Blessed Child (17 page)

Crandal blinked and stared, silent for a moment. “So you're telling me this kid, who just happens to show up at one of my press conferences, is not only from Ethiopia, he's the adopted son of our dead priest?”

“Yes.”

Roberts took a slug of scotch and set the glass on the meeting table. They were alone in the Hyatt Regency's most expensive private suite, twenty stories above Los Angeles's night traffic. It wasn't the first time they had been in this situation, facing sudden long odds, but this time its gravity felt heavier.

Crandal blinked a few more times, incredulous at the words he'd just heard. He turned to the window and stared off at the stream of lights that lit the 405 freeway. Roberts watched the man: the flare of his nostrils, the slow closing of his eyes, the deep calming breath. And then Crandal's eyes opened and he spoke calmly.

“How old is he?”

A less-disciplined man would be fuming now. Crandal was past that. He'd already moved on to problem solving.

“Ten. Maybe eleven.”

“So he was alive in 1991. He was in Ethiopia during Tempest.”

“Very young, but yes, alive. We have ourselves a genuine product of our own war, come back to haunt us.”

“And the father?”

“Unknown. Father Matthew raised the kid as his own.”

“Which would explain the boy's knowledge.”

“Except for his use of the name. Tempest. Our sources insist Father Matthew never referred to the 1991 invasion by its given name. Only that the invasion was supported by the NSA.”

“Then your sources are wrong. The kid knows about Tempest.”

Roberts nodded and took another drink. The liquor burned its way down his throat. He replaced the glass. “They say this kid's psychic.”

Crandal ignored the comment. “So we know who he is. How are we taking care of him? And who are the others?”

“The others are caretakers. He's been granted refugee status in the care of an orphanage run by an Orthodox church and directed by a Father Nikolous. Their presence at the park was incidental.”

“Incidental? We're five thousand miles from Ethiopia, and you want me to believe that the one person who managed to escape an operation ordered by me just
incidentally
wanders up to one of my press conferences? Don't be an idiot.”

“Unlikely, I agree. But I believe that's exactly what happened. Which is why I want to step carefully on this one.”

Crandal looked at him, and for just a moment his eyes fell to slits, but otherwise he remained expressionless. “Tell me.”

“For starters, I really don't believe he's said anything. And if he has, there's no sign of it.”

“There's no guarantee he won't say something tomorrow. For all we know, he's spilling his guts right now.”

“You don't think they asked him what he meant by Tempest after the press conference? Sure they did. And he told them nothing. Which can only mean he knows nothing.”

“He knows about Tempest. We both heard him.”

“No, he knows Tempest, but he doesn't necessarily know anything
about
Tempest. Or he no longer remembers anything about Tempest. For all we know, the old priest in Ethiopia had your picture plastered on his bedroom wall, and when this kid asked him who that man was, he told him that man is Tempest. Who knows? The point is he isn't remembering anything.”

“We can't risk a jog in his memory.”

“Of course. But on balance we have to weigh the risks. The kid goes; we agree on that. But I don't think we can afford to take him out with conventional means. Donna Blair not only knows of him, she heard him at the press conference. We can't just pop a slug in his head without raising questions that will inevitably lead back to the press conference.”

Crandal closed his eyes and stretched his neck.

Roberts continued. “The Orthodox church he's holed up in is a virtual fortress. This Father Nikolous character likes his privacy. A hit-and-run or any other accident will be nearly impossible in this situation. His environment is too protective.”

“Then have him removed from his environment,” Crandal said, eyes still closed.

“Removed? He's in the custody of the orphanage by order of the court. Removing him may not be so easy. But I believe we may have found another way. A way to deal with him from the inside. Through natural causes.”

“Yes, of course. But you're wrong about his removal.”

“How?”

“He's a refugee.”

“He is.”

And then it hit Roberts. He shifted in his seat. Of course! It was brilliant.

