The 4 Phase Man (37 page)

But none of that really explained the silent tears that dripped off his stubbled face and onto the page, smearing the sketch.

It was the simple, inexplicably rational pain of knowing that he would never see Jerry Goldman in the mirror again that made it feel as if something was breaking inside of him.

For long minutes he sobbed, slowly gaining control, using deep breaths and the disciplined mind that he’d always had. He put the pain in its proper place—the home where it would emerge in nightmares and life—then reached into his pocket.

He watched the match tip flare to life, momentarily caught up in the blue-orange fury of the flame, then touched it to the sketch.

He watched the merged face of Colin Meadows and Jerry Goldman slowly consumed and obliterated by the cleansing fire.

Herb stopped dialing a secure phone in midnumber.

A card froze in Franco’s hand in the midst of his game of hearts.

Valerie’s heart stopped.

Avidol slowly stood … as the door opened and Xenos stepped out.

“We go on Saturday,” he said simply to the silenced warehouse. “It ends on Saturday.”

Thursday

The committee members casually settled into their chairs, arranging staff-prepared notes, sipping ice water, slouching down. This was the last day of testimony on a slam-dunk nomination. The president wanted DeWitt, no pictures of him playing golf with Charles Manson or raping Mother Teresa had surfaced; the man had been equal parts charming, stirring, self-effacing, and arrogant. His poll numbers were higher than the president’s or any member of the joint House/Senate Judiciary Committee, and with war probably less than a week away, each person behind the green baize table felt it was a personal responsibility to make the DeWitt confirmation his or her part in the coming war effort.

Well, not
each
person.

Senator Shawn Roberts of California had his doubts. DeWitt was too slick, too
prepared.
There was something basically unlikable about the man when you met him close up. But these were not things you denied a man the second highest office in the land for.

Still, Roberts had his staff make extra inquiries into DeWitt’s past, just to satisfy his feelings of, well,
discomfort
at the prospect of Jefferson DeWitt being a heartbeat away from the presidency. But nothing had been found.
The man was as squeaky-clean as any child of the sixties could be.

So, moments before the members began their final round of questioning of the man they would vote unanimously for tomorrow, Roberts was literally and figuratively washing his hands of the business when he heard the bathroom door open and close behind him.

He looked up to see Herb Stone standing just inside, studying him.

“Director Stone.”

“Senator.”

The two men just looked at each other for long moments.

“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Stone?”

Herb had thought long and hard about that question. If he answered it, he would be committing an inarguably treasonable offense. If he didn’t, his sin of omission might be even greater.

The “evidence” he’d come to deliver was carefully false. A construct—by his amoral but deeply loyal staff—that had been perfected, fine-tuned by Xenos, himself. The former intelligence prodigy had then studied the classified psychological profiles of the members of the committee, conferred with the ambitious Senator Buckley (through Herb), then decided whom the package would be presented to and how.

But if this went bad, if the man in front of him began to suspect, then a lengthy prison stay would be the least of the concerns Herb would have for the future.

“Mr. Stone…”

Taking a deep breath, Herb began, as he listened to the gentle breathing coming through his hidden earpiece.

“Senator Roberts, do you believe in monsters?”

“Excuse me?” Roberts dried his hands and started pulling on his jacket.

“Monsters, Senator. Slavering beasts which lurk in the dark waiting for an unsuspecting innocent to wander by.”

Roberts smiled easily. “If politics has taught me anything, Mr. Stone, it’s that there are all kinds of monsters.”
He hesitated as he studied the old man in front of him. “The trick is to know one when you see it.”

Herb nodded. “And to know whose side they’re on.”

“Good afternoon,” the senator said brusquely after a long pause as he stepped toward the door.

Herb moved in front of him. “Monsters, Senator, come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. Some even wearing Armani suits and welcoming smiles.”

Roberts froze. “What do you have?”

Herb hesitated, then handed the thick file over to the cautious man. He watched closely as the man began reading. First casually flipping through the mixture of forged, composited, and real documents and photographs, then slowly taking in or reading each one completely.

