Dream of a Falling Eagle m-14

by George C. Chesbro

  "This is all just sheer speculation," Kranes said tightly, but fear had once again appeared in his eyes.

  "This is a classic operation, Kranes. Ops is manipulating clowns and madmen to bring about a desired end. It's the kind of thing Ops does best, and when they're at the top of their game-which they seem to have been in this case until they murdered Thomas Dickens and gave us a peek under the canvas-there's no covert organization in the world better at it. What they've done in this instance is to whisper in the ears of an assortment of lunatics. They've spun dreams of what life in the United States would be like under the presidency of William P. Kranes, what a hard-right president could accomplish with the aid of a hard-right Congress. Prayer in schools three times a day, and maybe even the United States officially declared a Christian country, all gun control laws rescinded, Roe versus Wade overturned and all abortions outlawed. The list of right-wing social goals is endless, and there'd be no problem in achieving most, if not all, of them once you were in office. After all, you'd immediately have two vacancies on the Supreme Court to fill. You'd waste no time in naming your choices, have the immediate support of Congress for whoever you nominated, and we all know what type of judges you'd offer up. That's the package the CIA has been offering."

  Kranes's flesh had turned the color of a dirty dishcloth, and his breathing had become shallow and slightly hoarse. "You can't be implying that-"

  "Wake-up call, shithead," Garth said in the same soft, silky tone.

  I nodded. "Our conspirators, for whom the CIA as an organization bears responsibility, offed two Supreme Court justices, guaranteed."

  "But one died in a car accident, and the other in her sleep!"

  "Keep your voice down. They were murdered as part of a pact between these Ops renegades and their flunkies who are going to do their big kills for them. There are any number of wacko Right-to-Lifers who believe that killing abortion doctors is their ticket to heaven. They don't care if they die themselves, because they consider themselves blessed. Imagine how fast they'd get their rocks off at the notion of just two kills that would lead to the total banning of abortion throughout the country. Well, the CIA-our renegades, if you will-has at least two of these people on tap, and they're the boys who are going to carry out the assassinations. With the right equipment and training, you can kill anybody, provided you don't care about dying yourself. These folks can't wait to die carrying out this mission; they believe they're going to wake up in heaven on the lap of God."

  Kranes licked his lips, then swallowed hard. He looked at Garth, then back at me. "I can't believe any of this is possible. Where's your proof?"

  "You can believe Thomas Dickens is dead. Call your people in New York and check it out. He was blinded, and had his tongue, heart, and testicles cut out of him."

  Kranes blanched, put a hand to his chest, shook his head. "If these CIA conspirators of yours were so clever as to murder two Supreme Court justices and make their deaths look like accidents, why wouldn't they have done the same thing to Dickens-especially if their purpose was to shield me? After he was killed in. . that manner.. the two of you came running right to my office. Why do something that results in the opposite of what was intended?"

  "A good question," I conceded reluctantly, disturbed by the tiny gleam of triumph in his eyes, "and we'll have to get back to you on that. My best guess is that there was some initial confusion at operation headquarters on how best to handle the situation. Conflicting signals may have been sent out, and those signals got crossed. There may have been an abrupt change in plans. Their first mistake was in automatically assuming that I wasn't on the level during our conversation in your Huntsville office, and that I intended sooner or later to use the plagiarism incident to publicly embarrass you, no matter what I said. Working on that assumption, they first decided maybe they should just try to buy me off, which is how Taylor Mackintosh wound up in my office waving a checkbook. But before the bagman even got there, somebody may have successfully argued that my purpose was ideological, and it was unlikely I could be bought off. So then a decision was made to change course and simply remove the core source of the problem, and then things began to go haywire. The wrong personnel were chosen for the job, just as Taylor Mackintosh had been absolutely the wrong person to send to me. I won't know how and why those mistakes were made until we can penetrate their command structure, which is that big fish we're trying to fry. But these are the things that can go wrong when you have said clowns and madmen fronting for you."

  "What you're saying is that you don't have proof of any of this."

  "Taylor Mackintosh's visit is proof that your offices are bugged. You're certainly aware of Thomas Dickens' link to you, and the manner of his death, by the same voodoo hit squad that's been killing our Haitian witnesses, links that killing to the CIA-and our conversation in your Huntsville office. I could go on, but how much proof do you need?"

