Dover Beach (40 page)

Authors: Richard Bowker

Tags: #General, #Espionage, #Fiction

BOOK: Dover Beach

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Or maybe it did bother him. How would I know? To me, he was just a photo in the
Globe
and a bunch of rumors.

After a while I began to wonder if he would ever be anything more. Men wearing suits and ties came and went. The blond secretary had a smile for most of them. No one paid any attention to me, except perhaps to glance at my Salvage-Market jersey and jeans and wonder how I had gotten past the guard. This was not much better than being in my office. I didn't even have a book to read.

Finally the summons came. "The governor will see you now," the secretary said.

I got up and smiled at her. "Thanks a lot," I said.

She pointed silently to a door. I walked over to it and knocked. "Come in," a loud voice responded. I went in.

Governor Bolton was sitting behind a huge mahogany desk, flanked by the American flag and some other flag with what looked like a Native American on it. It took me a second to retrieve the flag's identification from my freakishly complete memory. It was the Massachusetts state flag. This struck me as somewhat incongruous, since Massachusetts didn't really exist as a separate political entity in the Feds' scheme of things.

There were no VOTE YES posters.

Bolton was scribbling on a piece of paper—or maybe, I thought, he was pretending to scribble, so I could see he was a busy man and a great deal more important than me. I was willing to concede the point. "Have a seat," he said, continuing to scribble. I sat. The chair was a little too low; I found myself staring up at the governor. He had gray hair, cut short, and a long scar next to his right eye. I hadn't noticed the scar in the photos I had seen of him; it made him look even tougher than my image of him—he was a man who took risks, the scar said, a man who understood physical danger. He was wearing a white shirt. His tie was loose; his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He was ready for action.

After an appropriate interval he put his pen down and looked at me. "Walter Sands," he said. His voice was deep and powerful. It sounded out of place in a private conversation; it should have been addressing a political rally.

"Pleased to meet you," I said. I smiled.

The governor didn't smile back. "Did my bodyguards treat you well?" he asked.

"They were perfect gentlemen. They both deserve promotions."

He nodded, although I got the impression he hadn't heard my answer. "I talked to Charles Moseby about you," he went on. "Mr. Moseby recommends you quite highly."

I nodded in turn. Mr. Moseby is my pal Stretch, and I would have killed him if he hadn't recommended me quite highly. "How did you get my name?" I asked.

"From that article in the
Globe
a few weeks back. Interesting business over there in England. Although why anyone would want to be a private detective nowadays is beyond me."

"Uh-huh." The article in the
Globe
had been written by another friend, named Gwen Phillips. I have a lot of friends. Gwen and Stretch are the ones I live with.

"Still, there might be circumstances where a person with your skills and contacts might be useful." He was dithering, I could tell. A common problem with clients, my extensive reading of private eye novels had told me. It's tough to tell someone you've got a problem. Maybe his wife is cheating on him, I thought. But no—I'd heard he was a widower.

"Perhaps you could tell me what your particular circumstances are," I said in that smooth professional tone I had mastered over the course of my single case, "and then we can decide if I'm the man for the job."

Bolton gazed at me. "Tell me," he said, still dithering, "what's your position on the referendum?"

My heart sank. He
did
want me to guard some damn voting booth. The referendum was the latest development in the Federal government's relationship with its fractious stepchild. It was a simple enough question that the Feds wanted us New Englanders to answer: "Do you support the government of the United States of America?" But the ramifications of their asking the question, and our answering it, had kept a lot of people in a tizzy all spring.

I knew what Bolton wanted me to say:
I'm proud to be an American. I'm going to VOTE YES, and I don't care who knows it.
But I figured we would both be better off if I didn't try to mislead him. "I haven't given it a great deal of thought," I said. "I'm an apolitical kind of guy."

"Now is no time to be apolitical!" Bolton thundered.

It seemed to me to be as good a time as any to be apolitical. "Why not?" I asked.

Bolton gave me a disgusted look. "At least you're not one of those sniveling isolationist types who prefer savagery to civilization—are you?"

Well, when you put it like that... I shook my head. "No sir, I'm not one of those."

"And you have no objection to working for the Federal government?"

That was a little trickier. "Um, perhaps if you could give me a few more details..."

Bolton tapped the fingers of his right hand on his desk. The dithering was about to come to an end, I figured. Either he'd give me the case, or he'd throw me out of the office. "Mr. Sands," he intoned, "the president of the United States of America is corning to Boston."

He sounded as if he was expecting a round of applause from his audience. "That's great," I said.