“Call the NSA,” Crandal said. “Have Jack take the case over on national security grounds. The invasion should give him plenty of reasons to do that. Then have him contact immigration. They've never been a problem; I don't see why they would be one now.”

“We have the kid deported.”

“Yes.”

A wave of relief swept down Roberts's back. He threw back the last of his scotch. “And we terminate the kid the minute he sets foot on foreign soil.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And if immigration does put up resistance?”

Crandal shoved his bulk from the chair and strode for the bar. “If they do, we use your natural causes, Roberts. But they won't.”

13

Day 7

J
ASON SAT ON THE WOOD BENCH
near the entrance to the L.A. convention hall, watching the scattered traffic of conventioneers coming and going midmorning. Leiah sat beside him, unhappy at being here, he thought. Unhappy because she was a doer, and there was clearly nothing she could do here except watch.

It had been three days since Caleb's last outing to the park, and in that time they had entered a kind of stalemate. They'd visited him each afternoon for an hour without learning more or reshaping the boy's situation. Leiah clearly lived each of the other twenty-three hours for that one with Caleb.

A boy maybe twelve purred by in an electric Everest and Jennings wheelchair, his head tilted and his lips loose. A paperback novel jostled on his lap— Orson Scott Card's
Ender's Game
. Jason wondered how the boy managed to lift the book for reading. Some new contraption would service it, no doubt. A woman, presumably his mother, walked beside him confidently, with her chin lifted and her left hand resting on the back of the chair. They passed by, maneuvered easily around the large junipers growing from their holes in the concrete, and disappeared into the hall.

For every visibly handicapped person, there were at least two professional attendees to the convention, dressed in suits, come to scope out how the latest in technology might fatten their wallets, no doubt. Others walked by as well, caretakers, but they were dressed more casually and generally lacked the hawk eyes of those in suits. The scene rolled past in stark contrast to what Jason had become accustomed to on the streets of Addis Ababa. The lame were no fewer in number in Ethiopia to be sure, and more often than not, they were victims of leprosy or some such illness. But they were simply cast into the pot with hordes of outcasts rather than cared for as they were here. This alone was a reason to love this bastion of capitalism called America, Jason thought.

Jason glanced up, thinking it would be another hot day, even though it was already October. The sun had come out in regular Southern California fashion, diffused by a haze that hung over the city. You'd think having lived in Africa all these years he'd be accustomed to the heat, but in reality he'd spent most of his time above five thousand feet, where the air was usually clear and cool.

“You'd think if the old buzzard insisted we be here by ten, he'd be here by ten,” Jason said.

Leiah glanced at him and nodded, and then returned her gaze to a small child hobbling past on forearm crutches thirty yards away.

“You know what he has in mind, don't you?”

“I think I have it pretty much figured out. And if this isn't exploitation, I don't know what is.”

“You're right.” Leiah had taken to wearing scarves or wide chokers when she wasn't wearing a turtleneck, and she wore them with style, he thought. Today she wore a yellow scarf to accent a white blouse and her standard-fare jeans. Even her choice of black work boots blended with style. Her look was less cowboy and more steelworker, but then again, they weren't in Texas. If they had been in Texas, he had no doubt she'd be wearing cowboy boots and looking like a regular ranch hand. Although regular was not a word that did any justice to Leiah.

She faced him with flashing blue eyes. “Is it just me, Jason, or does this not feel right?”

“No, it's not just you. This doesn't feel right.”

“Then why are we sitting by while this maniac drags Caleb around?”

She did have her way with words. No confusion permitted. “We're not just sitting here, Leiah. We're doing what we can.”

“And you know as well as I do that it's not enough.”

“Maybe not. But you have to look at the bright side. He seems happy, doesn't he? If there were things going on that should concern us, Caleb would tell us, wouldn't he? And I don't know about you, but on both of our last two visits he seemed just plain happy.”

“Come on, Jason. What do you expect from a child in his situation? He's lost. He doesn't know any better. All he knows is happy because that's who Caleb is.”

“You're saying he's too stupid to know that if someone beats him it's not a good thing?”

