“Not yet. But I thought you told me,” Samson replied, looking again at Clarence, “that it wasn’t that big a deal anymore.”
“Probably not,” Peter continued, studying different angles. “We’ll see. Did you mention it to anyone?”
Samson swallowed hard. “I, uh, I did ask Beetsee…”
“Esposito?”
“I asked her if it rang a bell.”
Peter returned his attention to the game. “I thought I told you not to mention it to anyone.”
“Sir? She probably knew Juan better than… “
“Better than me?”
“No, Sir.”
“That’s okay. Just doing your job.” Peter leaned as if to shoot then resumed his pacing. “Anybody else?”
Carter mentioned it to me but I didn’t mention it to him. “No, Sir.”
“Give it… give it one more try this afternoon.”
“Copy.”
“I’ll play solids. Three in the corner pocket.” The red ball was dispatched with ease. The Pope stepped around. “Have you talked to anyone from the press?”
“No.” Not yet.
“Those people just get more ridiculous as… they’re always trying to turn everything into the biggest thing since… if the Creek overflowed tomorrow, they’d be screaming that it was Flood Two—The Sequel.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So watch who you… five in the side.” The orange one from Peter’s end fell easily despite the sharp cut needed to get it there.
“Nice shot.”
“Thanks. I don’t know what those people get paid to do. I really don’t. Always been a mystery to me. I mean, the helicopter crash. A terrible accident but an accident nonetheless. It happens to drop into the Creek and it becomes the biggest story around.” He sized up one shot, eased back, sized again then moved onto other possibilities. “And now they have to start in on the mysterious circumstances teaser. You heard that one yet?”
“I heard something about bullets.”
Peter glanced at Clarence who’d returned to the bar, then fixed his eyes on Samson’s. “Who told you that?”
“Carter Sherwood.”
“I thought I told you…”
“That was after you said I could talk to Party people again.”
“I did?”
“This morning.”
“You’re right. Sorry. So what did Carter tell you?” he asked, focusing on the table.
“He told me that they found some shell casings and that Security was looking into it but they didn’t have the equipment to…”
“Did he tell you who told him about that?”
“No.”
“Did he give you any theories about it?”
“No, Sir.”
“These news people really drive me up a wall sometimes. They say I’m sick and I feel fine. They say I’ve lost control and I’m in complete control. It really frosts my… four ball in the corner.”
Samson was now down four to one, his lone point having sunk on the break.
“Six in the corner.” Five to one. “Here we have one of the greatest servants of the Church about to be buried,” Peter continued as he moved quickly, his eyes locked onto the obvious next shot, the nickel in the side, “we’re about to announce the… one of the greatest finds in history, the whole Council will be here in hours and all they want to talk about is porno videos and quack theories about the future of the Party. What are their priorities? Who sets their agenda?”
“I don’t know.”
“Seven ball, corner.”
Peter took the shot, the seven nicking one of Samson’s, giving him his first opportunity of the game. He chalked up and began his examination of the table.
“I agree with you about the media. Most of them ought to be workin’ a punch press rather than forming public opinion.”
“Most of them?”
“Most. A few have some smarts, have an understanding of what the real world is all about.”
“Maybe,” Peter replied. “But they’re few and far between.”
“Fourteen in the corner.”
“You might enjoy a couple of the people who’ll be joining us for dinner tonight.”
“Who?” Samson responded as he lined up his shot.
“Angelique and her manager.”
The cue ball barely kissed the 14, ricocheting off a cushion then winding up in its own corner pocket. Samson took a deep breath, lifted it out. Tossed it to his opponent.
“You scratched. Thirteen ball, please.”
Samson pulled it from the pocket and spotted it. “So who else is going to be here?”
“We’ll see,” Peter replied. “Seven ball, corner.” Six-zip. “One ball, corner.” The yellow orb fell, dead center. Now all that remained between him and a dinner he could live without was the eight ball, six inches from the right side pocket, the cue ball resting offset another nine behind.
“I thought you were going to at least give me a run, Burt,” Peter said.
“I’ve only had one shot.”
“And you blew it. You had your chance.” Peter frowned as he gazed at the table, all those stripes, not a solid to be seen. “Eight ball, cross side.”
“Now you’re gonna rub it in?” Samson asked.
Peter nodded. Bent down. Drew his cue back and forth. Sized up a shot that would give any player cause for reconsideration.
“Why don’t you just drop it where you should, Sir?”
“I like the challenge,” Peter replied. “Sometimes doing things the hard way is more profitable than doing them the easy way.”
The tip met the cue ball, powering if with just the right amount of bottom English to keep it from dropping itself and giving Samson the game. Backed out of the way as the eight caromed off the cushion then sliced between the 12 and 15. Falling as all the others. Only net were it a basketball.
