by David Zeman
The president responded in a harsh voice, almost impatient. “The course of history will be affected by what we do. We have to give it our best shot.”
The president and Dick Livermore were watching Michael closely. Both noticed that something had hardened in Michael’s face. His normally friendly expression was eclipsed by a look of icy determination that was almost frightening.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“Way to go, Mike.” Dick moved forward as though to clap Michael on the shoulder.
“But there’s one more thing,” Michael said.
“What?” asked the president.
“What ifI don’t live long enough to take office?” Michael asked. “Look what happened to Danny, and to Tom Palleschi. What makes you think I’m less vulnerable than they were?”
The president was impressed by these words. Michael was not so much afraid for himself as worried that he would let the president down by dying.
“Michael, there will be the tightest security in the history of presidential politics,” Dick assured him. “You won’t make a move without Secret Service protection. And neither of you is going to get sick. I guarantee that.” The confidence in his own voice surprised him.
Michael nodded. For a moment he looked depressed. Then he came out of it as though by an effort of will.
“All right,” he said. “There’s nothing more to say, then.”
Dick’s face lit up. He looked at the president, who was already coming to shake Michael’s hand.
“Good man,” the president said. “I knew we could count on you.”
Michael returned the firm handshake. “What happens now?”
“We’ll make the announcement together tomorrow,” the president said. “I want to be there personally, as the leader of our party. After that, we’ll send the nomination over to the Senate and wait for confirmation. It may take a while, but I have no doubt we’ll get you confirmed.”
Dick lifted a finger to interrupt. “With that in mind, Mike, we should ask you now whether there is anything that could be used against you by people who are against your nomination. Anything in your past, I mean.”
Michael thought for a moment. “You mean, like cheating on exams in college?”
“That sort of thing, or—anything sexual,” Dick nodded. He was watching Michael closely.
“There’s nothing,” Michael answered. “Susan and I had sex before we were married, but I think she’s already told the world that.”
The others laughed. They were charmed by Michael’s candor.
“Good,” the president said.
Michael knew the two men would want to talk alone, so he stood up.
“I’d better get home,” he said. “I should tell Susan.”
“Do that,” Dick said. “And tell her everything is going to be all right.”
“Convincing her of that may be the hardest thing I do today,” Michael smiled.
The president walked Michael out.
“Don’t worry about Susan,” he said. “She’s a fighter too. With her on your team, you’re halfway into the White House already.”
“I’ll tell her you said that.”
Michael moved off along the corridor with firm unhurried strides. The president watched him recede. More acutely than ever he felt destiny hovering over his decision and Michael’s. At election time people tended to take vice presidential candidates for granted as mere running mates. But history showed that the fate of the nation depended on the men who took office as vice president. Men like Harry Truman, Richard Nixon, Lyndon Johnson, George Bush. For good or for ill.
Michael disappeared into the elevator. Dick Livermore appeared at the president’s side, ready to accompany him to the Oval Office. There were a lot of phone calls for both of them to make.
Dick noticed a spring in the president’s step that had not been there in recent weeks. The president was a fighter as well as a statesman. He was drawing energy from the battle to come.
————
KAREN EMBRY lay in her bathtub, a half-empty glass of Early Times in her hand. She had the all-news station playing on the portable radio she kept in the bathroom. The announcer was talking about Kirk Stillman. Between brief interviews with political veterans who praised Stillman’s distinguished career, there were updates on the freak accident that had taken his life.
Karen knew it was no accident.
When she heard the news about Stillman this morning she drove immediately to the Alexandria neighborhood where the accident took place. The police roadblocks were enormous, five vehicles thick. A cordon of uniformed officers, numbering in the dozens, blocked the neighboring houses from the street.
Sensing that the security was too tight for a mere accident, Karen made a call to a contact within the D.C. police department, a homicide detective who owed her a favor. After swearing her to secrecy he told her about the skid marks that indicated repeated assaults on Stillman after the initial impact.
“Whoever did it wanted to make sure,” he said. “It’s a hit-and-run homicide, for sure. Not an accident.”
Karen spent the rest of the day trying to learn more about Stillman’s death through government sources. It was no use. No one in an official position would talk to her. Not anymore.
By day’s end Karen had decided to sit back and wait. The president would have to announce a new vice presidential nominee. Now that it could not be Stillman, who would it be?
Karen wasn’t sure. But she knew one thing. The president’s selection would tell her a lot about who stood to benefit from the events of the last two months. First Everhardt, then Palleschi, now Stillman . . . The dominoes were falling, and the direction in which they fell would indicate the direction from which they had been pushed.
Karen lifted her foot from the bottom of the tub, for no reason, and looked at the bubbles clinging to her toes. The water level fell slightly, and she felt her nipples tense as the foam touched them with little pops of exploding bubbles. The ash on her cigarette was about to fall into the water. She swung her arm and tapped it into the ashtray on the floor.
Pinocchio’s nose is getting longer . . .
“Now you get to play the game,” she said to the air.
