by Marcus Sakey
“Just a brief statement,” Keevers said. “Prepared remarks. You are personally overseeing all attempts—”
“Efforts,” Archer said, “not attempts. Personally overseeing all efforts during this difficult time.”
“A season of adversity when Americans must come together—”
“—to demonstrate the spirit of resolve that defines the national character, et cetera.”
“The National Guard has your highest confidence, and so do the people of Cleveland, Tulsa, and Fresno.”
“Meanwhile, no stone is being left unturned in the hunt for those who vilely attacked our nation.”
“Excuse me,” Cooper said.
The rhythm of the room was broken, everyone turning to look at him like they had forgotten he was there. He smiled affably. “You said ‘statement.’ Shouldn’t he take questions?”
“No,” Keevers and Leahy said at the same time. Archer said, “Absolutely not.”
“Three cities are in chaos,” Cooper said. “There are food shortages and looting and the fear of riots. Why wouldn’t the president answer questions?”
Keevers’s face was tight. “Mr. Cooper, I don’t think—”
“Actually,” President Clay said, “he has a point. Why not take questions?”
The other three looked at one another. After a moment, Archer said, “Because, sir, the questions will be, who are the Children of Darwin? Where are they? What do they want? How close are we to stopping them?”
“Why not come out strong?” Clay asked. “Say that the situation is under control, that the COD will soon be neutralized by actions covert, swift, and final.”
“Because intelligence suggests more attacks may be coming,” the secretary of defense said. “If you say we’ve got it handled and an hour later something blows up, it looks like we’re asleep at the switch.”
“So tell the truth,” Cooper said. “Tell people that you don’t have all the answers yet. Tell them that the full force of the US government is being brought to bear. That terrorism won’t be tolerated, and that the Children of Darwin will be caught or killed. And that meanwhile, you need your citizens to put on their big-boy pants and calm down.”
A silence fell. It had a weight and a texture. It was a silence that spoke volumes; a silence filled with at least three people wondering just how dumb he was.
So much for “the truth shall set you free.”
After a long moment, the president spoke. “All right. No questions.”
Cooper leaned back in his chair. Fought the urge to shrug.
“But Nick raises a good point,” Clay continued. “It’s important to preserve people’s confidence that the buck stops with the president, and if I make a statement and don’t answer questions, it suggests we’re hiding something. Holden, on the other hand, can defer and deflect. He’ll do the briefing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Owen, I want answers about the Children of Darwin. Not next week, not tomorrow, now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Lionel Clay circled behind his desk, put on his reading glasses, and began to flip through a file folder. His attention was absorbed immediately. A side effect of Cooper’s gift was that he tended to categorize people as shades of color; hotheads felt red to him, introverts landed in shades of gray. Lionel Clay was the smoke-stained gold of café walls, comforting and sophisticated.
Which is great. But I wonder if right now we don’t need a man who patterns like polished steel.
He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and followed the others out of the Oval Office. Marla Keevers waited until the door closed to jump him. “Big-boy pants?”
“Big-girl pants too,” he said.
Her smile was thin and cold and died far from her eyes. “You realize all you accomplished was to get him excited about something he can’t do.”
“My understanding, he can do pretty much anything he likes.”
“You’re wrong. And now instead of the president telling the nation not to worry, we’ll have the press secretary bobbing and weaving. Holden is good, but what we need is the leader of the free world telling his people that everything is okay.”
“Even if it’s not.”
“Especially then.”
“See, that’s where we disagree. I think that the president’s job is to protect the country. And telling them the truth is the best way to do that.”
“Oh, Christ.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d say that I hope you know what you’re doing, but you clearly don’t.”
“We’ll see,” Cooper said.
“Yes,” Marla Keevers replied. “We will.”
TRUTH BEHIND THE LIES: A DIGITAL FORUM FOR UNBELIEVERS
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Con$piracy around murder of DAR director
El Chupacabra
“Why is it called ‘common sense’ when it’s so rare?”
User ID: 493324
You guys gotta hear this.
You know how three months ago, DAR’s Drew Peters takes a header off a DC high-rise? The cover story is that he’s overwhelmed with guilt about his role in the Monocle, so he uploads the video of him and Walker planning it, and then swan dives.
Crazy to begin with, because the dude was the head of Equitable Services, and that division killed God knows how many people, so why is he worried about the 73 in the restaurant?
But here’s the wacko part. I’ve got a buddy in the DC police, and he told me that that same night, in that same building, there was a firefight in a graphic design studio. Apparently it was shot to shit, monitors blown up, glass broken. He says there was a lot of blood but no body.
My guy got to the scene and was turned away by the men in black. He thinks maybe DAR agents. And later that night, he gets a call from the police commissioner telling him that he’s mistaken, there was no blood, no firefight.
Obviously something else went down. My take, Peters didn’t release the video, it was actually whoever shot up the graphic design studio.
Which means that Peters was murdered. And no one is talking about it.
