They drove on in silence for a few minutes, then Dave heard Bedford sigh. He looked over inquiringly, forgetting that he was invisible himself. Bedford spoke nonetheless. “I don’t know why they can’t hold the trial in the U.S.,” he said. “Instead of flying all the way over there. You’d think they’d want to save their money.”
“Symbolism,” Dave said. “Lets them feel they’ve got some control over the process. After all, they’re the ones who suffered.” He paused before going on. “Doesn’t sound like much, but it means a lot to them.”
“Well,” Bedford said, louder now. “As long as I get my day in court.” Another tattered laugh.
Dave stared at the black patch that was Bedford and sank lower in the seat. There was no question that Bedford had been in touch with the Porter Group. He was a geneticist, his specialty was DNA charting, he’d known them all and had met with at least three of them in the months prior to the Plague.
But Dave had his doubts. He was far from convinced that Bedford was guilty, that he’d had anything to do with the Greening. During the interrogation he’d had an answer for everything. Why had he gone to Cozumel? He’d retired. He’d made plenty of money off of phages and didn’t have to work anymore. Why had he met with Olbers and the others? Shop talk. The biotech field was pretty small; everybody knew everybody else. Why had he stayed in Mexico all these years? Well, biotechs weren’t too popular after the Plague; he’d been scared. He even had an explanation for those articles he’d written, the ones about eliminating excess biomass.
But it wasn’t that he hadn’t confessed or that there was no concrete evidence. The problem was that Dave liked Art Bedford.
He’d been assigned to Bedford during the interrogation, not to question him, but simply to be there: to keep him company, be his pal, talk to him, cheer him up—and to listen when and if he decided to talk about what he’d been doing those last days of May eight years ago.
The buddy program had begun after Hollis hanged himself in his cell. The papers had gone wild over that: screaming headlines, speculations about conspiracies, pious editorials on the massive guilt that had forced him to suicide. That may have been part of it, but it had been the conditions as much as anything else: the paper prison uniform, the eight-hour interrogation sessions, the bad food, the unutterable loneliness of being a man hated by most of the world. Things had changed after Hollis—better food, normal clothing, but more important, simple human contact, somebody they didn’t have to be afraid of, someone to lean on as they walked the mile. That the somebody also doubled as a bodyguard mattered not at all.
Dave had been through it four times now, and each time he’d ended up, more or less against his will, liking the man he’d been assigned to—even Olbers, weird as he’d been. He knew what they were and what they’d done, but their human qualities touched him regardless. It was hard to hate a man after you’d broken bread with him.
But Bedford was different. He was a funny man with a vast supply of stories and jokes about everything imaginable. He was able to see the humor in anything, no matter what the situation, even the one that had made him the sole prisoner on the top floor of Leavenworth. Beyond that, he’d been as careful of Dave’s feelings as Dave had been of his. The others had snapped at him at one time or another as the pressure got to them, cursing him as a plant, asking if he got a kick out of watching them, but not Art. He’d taught Dave to play chess, and had even explained genetics to him, not that he understood it even now.
Dave would have liked Art no matter how they’d met. The fact that he was probably innocent had nothing to do with it.
###
He’d had it out with Wills, the agent in charge, earlier that evening. Wills had called Dave down to his office to talk about Bedford: how he hadn’t slipped once, hadn’t given one sign of guilt, how his story had held together so well. Then Wills had gotten to the point: “You like him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do. He’s what we used to call a noble bro.”
Wills smiled. “So do I,” he said, fiddling with a pen. “And you don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
His tone was flat, deliberately so. Dave shut his eyes and shook his head.
Wills sat quietly, tapping the pen on the desktop, his lips pursed. “I hear you were rough on the Japanese delegation last week,” he said finally.
Dave shifted uncomfortably. He’d been wondering when that would come up. “They were threatening him,” he said.
“Well, you should have come to me. I got some flack on it from upstairs. But,” he waved his hand, “that’s past.” He paused once again, then went on, his voice quiet. “Is this one getting to you?”
