“It was…interesting,” Cooper said. “We need to speak with your husband.”
“Certainly. I think he’s taking a nap. Is everything okay?”
“Not exactly,” said Cooper.
The limousine departed, and Tom and Cooper waited in the mansion’s large foyer. Mr. Giamatti emerged from another room to greet them. He wore his ever-present robe and slippers. “Sorry, I was dozing,” he said. “Resting up before the president gets here. I was expecting you back sooner. That was a long lunch.”
“It was more than lunch,” said Cooper. “Can we go into the den to talk?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Giamatti said, his interest piqued. “Did something happen?”
“Something happened,” Tom said.
Seated in the den, Tom and Cooper immediately relayed the events of the past several hours. Giamatti listened, wide eyed, saying nothing until they were done and looking to him for a response.
“Clever bastards,” he said in a tone that was both impressed and defiant. “They want so badly to get on the inside. Well, they can’t penetrate these walls. Tom, we’ll keep you safe. This mansion is a fortress and security will only get tighter when the president gets here. He’ll bring his Secret Service team. There’s nothing to worry about. We’re moving ahead. The lab is ready. The staff is ready. Tonight we will perform a miracle. Tomorrow the president will live in a new, healthy body and his illness will be a thing of the past.”
Tom wanted to bring up the subject of his own medical rescue, but knew Giamatti was first and foremost preoccupied with saving the president. The conversation would have to wait.
Tom was fine about that. He didn’t have the stamina for an involved conversation right now anyway. After the day’s grueling events, he was weak and hurting. Cooper picked up on it.
“Tom, why don’t you get some rest?” he said. “You’ve been through hell.”
Tom nodded. He rose from his chair, legs stiff. “I’m going to get something to eat from the kitchen and retire to my room.”
Giamatti said, “May I ask a favor? It’s best that you remain in your room once the president arrives. The Secret Service will want to keep him isolated. Maybe tomorrow there will be an opportunity for you to meet him. Tonight is going to be very delicate and guarded. I hope you understand. Tensions are running high.”
“I’ll be out of sight, out of mind,” said Tom as he left the den.
In the kitchen, he made himself a sandwich and collected a bag of chips and can of 7Up. He brought them back to the guest room that still felt like a prison cell, no matter how comfortable.
He ate alone at a small table and then decided to wash up in the adjoining bathroom. He took a long, hot shower punctuated with a scare when he suddenly, randomly lost his balance and nearly fell. His disease continued to chip away at his muscle coordination. He swore at it. He swore at the Russians. He swore at the delay in saving his own life. He swore at the terror he had put his family through. They didn’t deserve any of it.
After showering, he dressed in clean pajamas, prepared to retire early. He sat at the little table and wrote in his notebook, continuing an ongoing letter to Sofi, a collection of sentiments and advice for his daughter in case things did not get better and she became fatherless at a young age. Several times he had to put down the pen, in tears, pulling away to avoid smearing the ink with his sorrow.
When he heard a sudden commotion of cars outside, Tom stepped over to the window for a good view of the area in front of the mansion. The president and his small circle of insiders had arrived. Tom recognized Jarret Spero, the president’s chief of staff. President Hartel slowly stepped out of the back seat of his private car, a dark sedan. He was quickly surrounded by a half-dozen members of his team, including watchful men in dark suit jackets and sunglasses who had to be Secret Service. One of them started to look up toward Tom’s window, and Tom pulled away.
I’m not going to mess with the president’s security, he told himself. He had already experienced enough excitement for one day.
Tom heard the commotion continue into the house: muffled voices, greetings, welcomes, enthusiasm.
Tom had no more enthusiasm. He was just dead tired. He chose to go to bed early, amusing himself with the thought that in the morning the president’s digitized brain would live inside a technologically perfect replica, and Tom was one of the few people on the planet who knew it.
* * *
Emily sat on the bed of her hotel room, half watching the television, half skimming the room-service menu, while Sofi lay stretched out on the floor absorbed in one of her jumbo puzzle books, connecting dots.
A sitcom rerun ended, failing to provide amusement, and the nightly news promptly began. The broadcast jumped into the latest Chicago headlines, starting with a preview of President Hartel’s campaign appearance at Navy Pier scheduled for the next day. Several local campaign staffers expressed their excitement over the president’s pending arrival and a camera panned the red, white and blue decorations in progress to transform the large ballroom into a political rally. Emily watched the coverage with unease, feeling apprehensive about the secret knowledge she possessed that the media did not.
But the anxiety created by the president’s arrival was nothing compared to the sledgehammer story that followed.
Her husband was back in the news.
“Missing Wilmette resident Tom Nolan has embarked on another crime spree, robbing a Waukegan diner, taking a hostage and stealing a police vehicle.…”
Emily’s jaw dropped. There was a short interview clip with their pudgy waitress from the diner. “He attacked the two police officers. It all happened so quick, we were afraid for our lives.”