So the order had to come down from on high. Someone with juice was moving pieces behind the scenes.
Stay locked and loaded, guys. Dark days are coming.
Re: Con$piracy around murder of DAR director
Benito the Mighty
“Be still and know that I am God”
User ID: 784321
You just putting this together?
There had to be more people involved. Walker was the president, and Peters a director at the DAR. It’s not like either of them did the wetwork at the Monocle. And no one has been able to find the shooters, which means they were whacked too.
And you’re surprised that others are involved?
There’s a whole shadow government at work here. They go on TV and do the magic show for us. Get us worked up because a mayor sends some girl a picture of his dick, or a senator says something racist, or an aide smokes crack. And we ooh and ahh and judge, and meanwhile, we never look at what they’re really doing.
The decisions that drive the nation are made in dark rooms. Records are not kept, and press releases are not issued.
It goes a lot deeper than the Monocle. There’s a cabal of people who are pulling all the strings, and they aren’t afraid to drop bodies. Your cop buddy better be careful.
Re: Con$piracy around murder of DAR director
LadyKiller87
“You are all sheeple”
User ID: 123021
Smells like BS. Covering up the murder of a DAR director would take crazy clout.
Re: Con$piracy around murder of DAR director
Benito the Mighty
“Be still and know that I am God”
User ID: 784321
You’re right, that would take, like, the president of the United States.
Oh wait—he was in on it. Dipshit.
Re: Con$piracy around murder of DAR director
El Chupac
abra
“Why is it called ‘common sense’ when it’s so rare?”
User ID: 493324
So how far does this rabbit hole go? Walker was president; who else is in his cabal? President Clay? SecDef Leahy?
Re: Con$piracy around murder of DAR director
Benito the Mighty
“Be still and know that I am God”
User ID: 784321
Could be. All I know is that my go-bag is packed and my cabin is prepped. Two pallets of canned goods, 200 gallons of water, and the hardware to defend it.
When the shit goes down, I’m going to ride it out in style. And woe betide any numb nuts who crosses my fence line.
Re: Con$piracy around murder of DAR director
BananaGirl
“Worry is a misuse of the imagination”
User ID: 897236
Dude, you don’t need all that water. Just build a catch basin and a purification system. Here, check out the schematics.
CHAPTER 5
“Big-girl pants? He really said that?”
“And smiled like he was being cute.” Marla Keevers sipped her coffee.
“It’s quick, at least.” Owen Leahy shook his head. As the secretary of defense, there weren’t many people around whom he dared show his hand. But Marla was a friend, or as close to one as politics at this level allowed. They’d worked together under President Walker, and he’d quickly learned that she was one of those rare people who got the job done, whatever it took. He liked those people. He was one of them. “The president seems smitten.”
“Cooper won him over right away. You know how? When Clay offered him the job, he refused.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. You believe that? Sitting in the limo, after a show-of-force pickup with twenty Secret Service agents, and the guy says no.”
They were in her office, the doors closed, and Leahy had his foot up on his knee, the chair rocked back on two legs. These informal conferences had started as a way to keep the train on the rails during the transition from Walker to Clay, but they’d become chatty. “Was it a performance?”
“No. That’s the weird thing. He honestly didn’t want the job.”
That was unnerving. This was Washington, DC. Everyone wanted the job. “So Cooper is the new fair-haired boy.”
Marla nodded. They stared at each other, then broke into laughter. It felt good, absurd as the situation was.
“What a world, huh? Throw your boss off a roof, end up serving the president,” Leahy said. “I guess we could always use that as leverage to control him.”
“Cooper won’t be a puppet. Plus, do we really want to open that particular can of worms?” Marla shook her head. “If the truth about that night came out, people would start asking who else was involved.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with the Monocle.”
“Neither did I. But there are plenty of other things we have been . . . aware of.” She left it at that, a gesture he appreciated. Deft.
“I don’t know, Marla. Is it just me, or is the world going crazy? We’re facing maybe the greatest crisis in American history, and the president is getting his advice from a Boy Scout.”
“You know how many people Nick Cooper has killed?”
“Okay,” Leahy said, “a dangerous Boy Scout.”
She shrugged. A message pinged in on her system, and she glanced at it, typed a quick response. Leahy laced his fingers behind his head, stared at the ceiling.
“In 1986, when Bryce published his study on the gifted, I was just starting at the CIA. Done my four years in army intel, transferred over. I was the FNG on the Middle East desk, a junior analyst getting all the junk assignments. But when I read that study, I got up from my cubicle, walked straight to the deputy’s office, and asked for five minutes.”
“You didn’t.”
“I was young.”
“Did he see you?”
“Yeah.” Leahy smiled, remembering that day. January, and cold; his shoes had salt stains on them, and while he’d waited outside Mitchum’s office, he’d licked his fingers to wipe the leather clean. He could still taste the tang of salt and dirt. “The deputy looked at me like I might be mentally challenged.” He shrugged. “No way out at that point, so I figured, screw it, today you either make your name or lose your job.”
