The chicken was delicious. So were the mashed potatoes and the gravy and the peas. He told her so.

“Apple pie for dessert. Cooking was the one thing I paid attention to when Granny tried to teach me.”

The pie was the size of a Cadillac hubcap, but Joe, with minimal help from the woman who had baked it, put away two thirds of it before he got up from the table. Tina brought the pie and a big pot of coffee and said, “I’m glad you came over, Joe. You’re easy to talk to.” And she sat down and confessed to all her youthful indiscretions, and told him how it was all going to be different now, how Reverend Mr. Nelson had told her God had sent her baby as an angel to redeem her, and how she was going to live up to that.

Joe knew the details of Tina’s pre-Kirkester life. That sort of thing was simple for the Bureau. This was the first he was hearing about Mr. Nelson’s advice, though. Joe figured if that was what had been bringing Tina back to life over the last few days, then more power to the man.

“I realize there’s only my word that I’m going to live up to it,” she told him.

“Nothing wrong with your word.”

“I mean, now that you know all about me ...”

“Now who’s crazy?” Joe demanded.

Tina went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “Or maybe you want to make love with me or something.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

“Before, I would have made love with you five minutes after I met you. If I met someone like you, I probably wouldn’t have made love with
half
the hoodlums I was with. Maybe none of them. But now ...”