"It's the first time since before—" He waved his hand. I knew what the wave of the hand meant. People still had difficulty mentioning the War. Maybe if we were all very quiet about it, it would retroactively go away.

"She's coming here to get us to vote for the referendum?" I guessed.

"Precisely." Bolton stood up and stared out his window. He was shorter than I expected. Maybe that's why my chair was so low. All of a sudden he looked a little silly to me as he stood next to the American flag—as if he were playing at being governor. And I wondered just how tough he really was. Maybe he still thought of himself as a real estate agent, and couldn't really believe where life had brought him. I wondered if, in his heart of hearts, he thanked God for the War and the opportunity it had granted him. There had to be a few people around who thought like that.

My mind was wandering. It returned when Bolton started to speak. "This referendum is important, Sands," he said. "New England is part of America. People have to understand this—they have to
believe
this. They complain about the emigration controls and the out-of-state troops and the privileges for government workers, but they forget about what the government saved them from—and they forget about their
heritage.
We can't just let our heritage slip away from us.

"So that's why President Kramer proposed the referendum. She believes that, if people can be made to focus on the positives, they will understand what we're trying to do, and they will support us. And once she has New England's support, she can lead America back to the forefront of the world's nations once again. So she is coming to Boston to give a speech a few days before the voting—a speech that will make people realize just what is at stake here, that will convince them to give her the vote of confidence she needs."

Bolton sounded as if he were giving a speech himself. But his delivery was curiously rushed, as if this was a speech he was rehearsing for a different audience. I didn't mind, but I was still trying to figure out what all this had to do with me. "You want me to protect the president while she's here?" I guessed.

"Not quite." He returned to his desk. He took a piece of paper out of the top drawer and handed it to me. I read the message typed on it.

We know Kramer plans to come.

Boston is ours. If she comes, she faces our wrath.

THE FEDS MUST GO!

The Second American Revolution

The Second American Revolution: TSAR. I didn't like the sound of that acronym. I studied the message, and then returned the sheet of paper to Bolton.

"Have you heard of this group?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Neither have I. This sheet appeared on the outer door to my office this morning. I need to know who's behind it."

"And that's my job?"

Bolton nodded. "We have to find The Second American Revolution and prevent them from doing anything to President Kramer."

I thought about it. "Why me?" I asked finally. "You've got your troops, you've got the local police—and the president has her own security people, I imagine. Can't they take care of this?"

"Maybe. They'll be on the case too. But I thought a local might bring something to it that they can't. You know what I'm talking about, Sands. Contacts. Sources of information. No one around here talks to the Feds; that's part of our problem. But they'll talk to someone like you."

Quite true. But... Bolton studied me as I tried to think it through. People weren't standing in line to obtain my services. Maybe they never would be. But I didn't like this case. Didn't like the way I got it, didn't like what I'd have to do to solve it. "I'm sorry," I said finally. "I don't think I'm right for this."

"Why not?" Bolton demanded. "We'll pay you your usual rate. Moseby told me you're not working on anything else at the moment."

Thanks, Stretch. I tried to explain. "If I work for you, I become just like the troops and the police."
And just like you,
I managed to avoid saying. "People may talk to me now because I'm a local, but then they won't be sure in the future whether or not I'm one of you. And then they'll stop talking."

"Doesn't the safety of the president of the United States matter to you, Sands?"

I wasn't sure it mattered to me more than the safety of any other poor soul in this godforsaken world, but I guessed that wasn't worth getting into. "Of course," I replied. "But I've got my career to think of."

Bolton gave me a look that told me what he thought of my career.

"Why not just have her stay in Atlanta?" I suggested. "That's the best way to keep her safe. And I doubt her speech is going to make much difference to the referendum, one way or the other."

"And give in to the terrorists' demands? That's precisely what we can't do. So are you with us, Sands?"

I took a deep breath and shook my head.

Bolton picked up his phone. "Lisa, get me General Cowens," he said, and he replaced the receiver.

Lisa
, I thought. The blond secretary, presumably. Nice name. And then I thought: I'm not sure I like having General Cowens in on this.

The phone rang almost immediately, and Bolton picked it up again. "Bob, this is Frank," he said. "That private detective I was telling you about is here. He needs some persuasion. Can you come? Thanks."

The governor hung up and glared at me some more. "This is serious business, Sands," he said, "and you are a part of it, whether you want to be or not."

The governor's scar seemed to throb. He looked much more impressive sitting down; he looked like the kind of man who could make threats and carry them out. I decided it was time to start worrying.