As Peter placed his stick in the rack and wiped his fingers on a towel softly, as if the sacrificial wine had just poured over them, Samson offered the best face he could for his conclusive loss. The Pope regarded him briefly—as if studying for imperfections—then left.
Chapter Nineteen
Samson inserted the key into the lock on the front door. Opening it, he stuck in his head and yelled: “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” No response. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Again, no response. Relieved, he entered the foyer and set the deadbolt.
Something awful was in the wind. He could hear it in Peter’s voice, the way he said, “You had your chance.” But why didn’t he just come right out and say it? He must know about what happened in LA. But if he did, why make him Secretary of Finance? Why would he take that risk? Maybe he just found out? Perhaps he’d invited him over to see if he’d fess up and save him the trouble of prying out the secret?
Samson was missing a big piece of the pizza. Then he recalled what Angelique had related: To see what the Sancter types did when they weren’t at mass.
Was there a spy satellite named Blind Justice?
He walked to the den and picked up the address book, looking up Brewster’s number in Philadelphia. His secretary answered.
“Is Charlie there?”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Just a friend. Can I talk to him?”
“Who is this, please?”
“I told you. A friend.”
“Mr. Brewster is not available.”
“When will he be?”
“He’s down the hall in conference.”
“Do you know when I can reach him?”
“No.”
He wondered whether he should…
“This is Terry Samson. I called back…”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Samson. Mr. Brewster is gone for the day but he left a message for you.”
“What is it?”
“He said to watch out for her.”
“Watch out for who?”
“I don’t know. He just said to watch out for her.”
�
��Thanks.”
Anxiety. The fear of the unknown. The fear of the uncontrollable. The fear of fear.
He bolted up the stairs, stopping in front of Kim’s room. Nudged the door open, heart pounding. He expected someone to be there, maybe Kim herself, but the room was empty. He dropped to his knees and reached under the love seat, searching. Reassured as he touched the barrel of the weapon, cool as a tall gin and tonic at a croquet match. He grabbed it by the butt, unlatching the cylinder. Six rooms, six occupants. Satisfied his security blanket was available, he returned to the den. Dialed. Waited as the phone at the other end rang.
“Hello?” the woman’s voice asked.
“Shamrock?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m returning your call.”
“I call a lot of people.”
“You called me this morning.”
“I called a lot of people this morning.”
“Can you talk?”
“I’m in my car. My calls are being looped. That you, TS?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back from a pay phone. There’s a gas station up the road. Are you at home or…”
“Yes.”
“Stay put.”
“Right.”
Four minutes later, the phone chirped.
“TS?”
“Yes.”
“Can you talk?”
“Yes.”
“I’m trying to… I was trying to get some confirmations or denials on a few things but they just keep piling up in new and different ways. It’s getting very confusing out here, outside the gates.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You must be involved.”
“I don’t know,” Samson sighed.
“You’ve heard about a vid?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know it exists?”
“No.”
“Do you know of anyone who might?”
“No. Do you?”
“I’ve heard it from enough sources so I’m pretty certain it does.”
“Who has it?”
“One of two groups. Perhaps three.”
“First?”
“Opposition.”
“Legal or illegal opposition?”
“Well, both. I guess that’s numbers one and two.”
“Are they working in concert?”
“Appears.”
“Third party?”
“Yours.”
“Shakedown?”
“Appears.”
“Who’s in it?”
“Not certain. Two recurring themes.”
“Shoot.”
“Theme one is high ranking Sancter and high ranking member of the opposition.”
“Thank God.”
“Don’t thank too quickly.”
“Why?”
“The high ranking member of the Party is as high as you can go.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“You’re kidding,” he repeated.
“No.”
“Theme two?”
He really didn’t care what theme two was because if theme one was as advertised, the whole thing must be a fabrication.
“Theme two is a lesser though high ranking member of the Party. Accomplice unknown.”
“Unknown?”
“Unknown. But you’re getting pegged. Is that possible?”
“Do you think I’d be calling you if I thought it was?”
“I don’t know. People call me for a lot of reasons. Some want to confess, just get it over with.”
“Have I ever done that?”
“No.”
“So why would I now?”
“Is it possible?”
To see what Sancter types did when they weren’t at mass.
“Anything is possible.”
“This is major scandal material. Coupled with the events of the past few days, this could bring the entire house down. Is it possible?”
“I didn’t do anything that can be confirmed objectively. I hope.”
“Your turn. What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Am I moving up?”
“If you’re as clean as you say.”
“Party?”
“Party.”
“How high?”
“Top. My turn?”
“Go ahead.”
“Health of the Pope?”
“Excellent. Saw him an hour ago.”