“What did you say?”
“I dropped the study on his desk, and I said, ‘Sir, you can forget about the sheiks, and Berlin, and the Soviets. This is going to be the conflict that defines the next fifty years of American intelligence.’ ”
“No.” Marla was smiling broadly. “No.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He laughed me out of his office, and I spent an extra year as a junior analyst. But I was right. I knew it then, and I know it now.” And Mitchum does too. It had taken five years before the deputy saw the truth, but when he had, he’d remembered who told him first. Deputy Mitchum had taken a personal interest from then on, and Leahy’s climb up the ladder had accelerated dramatically. “Nothing in our history presents the same threat that the gifted do.”
“Easy. The New York Times would pay a fortune to quote you saying that.”
“The Times can bite me. I’ve got three children and five grandchildren, and none of them are gifted. How do you like their odds? Think in twenty years they’re going to be running the world? Or serving fries?”
Marla didn’t respond, just typed another message on her system. Leahy said, “What do you think of him?”
“Cooper?”
“Clay. He’s been president for two months. The grace period is over. What do you think?”
She took her hands from the keyboard. Picked up her coffee and took a thoughtful sip. Finally, she said, “I think he would make an exceptional history professor.”
Their eyes locked.
There really wasn’t any point in saying more.
CHAPTER 6
It was the kind of crisp blue day that made a man proud to own his house, to be out in scrub clothes working in his yard. A beer on the edge of the porch, radio voices talking in the background. Ethan was partaking in that greatest of white-collar lies, “working from home,” and not feeling at all bad about it. He put in plenty of hours at the lab. Besides, what the news had termed the “Crisis in Cleveland” had been going on for three days now. People would be running out of supplies, starting to get hungry. Hungry people did stupid things, and he wasn’t leaving his wife and child alone.
“—expected to address the nation this evening. In advance of that press conference, the White House has reiterated that the National Guard is in the process of setting up aid stations to distribute food and supplies in each of the affected cities—”
One thing he’d discovered about owning a house, the damn leaves just kept falling. But he found a kind of Zen to stuffing the bags, soaking up the small details, the smell, the way each armful sent splinters to float in the air, lit by golden autumn sun.
“—have indicated that this will be mostly an inconvenience, with no lasting repercussions. They are asking that everyone remain calm—”
“Dr. Park?”
Ethan looked up. A man and a woman stood on the curb. They wore dark suits and sunglasses, and the man held out a wallet with a badge. “I’m Special Agent Bobby Quinn, and this is Special Agent Valerie West. We’re with the Department of Analysis and Response. Do you have a moment?”
Ethan straightened, his back singing. “Um. Sure.”
“You are Dr. Ethan Park, of the Advanced Genomics Institute?”
“Yes.”
Quinn nodded, taking in the yard, Ethan’s torn clothes and dirty hands. “Would you mind if we came in?”
“What’s this about?”
“Dr. Abraham Couzen. Could we talk inside?”
Abe? He shrugged, said, “Sure.” Feeling a bit surreal—where but in the movies did government agents show up on your front lawn?—he led them up the steps and inside.
“Have a seat. You want some coffee or anything?”
“No, thank you.” The two agents sat side by side on the couch. Quinn said, “Nice place.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve got a little one?” Gesturing to the infant swing.
“A girl. Ten weeks. Look, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but what is this about?”
“When was the last time you saw Dr. Couzen?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“Can you be precise?”
Ethan thought about it. Abe came and went according to his own whims. Actually, he does pretty much everything that way. “The day before yesterday. At the lab.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
“No. Has something happened?”
Quinn looked pained. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but yesterday a neighbor reported gunfire coming from Dr. Couzen’s house. Police responded and found his back door kicked in. His home office had been ransacked, and Couzen was gone.”
“What? Is Abe okay?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Dr. Park,” West said, “do you know of anyone who had made threats against Dr. Couzen?”
“No.”
“Anyone let go from the institute recently, or who might bear a grudge?”
Ethan almost laughed at that. “Let go, no. Bear a grudge? Sure. Abe’s not an easy guy to work with.”
“How do you mean?”
“He’s . . .” Ethan shrugged. “In the old days, they would have said he was brilliant, but that means something different now. He’s not an abnorm, but he’s an off-the-charts genius, and not the most patient person.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“He’s abrasive. Difficult. Dismissive of anyone not as smart as he is, which means he’s dismissive of pretty much everyone.”
“Including you?”
“Sometimes. But I didn’t break into his house, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s not,” Quinn said, holding up his hands. “We’re just trying to figure out why someone might have targeted Couzen.”
“Targeted?” He looked back and forth between the two agents. “I’m sorry, I’m still catching up here.”
“This wasn’t a simple robbery,” Quinn said. “They came in while he was home. There was a struggle, and Dr. Couzen is gone. At this point, we’re assuming it’s a kidnapping.”