34
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FORTY MINUTES after Michael’s meeting with the president and Dick Livermore, Colin Goss sat in an orthopedic chair in his Washington office, a glass of his favorite Italian mineral water in his hand. His cigar lay smoldering in the ashtray. The cat was in his lap, purring softly as his fingers rubbed her haunches.
Goss was lost in thought, so much so that he did not even hear the door open. The footsteps on the carpet were intentionally light, and Goss’s hearing was not as acute as it had once been. He had no clue he was not alone until a pair of hands came to rest on his shoulders.
“Who is that?” Goss leaned back.
“Surprise.” The voice was a whisper.
“Ah. It’s you.” Goss’s face softened into a paternal smile. “Sneaking up on me, eh?”
“Sneaking up on you.” The voice was gentle, loving.
“I missed you,” Goss murmured.
“Missed you, too.”
Goss got a hand around Michael’s wrist and pulled him downward. Michael let himself be drawn into the older man’s embrace. Goss curled an arm around Michael’s shoulder and squeezed gently.
“What’s the good word?” he asked.
“It’s settled,” Michael said. “I just met with Dick Livermore and the president. They want me to be Dan Everhardt’s replacement.”
“Ah, good. Good.” Goss had taken Michael’s hand and was holding it affectionately. “What did they say?” he asked. “How did they put it to you?”
“They said I have the right image for the job. They say we’re the only thing standing between you and the White House.”
Goss smiled, nodding. “Well, they have a point there, don’t they?”
“Yes. They have a p
oint.” Michael smiled.
There was a silence. Both men were pondering the gravity of this moment.
“It’s been a long road, hasn’t it?” Goss asked.
“Long road. Yes.” Michael smiled.
“The road less traveled,” Goss said. “Not quite the conventional route to the Oval Office.”
“You could say that.”
Again there was silence. Goss squeezed Michael’s hand.
“I’m very proud of you, son.”
“I’m glad.”
“Nothing can stop us now, can it?” Goss touched Michael’s cheek.
“Nothing.”
The cat dropped from Goss’s lap and twined itself around Michael Campbell’s legs. Its tail joined the two men briefly, then flicked away.
———BOOK TWO———
THE FROG PRINCE
* * *
The frog said, “You must let me eat at your table.” And when the princess had lifted him onto the table he said, “We must eat together off your plate.” The princess shared her plate with him despite her disgust. “Now I am tired,” said the frog, “and want to sleep. Take me to your bedroom.” Reluctantly the princess took him to her room and put him down in a corner. “I must sleep in your bed with you,” he said. The princess was revolted by the idea of letting the cold wet creature share her bed. But she could not disobey the King’s command. With thumb and finger she picked up the frog and settled him next to her between the silken sheets . . .
—“THE FROG PRINCE”
35
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February 25
THE OBSCENE icons of the infidels have been destroyed by Allah’s loyal soldiers. Muslims all over the world are called upon to celebrate this cleansing fire, and to set fires of their own wherever infidels worship unclean images.
O Allah! We pledge every Muslim heart in the battle against Jewish expansion and Satan’s messenger, the unholy United States. Every Muslim should consider it his duty to martyr himself in the cause of annihilating the infidel state of Israel and especially its unclean ally and accomplice, the evil United States of America.
O Allah! We thank you for your blessing of the sacred attack which has destroyed the unholy icons of the infidel. May all Muslims everywhere prepare themselves for similar attacks, until the infidel is driven forever from your holy lands.
The cave was guarded by mujahideen armed with automatic weapons and grenades as well as rocket launchers and antiaircraft guns. It had been prepared in the late 1980s for precisely the purpose it was now serving. No outsiders knew of its existence, including the government of the country in which it was located. Only the innermost circle, made up of bodyguards, high-ranking lieutenants, and family members, was permitted access to it.
Outside was trackless desert, untouched by roads. A caravan route ran along the nearest crest, used by bedouins who knew how to mind their own business. The busy helicopter and truck traffic that had once broken the silence was gone now. Only the hot wind and the shifting sand remained.
In the innermost of the inner rooms, Ayman al-Zawahiri stood looking down at a bed on which a motionless figure lay. The air was deathly still. It was cold down here, the cavern untouched by the torrid Saharan heat above. Space heaters hummed in the corners, powered by the generators located in the main cavern.
“Shaykh,” al-Zawahiri said. “I bring good news.”
There was no response. The eyes stared at the rock ceiling, a look of deep preoccupation in them.
“Shaykh,” al-Zawahiri said, “the plan will be carried out soon. Everything is in place. The text will be read on Al-Jazeera while your photograph is shown. We will say you cannot take the chance of being videotaped while the infidels are pursuing you. Here, let me read it for you.”
He read the text aloud, his lips widening in a smile despite his fear. This would be the greatest attack on the infidels since the World Trade Center. This time the target would be spiritual and esthetic rather than financial.
“The Louvre, Shaykh,” he concluded. “The greatest treasure trove of the infidels’ art. It will all go up in smoke. All their heroes, Shaykh—Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Picasso—they will all burn to ashes. And it will be in your name, Shaykh, with the blessing of Allah.”