The news story concluded with fuzzy security camera footage of Tom inside the Lake County Mall, followed by a sudden, jarring enlargement of Tom’s driver’s license photo and the message, “Authorities are asking that you contact the police immediately if you see this man.…”
“Oh dear Lord…” said Emily, putting a hand up to her mouth.
Sofi looked up from the floor at the TV and gleefully exclaimed, “Daddy!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
President Gus Hartel arrived at the mansion, flanked by a small, intimate entourage that included his chief of staff, Jarret Spero, campaign director Kathleen Vourlekis and three long-time, trusted Secret Service men. Simon Giamatti greeted his old friend warmly with a hearty handshake and Bella followed with an affectionate hug. Hartel immediately felt at ease at the Glencoe mansion, a frequent retreat when visiting Chicago, especially during his glorious first campaign run for president four years earlier.
As he stepped inside the large foyer, the president stated, “I’ve brought my skeleton crew. The rest of the staff is staying downtown. I’ll catch up with them in the morning. These folks with me here, they’re in the know.”
Giamatti nodded in understanding.
“I kept the group as small as possible,” said Hartel. “I’m very serious about the confidentiality of this procedure.”
“So are we,” Giamatti said. “How are you feeling?”
“Lousy,” Hartel responded truthfully.
“I’m sorry,” said Giamatti.
“Disease is a terrible thing,” Hartel said. “Think of the great leaders and minds of this country throughout history – how much more they could have accomplished with the gift of your technology. Selective immortality is the next phase of Darwinism. This is a game changer. It will change the world.”
Jarret Spero, a short man with wire-rimmed glasses, wavy hair and a flat expression, asked Giamatti, “How soon can you begin?”
Giamatti responded, “I’m ready when you are. The staff are fully prepared. The procedure has been tested to perfection. The digitization should take about one hour, and then another hour to get you up and running in your new home.”
“New home.” President Hartel smiled at the description. “Home sweet home.”
“You’ll be in perfect shape for tomorrow’s big speech,” Giamatti promised.
“Some reporters have started to speculate about my health,” said Hartel. “It’s making my constituents nervous. It has to stop.”
“You will be the healthiest candidate out there,” Giamatti said with a firm smile. “Not just healthy…invincible.”
* * *
President Hartel and his staff settled into their row of rooms in the guest wing of the Giamatti mansion. Hartel felt some nervousness over the upcoming operation, but kept it to himself as he spoke one last time to his chief of staff before heading to the lab. Giamatti had been explicit that the president’s advisers and security could not be bystanders in the operating room, an understandable request. Hartel knew he was putting a lot of trust in Giamatti. He also knew that he trusted Giamatti more than most people in his life, especially the fickle, two-faced weasels who saturated the political arena. His current health was in steady decline with an awaiting punctuation of death. Hartel believed in Giamatti’s cure…desperately.
Two members of Hartel’s Secret Service team accompanied him to meet Giamatti at the entrance to the lower level, where the operation would take place. Ben, the bigger of the two men, stated, “We’ll be close by if you need anything.”
“Make sure there aren’t any reporters in the bushes,” said Hartel. “Or spies for my opponent. I don’t think the public is ready for a robot president…yet.”
Hartel chuckled at his own comment with a trace of unease. Then he took a deep breath and joined Giamatti for the climb down the steps to the laboratory that waited to receive him.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Giamatti reassured him, as they shed the president’s handlers and protectors. “As you know, the entire process has been tested with outstanding results. It’s been a terrific success.”
“Until the Russians made off with it,” said Hartel.
“That has been resolved,” Giamatti said.
The president looked at him with surprise. “It has?”
The two men reached the bottom of the stairs and rounded a corner. Giamatti smiled as he took hold of a door handle and opened the entrance to the lab. He gestured President Hartel inside.
As the president entered, his eyes immediately locked in on his own technically perfect replica, lying flat and motionless on a gurney, naked except for a thin, white hospital gown.
“There I am,” he said in a small, stunned voice. He had reviewed his shell during a previous visit to ensure it copied him to perfection. But now, aware that he would soon live inside this casing, his amazement and anxiety elevated once more.
“A thing of beauty,” Giamatti said, as they continued to admire it.
“Hello, Mr. President,” said a voice, breaking the trance.
Hartel’s attention snapped away from his body on the gurney as he became aware of others in the room.
A very tall, slender man with sunken features and gray hair stepped forward. He did not look familiar. He offered his hand.
“I look forward to becoming you,” he said.
Hartel stared at him, uncertain of what he had just heard. “Excuse me?”
He shook hands with the stranger, who introduced himself: “I am Sergei Vladin.”
Hartel became even more puzzled. A foreign-sounding name? That immediately did not rest well with him.
The lovely Mrs. Giamatti approached next, smiling in a long dress, a welcome but odd presence in the operating room.
A third individual walked over from the other side of the room, and Hartel was now surrounded from all sides.
The third individual looked familiar.
“You’re…the young man from the test,” Hartel said.