“No! Of course not. And I didn't say the old bat is beating him. But he's good to the bone, and part of being good is seeing the best in others. If he's happy, it's because he finds contentment where most ordinary people never would. But that doesn't mean it's healthy for him. They have him locked up in his room all day—you think that's reasonable?”

“No.”

“And when will it end?”

“Nikolous is isolating—”

“I know what Nikolous is doing. And today he's going to march Caleb out here to see if he can pull off a few more tricks. He's turning the child into a circus attraction,” she said.

Jason considered her argument. The simple fact was Nikolous hadn't damaged the boy in any visible way. Unless or until he did, their hands were tied by the court order. He understood Leiah's love for Caleb; he felt it himself. They had talked of little else for hours on end over this last week. But this was not Africa, for goodness' sakes. You couldn't just muscle your way past the system if you expected to stay a free man.

“Look, I swore to both Caleb and his father that I wouldn't let any harm come to him. I intend to keep that promise.” He met her eyes and was struck by the impulse to reach out and brush her hair from her face. “I'll do whatever is reasonable. But doing something halfcocked won't necessarily do Caleb any favors, right?”

She kept her eyes on his, searching his soul, it seemed. Truthfully he felt exposed.

“Whatever is reasonable? How about whatever's
necessary?”

He thought about it and then nodded. “Whatever's necessary.”

She smiled gently, and it seemed to seal more than he had promised.

They waited another five minutes before Jason saw Donna. She approached them from the street, wearing a wide smile. Nikolous had said nothing about her coming.

“Well, well look who's here,” Jason said, nodding in her direction.

Leiah looked at the news correspondent and then glanced back at Jason. He shrugged. “Trust me, I didn't invite her.”

Donna walked up smiling. “Hello, Jason. Leiah. Are they here yet?”

Jason stood instinctively; he did so alone.

“No.”

“We're early anyway. He said he'd be here at ten-thirty.”

“And what brings you here?” Leiah asked. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. “Here to make Caleb famous, is that it?”

“Maybe. That really depends on him.”

“Maybe it depends more on you. You're the one with the camera.”

“What camera? I don't see a camera. Not today,” Donna shot back. “Listen, I know you don't approve of the whole idea of bringing the boy into the public eye; for that matter it's quite obvious you don't approve of me either. But like it or not, this isn't your private little party. You have no idea how much good the boy might bring the world. Try to think beyond yourself on this one, will you?”

Jason felt the sting from her words himself. Leiah didn't have a selfish bone in her body. But neither was she spineless.

“It was the boy I had in mind,” she said.

Donna looked at her, nearly said something in response, but chose to dismiss Leiah with a nod and turn to Jason instead.

“So what did you make of his statement at the press conference?” she asked. Before them the number of attendees entering or leaving the building had dwindled to sporadic bunches. Donna hardly seemed to notice them.

“I agree with Leiah, Donna. Caleb is our first concern here, not what he can or cannot do. He's a child. And as for Crandal, the man makes me cringe.”

Donna smiled. “Point taken. He makes you cringe, huh? That's power for you. And believe me, he's got more than the rest combined.”

“It's more than power,” Leiah said. “The man is dangerous. I think Caleb saw that.”

“Maybe. I ran a search on Tempest and found nothing. But that doesn't mean much, considering where the man's been. Either way, you can't ignore his power. He's pulling away in the polls, and I can't see anything getting in his way. Won't be long and we'll be calling him Mr. President. So what does the boy say?”

“About Tempest? Nothing. He doesn't know. But he obviously spooked Crandal. Tempest is more than some incidental trinket from his past. Did you get it on camera?”

She shook her head. “We were using directional mikes to cut crowd noise.”

Leiah suddenly stood and Jason followed her eyes. They were forty feet away, the Greek and the boy, stopped on the concrete. Nikolous had his eyes on the boy, and Caleb was fixed on a blond-headed girl all dressed for Sunday, wheeling past him in a wheelchair.