The figure in the bed was silent. Al-Zawahiri’s eyes were full of tears as he looked down at the unseeing eyes.
He is my son,he thought.He is my life .
So many heroes had died already. Abdul-Majid, Zandani, al-Masri. Turabi in Sudan, Kaddafi in Libya, Khamenei in Iran. Arafat too. And Hussein . . .
Why had Allah brought this scourage on his best people, his most faithful followers? Why would Allah annihilate his own soldiers?
There was only one answer: to martyr them. To make them immortal in the eyes of Muslims everywhere, Muslims yet unborn. To prepare for the day when the jihad would be won.
But that day would not be soon. The bravest and the strongest were dying. This generation of soldiers would have to accept martyrdom as their lot. Al-Zawahiri, who had devoted thirty years of his life to the struggle against the infidels, would not see victory in his lifetime.
He touched the hand of the silent man in the bed. The hardness, the deformity was palpable. He looked down at the beloved face, the beard now completely white like that of a saint. Looking back on his education, he dared to quote the infidel Shakespeare as he looked down on his friend.
“Goodnight, sweet Prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
He closed his eyes and knelt before the bed. He spoke directly to Allah.
“Why?” Al-Zawahiri asked. “Why have You murdered us?”
There was no answer.
He held the hand of bin Laden and wept.
36
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THE GIRL is strapped to the apparatus, her naked loins exposed. Her eyes are empty. The time is now, the event is at hand.
The shadow comes across her. The slow silhouette, the dangling tail, approaching, approaching. There is a change in her eyes. Is she aware? Have the shouts awakened her to what is about to happen?
The camera zooms in until the girl’s naked pelvis occupies most of the image. The shadow falls over it, swinging hesitantly. Then the tail itself grazes her buttocks, and the shadow stops. He has felt the tap of it against her skin. He reaches out with his other hand. The fingers find her pelvis, the fingertips graze the blond nexus where the thighs meet the derriere.
He reaches down and fixes the tail to her tailbone. It hangs between her legs. There is applause. The camera pulls back. He is naked, too, and aroused. He is almost completely bald. The rolls of fat around his waist look grotesquely sensual as he drops to his knees beside her. The contrast between his bulbous flab and the girl’s firm young body is striking.
He has removed the blindfold and can see his prize. He smiles. He begins to caress her. Once again, for a brief instant, her eyes seem to register awareness of what is happening to her. Then their deathlike glaze returns.
It is monstrous, a frog mounting a princess, as the steaming male crouches spoon-fashion over the girl. The cries from the others are louder, the applause crashes off the walls.
It takes him a long time to finish. When he does he moves away along the stage. The princess remains alone. The girlish back, the creamy thighs, the grace of youth bestow themselves on admiring eyes. The shouts have died down, the laughter has stopped. In the murmur of the voices one senses admiration for her innocence as well as for the violation that has sullied it.
She is alone now, motionless.
A princess with a tail.
37
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BY THE end of February the Pinocchio Syndrome had claimed millions of victims. Not since the influenza epidemic of 1918 had a disease spread so quickly and destroyed its victims in so summary a manner.
Of interest to the World Health Organization was the fact that the biggest outbreaks seemed to be centered in North Afric
a and the Arabian Peninsula, including Algeria, Libya, Morocco, and the Sudan, as well as Syria, Iraq, and Jordan. Iran and Afghanistan were also heavily affected, as was Pakistan. The health experts were at a loss to explain this central focus of the Syndrome.
The developing countries lacked the hospital facilities to deal with the crisis. Victims of the Syndrome, paralyzed and silent, were to be found lying in the streets, on sidewalks, and in public places, slowly starving to death while frightened pedestrians and motorists gave them a wide berth. Public health workers were reduced to a clean-up role, removing the sick from public places and concentrating them in makeshift quarantine areas like sports stadiums, abandoned warehouses, schools.
The quarantine imposed on affected areas was no longer as stringent as it had once been. Health authorities had come to realize that each outbreak was short-lived and self-limiting, lasting twenty-four hours or less. There was no spread of the disease in a given area after the first flash.
There was also no evidence of human-to-human spread of the disease. The wide berth given victims by passersby was an emotional reaction, not a rational one. It would have been perfectly safe for them to touch the victims, even share their blood or saliva.
By now there was no doubt that an external pathogen of some sort was involved in the disease. This was proved by the fact that leukemia patients in sterile bubbles were spared by the outbreaks. But scientists who suspected a genetic etiology of the disorder were not willing to abandon their theory on this basis alone. It was possible, they argued, that exposure to something in the environment triggered a bizarre mutation in the human constitution, a mutation that had been waiting for just this exposure, perhaps for thousands of years.
But the best efforts of public health authorities and environmental experts had failed to isolate an element in the air, water, soil, or food in the affected areas that was not also to be found everywhere else. The “trigger theory” of genetic response to an environmental toxin remained just a theory.