“They all do.”
“All of them?”
“Almost,” Dave said, giving him a thin smile.
“Right.” Wills nodded. He stared at the wall as if deeply interested in the institutional green paint of the room. “You don’t think he should go.”
“I’d like to hold him a month or so, see what turns up . . .”
“Can’t do it, Dave,” Wills said, shaking his head. “Delhi wants him. It’s been two years since the last—”
Dave cut him off. “So that’s it? We’re on a deadline now? Maybe we should start sending over the guys who sold them the equipment. There are quite a few of them.” He fell silent, surprised at his own vehemence.
Wills dropped his head. “I know it’s tough,” he said heavily, “and this one’s tougher than most.” He raised his eyes. “Do you want to be relieved?”
Dave hesitated. He’d been anticipating the trial with more dread than he cared to admit. He could be out now, no problem—Wills wouldn’t hold it against him . . . But it wouldn’t be fair to Art. He shook his head.
“You just have to say the word.”
“No,” Dave said. “But what I do want is this: I want to know that this thing isn’t becoming an automatic process, that we aren’t sending people over there just to keep the wheels turning. Anyone who goes to Delhi is a dead man—the trial is just a formality. Art Bedford wouldn’t be convicted in this country on what we’ve got on him.”
Lighting another of his never-ending string of cigarettes, Wills stared thoughtfully at the coal. Dave knew he was mulling it over and he was tempted to say something, a remark about the court maybe, that would tip the balance and get him out of it, but he remained silent.
“You know, Dave,” Wills said finally, “you’d have made a good small-town cop. There’s something about you makes people want to confess. You remember Reed sat here screaming he was innocent, he had his rights, every other damn thing, and then . . .”
“On the plane he tells me everything.”
“Right. Even Olbers came around in the end.”
Dave nodded. Olbers had been one who hadn’t bothered him. He’d sat through interrogation with utter disinterest, saying nothing even though they had him nailed—his thumbprint had been found on a flask in Mombasa. The trial had gone the same way, Olbers acting as if the whole business was a boring duty that required his presence but not his attention. Yet at the end, as he was led out of the cell, he’d turned to Dave and said, “Three billion for one, Novak—not a bad trade, eh?” and had walked off between his guards with a slight smile that hadn’t changed even when the gas hit the acid.
“You think the same will happen with Bedford?”
“Be nice,” Wills said.
“What if he’s got nothing to tell?”
Wills butted the cigarette out and lit another. “Do what you can,” he said quietly. “Some of us have our doubts, too.” He lifted his eyes to Dave. “I think you know what I’m saying.”
“Yeah,” Dave said.
“All right,” Wills said. “Now go on and get some sleep.”
He’d gone back to the cellblock, but sleep was another matter. After two hours spent tossing on the bed, an ordinary one, not a prison cot, he’d gotten up and spent the rest of the evening walking the corridor, thinking about what Wills h
ad said. Quite a character, Wills. Dave had heard he’d once studied to be a priest. He should sit down with him sometime, get to know him, find out how he’d ended up in the FBI.
As the hours passed he picked up the phone more than once to call Wills, but each time he had a vision of Bedford’s face and changed his mind. He felt oddly relieved when the guard appeared to tell him to get ready. He’d have to see it through now. Take Art over there, be his last friend. He smiled mirthlessly as he pulled on a clean shirt. Charon . . .
###
“Okay,” Wolfe said. “Should be right along here.”
Dave leaned forward. They were on the airport service road, driving parallel to the fence. The terminal, brightly lit, was a short distance ahead. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the crowd, but the lights were too bright.
“Goddammit,” the driver said. “Look where those idiots are.” They’d slowed down, and the lead car was now fifty feet ahead. “Get on the horn and tell those yohabs to close it up.” Wolfe was reaching for the headset when the lead car suddenly turned onto the grass strip next to the road. As it did a section of the fence sagged and shadowy figures quickly pulled it away. Dousing their headlights, they drove through the gap and onto the runway. A lifter hovering over the field turned toward them and thrummed overhead, vulcans hunting aimlessly, the dull green of the army rondels barely visible against the black of the hull. A moment later they were beneath the wing of a big 828B Starclipper parked a hundred yards from the terminal.