These are dangerous times
, Xenos’s voice whispered through Herb’s earpiece.

“These are dangerous times, Senator,” Herb said softly. “Times when words such as…” He paused, seemed to cock his head slightly, then continued. “Words such as duty, honor, country must be given their true meaning or banished to oblivion.”

Roberts nodded absently as he read. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.”

They said terrorism in America was unbelievable.

“They said terrorism in America was unbelievable,” Herb continued. “That it could never happen here.”

“I was at the World Trade Center,” the senator mumbled, “trapped for two hours… His voice trailed off.”

Herb looked genuinely surprised. “Indeed?”

And they said monsters…

“And they said monsters are unbelievable. Fictions created by fevered imaginations and ignorance.” He paused, listened, then continued. “How ignorant are you, Senator?”

“This will have to go to staff for further investigation…”

“So that it can be properly explained and cleared up,” Herb interrupted, “without the public ever being the wiser?”

The man looked up at him, his expression a mixture of fear and anger. “What are you suggesting?”

Herb seemed to be distracted for a moment, then he smiled, a thing quickly put away in place of a stern, reproving look.

“Senator,” he said simply, “are you the stuff that heroes are made of?” He hesitated. “Or are you too afraid of the dark?”

Two minutes later Herb stood alone in the bathroom.

“You have an obscene understanding of human nature, my boy,” he said with a growing grin.

Wonder where I got that from
, was the whispered reply.
Pickup’s waiting at the South Portico. You have a plane to catch.
The connection went dead.

“The committee will come to order,” the senator intoned emotionlessly. “This final round of questioning will be limited to ten minutes each. All members are requested to relinquish any time they may not require.” He turned to DeWitt, who sat smiling in his new Armani suit, with a welcoming smile beaming from his clean-cut-image face. “Mr. Attorney General, do you have any final statements to make?”

“No, Mr. Chairman. Except to say that I appreciate the thoroughness, courtesies, and the fine job done by yourself and the committee. It makes me proud to be a part of such a fine and democratic process.”

“Thank you, Mr. Attorney General.” The chairman looked to the end of the table. “Senator Hawkins.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I have only one question for our esteemed nominee. Mr. Attorney General, having experienced the confirmation process, can you give this committee—and through it the Congress as a whole—any advice on how we might improve it? With an eye toward rapidity of confirmation and fair treatment of nominees.”

DeWitt thought about it.

“Essentially, Senator, I believe this committee has not only done a fine job, a complete job, and shown that when
exigencies require it, it can move with alacrity and dispatch without sacrificing thoroughness. My experience with you has been pleasant, gratifying, sobering, and a privilege. I wouldn’t presume to change a thing. Do your jobs, ladies and gentlemen. Probe, question, investigate, and compel those who appear before you to be equally forthright in their responses. In that event, I can see nowhere to improve.”

“Thank you.” The senator smiled back. “Mr. Chairman, I relinquish back the remainder of my time.”

The chairman looked toward the other end of the table. “Senator Weiss?”

“Mr. Chairman, I have no further questions of my good friend from Wisconsin and gladly relinquish back my time so that we may expedite his confirmation.”

The chairman sighed and turned to his right. “Senator Roberts?”

Roberts held the closed file in both hands. This was one of those rare moments that he believed came once or twice in a man’s life. Those times when he must either accept his place as a powerless member of the silent majority or step off into the dark chasm of moral certainty and minority.

There was no way to know if the allegations contained in the file were true or not—although they had the veneer of truth about them—but there was no way to test that truth either. Not and allow the public to judge fairly for themselves.

If the file was accurate, then DeWitt
was
a monster. If not, then Stone was the monster. And the only way to find out was to shine the sun on them both and see who dissolved.

Or so thought the senator who had once written a paper in college entitled “Monsters: A History of Corruption in American Politics.”

A paper—folded, yellowed, decaying—that had found a home in an ultraclassified psychological profile of the man.

“Good morning, Mr. DeWitt.”