“Still in charge?”
“Yes.”
“Announcement soon about the Diaries?”
“Yes.”
“Aye or nay?”
“Don’t know.”
“A lot of people say nay.”
“Ours?”
“Some.”
“Opposition?”
“Yes.”
“They have a mole?”
“Might. They talk like they do but I think it’s a bluff.”
“What else?” he asked.
“Silver Piece?” she replied.
“Silver Piece?”
“Know anything about it?”
He’d never lied to or hedged Morgan Fitzgerald about the information she sought. He’d provided background when she requested it and in return had received valuable intelligence in return. But all he’d produced in the past had been confirmations or denials, never source.
“I know the phrase. You?”
“I’ll trade for a confirm straight up.”
“Deal.”
“Is the P walking around with the P in his P? Last P as in pocket?”
I don’t know if you’re listening, Sir. Who’s gonna believe it anyway? And I gotta get something on…
“I don’t have any firsthand knowledge but… Yes. Silver Piece?”
“Something Castro was deep into. I’ve got the dots but not the lines. I was hoping maybe… “
“Go ahead,” he said.
“In no particular order the SPP Trust, AK’s interest in either taking AMI private or unloading his stake, an attack CGR virus called Iscariot, the Guralski murder, Perrin… “
“Back up.”
“How far?”
“Iscariot.”
Her silence was telling.
“You did not hear this from me.” She sounded frightened. “How much do you know?”
“Understood. I’ve seen the term in an unusual context.”
“I… I’ve been told by someone… I was told if it was injected it could… you did not hear this from me, right?”
“Right.”
“Give me a few minutes to get to a different phone. When I call, don’t say anything to ID yourself. Uh, just cough twice so I know it’s you.”
Click.
Samson hung up then checked his watch. There must be a line a mile long for you, Juan. Gotta drink a toast, buddy. He went to the kitchen and reached to the top shelf of the pantry, pulling down a virgin, gallon bottle of Cafogold. He poured a glass then eased onto one of the island’s stools. Come on, Morgan! Get to the different phone!
His rang five minutes later. He coughed twice into the receiver.
“I’ve got to make this quick. Just listen. Then I’m signing off.”
He replied with two more coughs.
“It’ll make The Three Sisters look like the Three Blind Mice. Said to have a first wave penetration level of 70 with the second punch coming in somewhere over a 130. Real nasty info transfer/destruction specs. Recombination factors are incalculable. Probably can take out the entire Supernet in 80 or 90 minutes then leave behind enough frogs to corrupt any attempts at a reset for months. Maybe years. Hasn’t been launched for one or more of three reasons. First, might be a shakedown attempt preceding injection, most probable potential targets being RCC or AMI itself. This tadpole has Cult fingerprints all over it. Second, there is or might be a triggering event that has to occur before launch. No clue as to its nature but seems tomorrow is the drop-dead date. Third, and here’s where the jig starts sawing, the jab’s
spooked about the real or perceived possibility Iscariot has been compromised. Maybe a mole in the ranks, maybe an accidental discovery or transmute of the alpha version during testing, maybe happenstance. Whatever the case, they think there might be a countervac ready including a pegger that under the ISPA gets anybody connected, anyone with knowledge, withheld or otherwise, active or passive, life without parole along with total asset forfeiture. Serious stakes no matter how crazy you are. The CV, if it exists, is known as Silver Piece. Castro’s death. Helicopter crash featuring one to five passengers, none of whom have been accounted for. Council en route. Knight’s magic show. The vid. Caulfield at the Creek. I’m scared. I could get nailed under the ISPA.”
She paused, audibly panting, then continued.
“The Chinese say the best you can wish for someone is to live in interesting times. Bette Davis said Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night. I’ll see you at the service tomorrow. Take care.”
Click.
A deluge of names and facts. Combinations endless; possibilities limitless.
He dialed *1111, Rosalita answering on the second ring.
“Rosie? Terry.”
“Mr. Secretary.”
“Is Peter there?”
“He’s in conference. Could I leave a message for him?”
“No. I mean you could, but… do you know when dinner is tonight?”
“Seven.”
“Do you know who else is coming?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. Only his Holiness could tell you that and as I said, he’s not available.” Cool. Detached. Without emotion. He decided to approach her the way Fitzgerald approached him.
“If I mentioned a few names, could you confirm or…”
“You are.”
“Could I talk to Clarence?”
“He’s with the Pope. I was given instructions not to interrupt unless it was an emergency. Is this an emergency?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“Could you connect me to Mary Beth?”
“She is not in residence.”
“Know where she is?”
“She is not in residence.”
Samson sighed. “Do you know what the status over at Administration is?”
“Closed until eight tomorrow.”
“Can I get in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who would?”
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