A squad of soldiers running double-time surrounded the car. Gun at ready, Wolfe got out to inspect the scene. A moment later he leaned back inside. “Clear,” he said.
Pushing the door open, Dave stepped out and paused to look things over for himself. The troops were in good order, facing away from the car, guns at chest level. He turned to gesture Bedford out and discovered that he was standing beside him, gazing at the terminal over the car roof. The shouts of the mob rang out clearly. Bedford frowned, then reached up to fiddle with the knot of his tie. “Think I should go out and calm ’em down?”
Behind Dave somebody laughed, and Wolfe said, “Art, get on the goddamn airplane.” Bedford shrugged and with a smile began to walk toward the plane. Dave followed him.
Halfway there Dave slowed momentarily then quickened his pace to catch up with Bedford. An army officer stood just ahead, visor up, and Dave could see that he was black. He hesitated, wondering if he should grab Bedford’s arm to pull him farther away, but then they were upon the soldier. Dave glanced up as they went by. Whoever the officer was, he was a pro; his expression didn’t even change as they passed.
Dave stayed right behind Bedford as they climbed the steps. At the top Sheehan and his squad parted to let Bedford through then followed him aboard.
Dave glanced into the rear cabin, which was reserved for Bedford and himself. Art was just sitting down two seats back, talking to Sheehan and a couple of the others. Turning, Dave looked into the forward section, where the delegates were. He felt the muscles of his face tighten as he saw them. There were more than usual, and for a moment he wondered why until he remembered that it had been a while since the last flight. A couple of Latins in black suits, beyond them a small Asian, perhaps a Malay talking to an African in tribal robes. But his eyes were caught by the two Hindus. Sheehan’s men were just completing their search, going over a plump brown man in a tan suit. He was speaking angrily to a figure in uniform who answered in quiet but firm tones. To his surprise, Dave recognized him: Paresh Naqui, a colonel he’d met on a previous mission. As the search ended and the plump man walked huffily away, Naqui caught sight of Dave and raised his hand. Forcing himself to smile, Dave nodded back and walked out of the hatch.
He leaned against the gasket lining the doorway, shivering in spite of the warm night air. An officer was ordering the troops to form a line around the plane, but Dave paid them no attention. He was thinking of India, eight years ago: the fires glowing on the horizon, the wrecked towns, the constant, sweet-smelling smoke . . .
Sensing someone next to him, he turned to see that Sheehan had joined him. He looked quizzically at Dave. “You okay?”
“What?” Dave unconsciously rubbed his hands on his chest. “Yeah . . . I’m fine. What’s holding things up? You didn’t search ’em until just now?”
Sheehan grimaced. “Ahh, some mechanic came back to the plane looking for a tool. They didn’t catch him until he was walking away, so we had to do it all over. Weiner took advantage to go make some calls. Now we’re waiting for him to get his ass aboard . . .”
“Nate? What the hell’s he doing here?”
“Who knows. If he ain’t back in five minutes, though, this bird is flying regardless.” He nodded toward the terminal. The shouts of the demonstrators had gotten louder, as if they were somehow aware that Bedford had arrived. “That bunch won’t leave until they know he’s gone, and we sure as hell don’t need a riot.” He glanced at his watch, then back up at Dave. “Why don’t you go find Weiner?”
“I don’t want to leave Art . . .”
“Hey, I’m in charge until the plane rolls. Sooner you track down that silly bastard, sooner you’ll get out of here.”
Dave thought it over, then shrugged. “Okay.”
“Good enough,” Sheehan said. He turned back to the hatch. “I’ll keep an eye on the package.”