“Yes, I am,” said the handsome blond man in his thirties, offering his hand. “My name is…Alex.”
“Alex?” said the president, thoroughly confused. “But isn’t your name…Tom?”
Giamatti broke out in laughter, startling Hartel. Hartel immediately turned to face his old friend. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“This is my team,” Giamatti said with an unnatural smirk. He put an arm around his wife. “Why do you look so surprised?”
President Hartel turned his attention back to the tall man. “What did you say your name was?”
“Sergei Vladin,” the tall man responded proudly.
“Why is that name familiar?”
“Perhaps you know me by my nickname. I am known to many as The Stick.”
In that instant, the president realized who he was dealing with. His eyes widened with terror. His chest filled with pounding. His mouth went dry, choked for words.
Sergei smiled, pleased with the flash of recognition he observed on the president’s face. “Ah, so you know me? I’m flattered but not surprised. I have so much history with your country. I am likely a common topic of discussion in your security briefings. We have never met in the flesh, but you have felt my presence. Your secrets are my secrets. Your elections are my elections. And now…your White House will be my White House.”
Hartel spun away from him. He pushed open a path between Giamatti and his wife, fleeing in the first direction that offered him a clearing.
He reached a door on the other side of the room. He yanked the door open, praying it would take him back upstairs, but it didn’t.
Instead of offering freedom, the door led to a cramped storage space containing two dead bodies – Simon and Bella Giamatti.
President Hartel stared down in horror at the corpses of his friends. Then he spun around and stared at the same two people, perfect doubles, approaching him. These two definitely were not his friends.
The pounding in his chest became a fierce tightening and President Gus Hartel’s vision succumbed to a rush of sparks, then a drop into darkness. He managed a single step away from the storage closet before collapsing, hitting the ground hard, with no one stepping forward to help him.
President Hartel shuddered and died, fearing not for himself but for his country.
* * *
Alex stood over President Hartel, aiming a gun with a silencer at his head, waiting to see if there was any more movement, but the man had gone very, very still.
“Check him,” he said to Yefim. Yefim, housed in Simon Giamatti’s replica, bent down and felt the president’s neck for a pulse. Alina, no longer forcing expressions of warmth and smiles to hide her true nature, scowled in a manner that looked at odds with Bella Giamatti’s otherwise sweet appearance.
“He’s dead,” said Yefim.
“Heart attack,” said Alina.
Sergei joined the small circle looking down at the dead president. “Well,” he said to Alex, “that saved us a bullet.” He prodded the corpse with his foot, fascinated by the sight.
“The president is dead,” Sergei said. “And no one will ever know.” He turned to Alex. “I am ready. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Alex smiled. “One last transfer. Our third of the day.”
Sergei walked over to a bank of computers lined up alongside a hospital bed, where the digitization of his consciousness would take place. As he stepped past President Hartel’s replica on the gurney, he stopped for a moment to admire it with an expression that could be described as loving.
“I am going to so enjoy being you,” he said. “America will never be the same.”
* * *
Two hours later, Giamatti brought President Hartel upstairs and reunited him with his chief of staff and Secret Service team.
“A massive success!” thundered Giamatti.
“How do you feel?” Jarret Spero asked anxiously.
“I feel great,” President Hartel answered.
“He was an outstanding patien
t,” said Giamatti.
The chief of staff studied him and said, “Remarkable. You really can’t tell the difference.”
“That’s what we’re counting on,” said Giamatti.
“I’m relieved it’s over,” Hartel said. “I feel no pain, I feel no fatigue. I feel reborn.”
They chatted for a while more, until the president withdrew from the conversation.
“It’s late,” he said. “I don’t mean to be antisocial, but I’m going to retire to my room. I need to go over my speech a few more times. I can’t miss a beat, you know. My busy schedule continues.”
“Tomorrow’s a big day,” Giamatti said.
“Every day is a big day,” said the president. “From now until the election, we must do everything in our power to win.”
Jarret Spero smiled, a rare show of emotion for a man who was always too busy concentrating to be emotional. “We will win by a landslide, Mr. President,” he said.
President Hartel grinned broadly, perhaps uncharacteristically, but with genuine delight.
“Good.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tom awoke the next morning to the sound of vehicles and voices at the front of the house. After a lengthy, deep sleep he felt better – mentally sharper anyway. His limbs still responded with sluggish uncertainty, a sensation that would not go away with rest. He pulled himself out of bed slowly, balancing on his feet like a toddler. He took several steps across the room, forcing activity through his awkward muscles, reaching the window. He parted the curtains for a look outside. Sunshine spilled into the room.
The president and his small entourage were leaving. Three long, black limousines swallowed them up. Tom watched Jarret Spero join the president in the middle car, along with two tightlipped Secret Service men in shades and dark suits. Tom felt a stab of disappointment that he hadn’t met the president during his stay, but hoped he’d return after the campaign rally. Mr. and Mrs. Giamatti climbed into the third vehicle together.
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