“Good morning, Senator.”

Roberts opened the file, took a deep breath, then pulled out the last sheet. A list of questions and follow-ups.

“I just have a few things I’d like to clarify, for the record.”

DeWitt nodded. “That’s why I’m here, Senator.” He looked completely relaxed, his aide slouched down in his seat, the other senators went about their business.

“You were a student at Barnsdahl College in Wilfordshire, England, is that correct?”

“For two and a half years prior to my obtaining my postgraduate degrees at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, yes.”

“And at Barnsdahl you received a bachelor of arts degree in international relations?”

DeWitt nodded. “International justice, actually. But that takes in much the same turf as an American B.A. in international relations, Senator.”

Roberts made a note in the file. The first mistake in its contents he’d found. But that could just be a misinterpretation of titles. “You were assigned to the international section, a group of students mainly drawn from countries other than Great Britain.”

“I think there were about eleven countries represented, yes.”

“Who is Rupert Everttson?”

DeWitt looked surprised. “Uh, I believe he was one of my professors at Barnsdahl.”

One fact proved.

Roberts handed two copies of a document (provided in the file) to an aide, who delivered one to the chair and the other to DeWitt.

“For the record, Rupert Everttson was a professor of European history at Barnsdahl for over twenty years. Barnsdahl records show that Mr. DeWitt took three courses given by him.”

Michael suddenly sat up. “Why doesn’t he use your title?” he whispered.

DeWitt ignored him.

“Who is James Fergét?” Roberts folded his hands and waited for an answer.

“Uh …” DeWitt seemed off balance. “If you mean Jimmy Fergét, he was a Haitian student. We were in some study groups together.” His mind raced for any connection between the effete Everttson, the nigger savant Fergét, and Apple Blossom.

But none came to mind.

Another fact confirmed, and from DeWitt’s manner, Roberts suspected that there were more to come. “Do you recall how often, or in what context, you would meet privately with Professor Everttson or Mr. Fergét?”

DeWitt was shaking his head without realizing it. He couldn’t remember much beyond their names. But then he’d spent so little time actually in class or on campus it was hard to remember much about that time.

“Senator, all I can tell you is that it was a long time ago, many years. My time at Barnsdahl was exhilarating and hectic. Filled with constant new experiences, new faces. I, uh, am ashamed to say that I would be hard-pressed to remember many of the names and faces I encountered casually during those years.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Roberts said easily. “Maybe I can help you out.” More documents were passed out. “For the record, will the committee mark these as Roberts Two, Three, and Four, respectively?”

The chairman glanced at the two black-and-white photographs and the one document, humphed, and nodded. “So marked.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Mr. DeWitt, do you recognize yourself in the photos marked Roberts Two and Three?”

DeWitt never looked up from the casually taken photos of himself with a fellow student and a professor. The kind of thing he’d posed for dozens of times, as souvenirs for the other students who wanted to remember their “great college adventure.”

“Yeah, uh, yes. That is me in the center of Roberts Two, and on the extreme left in Roberts Three.”

He looked up and reconstituted his smile. These people had nothing to do with Apple Blossom, and he’d had little to do with them at the time. Wherever the senator was going, there was nothing there.

“If it assists you,” Dewitt added, “I believe that the black man in both pictures is Mr. Fergét and the older man Professor Everttson.”

Roberts chuckled professionally. “You anticipate me, sir.” He turned a page in the file. “Did you stay in contact with either Professor Everttson or Mr. Fergét after you left Barnsdahl?”

DeWitt noticeably relaxed, although Michael was talking quietly—but urgently—on his cell phone. “Senator, as I said, it was a great many years ago. How many of us have maintained contact with old college buddies or acquaintances? Particularly those that reside in other countries.” He spread his hands in a gesture of befuddled frustration. “Perhaps if you gave a more specific context?”

Roberts made more notes in the file. Each question on the list had accurately anticipated DeWitt’s responses. As did the next one, which was typed in red capital letters. Casually, Roberts read it aloud.