Dave clattered down the steps and went across the concrete to the terminal. At the entrance a soldier checked his ID before waving him on. Inside, the departure lounge was nearly empty; at the window a news team was filming the plane, staring intently at it as if they had been told it was going to go into a dance any minute now. They were being watched in turn by a pair of men in civilian clothes; he recognized neither of them.
There were plenty of phones in the corridor but no Nate. He walked on, the shouts of the protesters echoing down the hallway. He passed a car rental office, lights on but counter empty, then turned the corner to the waiting room.
It was probably his imagination, but he could have sworn that the crowd got louder as he came into sight. They were just past the big plate-glass windows, divided into two groups by a squad of soldiers. The largest was right outside, a varied bunch, some looking like professional demonstrators but the majority ordinary people. He studied their signs as he neared the windows: the standard symbol, a green swastika overlaying the globe, others reading death to econazis and a few with hitler, stalin and pol pot in small letters with a huge bedford in red underneath. There were others, crude and homemade, but they were being shaken so much that he couldn’t read them.
A much smaller group stood in the parking lot. No signs—they’d probably been confiscated—but this crew didn’t need them; what they were wearing said plenty. About half were in Klan robes or storm trooper gear: brown shirts, jackboots, and of course the armband. They were chanting, fists pushing forward in ragged unison, easily heard above the roar of the larger crowd: “. . . finish the job, finish the job, finish the job . . .”
He looked around but saw no sign of Nate. Outside, the nearer mob had spotted him and were leaning over the crowd barrier, waving their signs. As he was turning away one of them ducked beneath the barrier and ran toward the window: a middle-aged black woman, well-dressed, somewhat plump. As she reached the curb she stumbled, catching herself and lifting the poster she was holding.
It wasn’t a sign. It was a blown-up photo of a girl, a teenager, haircut short and waved in a style popular ten years ago. The woman raised it high and shook it at Dave, shouting, her mouth open wide. He couldn’t make out the words.
Two suits raced up to her. For a moment she struggled against them, dropping the photo as the taller cop leaned close to speak to her. She collapsed against him, body wracked with sobs, and they led her out of sight, the shorter man stooping to retrieve the picture.
Dave turned and walked across the terminal, shaking his head. There had been plenty of plague deaths in the U.S., too. Not as bad as the rest of th
e world, but enough.
Ahead of him a loose gaggle of cops and army officers stood around a coffee stand, staring at him in open suspicion. He ignored them and went on past. He’d just spotted Nate at the other side of the terminal.
He was at a phone bank, receiver cradled on his shoulder. He had a finger in his other ear and was gesturing broadly with a plastic cup, nearly shouting into the phone: “I just wish the whole defense team wasn’t American . . . I know nobody wants to touch it, but it was an international crime. Two of them were European, dammit . . .”
Dave tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to his watch as he swung around. Nate frowned, then closed his eyes and nodded. “I know it’s too late for this round, but see what we can do next time. Ask the Swedes; they like to get involved . . . Listen, Maggie, the plane’s leaving. Call you from Delhi.”
He hung up, took a swig from the cup, and sputtered. “Ahh . . . cold.” Crumpling it, he tossed it into a trash can.
“Come on, let’s move,” Dave said, grabbing his arm. “What are you doing in the States anyway?”
Nate took off his glasses to polish them, peering at Dave nearsightedly. He was a virtual caricature of a trial lawyer, hair a horseshoe, glasses porthole thick, suit a tailored masterpiece. “Got called back to Washington. They’re confused about a witness, somebody supposed to have known our boy in Mexico. I had to hold their hands and explain it five times. Knew Bedford, alright, but never been south of the border.” He slipped the glasses back on and smiled. “So how you doing? Been a while.”
They walked through the terminal talking about nothing in particular. The crowd, backs turned to listen to someone speak, paid them no attention.
Sheehan was waiting at the top of the steps. “Hallelujah,” he bellowed at them, then stepped inside. “Okay, let’s get this wagon in the air.”
Genometry Page 18