  "Dickens' murder could have been a copycat killing."

  "Don't go into denial on me, Kranes. I've seen incriminating photographs that link an admitted CIA operative both to the dead Supreme Court justices and the two Right-to-Lifers the CIA will use as shooters. Unfortunately, that evidence was destroyed in a fire. The FBI can't be more than one or two hills behind us on this, but by the time they gather enough evidence to convince you of what's going on, it could be too late. As of this moment, Garth and I are the only people who are aware of your link to the latest murder victim."

  "Presumed link to-"

  "By the time the FBI gets around to talking to you, you could already be in the Oval Office-and the chair is going to be covered with your predecessor's blood. Events are going to be moving very quickly now. The other party's convention starts in less than a week; that will present one opportunity for the assassins. But the attempts could come sooner, or later; today or tomorrow-or in two weeks, a month. Just so long as you have enough time to do what they know you'll do, which is to wipe out this commission and its findings. That's why we're here talking to the object of their affection. It really doesn't make any difference whether or not the FBI finds the connection between you and Thomas Dickens; whether they do or they don't, you're still the only person who can put a stop to this thing now."

  "You can't expect me to-"

  "Your invisible handlers are a government unto themselves, Mr. Kranes. They rule a country where there are no maps or boundaries to begin with, but where they're constantly trying to project and expand their power. Their loyalty isn't to the United States, it's only to themselves. You dream of some pastel, mythical country called the United States as you imagine it was forty or fifty years ago, a place that never really existed, and you pander to the prejudices of millions of people who share the same fantasy. The people who are trying to manipulate you dream of a falling eagle, a kind of fascist America where they're free to do just about any damn thing they please without fear of any embarrassing questions being asked by bothersome elected officials who suspect some of the pranks they pull may not really be in the best interests of national or global security. It's a game to them, Kranes, a Great Game, and the only thing they're interested in is being able to continue playing it without interference. The game is an end in itself. Over the course of the past six months, because they now perceive a very serious threat to their power, they've murdered six Haitians, one American poet, and two Supreme Court justices. Now they're poised to murder the president and vice president-all so that you'll be president long enough to guarantee their survival, and maybe beyond that. They may have promised their flunkies an all-out effort in the November election to keep you in office, and then maybe a repeal of the Twenty-sixth Amendment. All this just to wreck the commission and quash its report. They don't give a damn about the wreckage they'll leave behind."

  Kranes shook his head stubbornly. Although it was not warm in the air-conditioned building, tiny beads of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. "Just for the sake of argument, let's say everything you're telling me is true."


  "It is. Believe it."

  "And you think I can stop it all simply by going to the FBI and Secret Service and telling them Thomas Dickens was killed because I was caught copying some of his poems?"

  "No. You stop it by resigning."

  "What. .?"

  "You heard him, shithead," Garth said. "If you really want to do something for your country, get the hell out of office. The CIA wants you at the altar because you're every fascist's sweetheart. Break up the engagement, and maybe they won't burn down the church."

  We'd really hit him where he lived. Kranes wiped at the sweat on his upper lip, but it didn't do any good; even larger droplets had appeared on his forehead, and were rolling down over his pudgy cheeks. He didn't react at all to my diplomat brother's words. We had painted him a nightmare scenario, but that didn't seem to upset him as much as the word "resign."

  "You don't have to resign from Congress, Mr. Kranes," I said quietly. "You can go right on representing the people of Huntsville, Alabama, and you can keep on saying whatever you want to say. But you have to resign from your Speaker's post. And you should call a press conference and do it this afternoon, right after we leave. You have to take yourself out of the line of succession. Announce that you're backing a moderate-any moderate, if there's one left in your party-to replace you in the post. Then the CIA will abort. The consequences of failure are too great for them to risk carrying out the assassinations with no guarantee they'll be able to cover their tracks and control whoever winds up being president. Without you as a quick and easy solution to their problems, these people will back off their plan, hunker down, and leave it to the rest of the agency to concentrate on trying to find a way to defend themselves against the charges in the commission's report. Your party, and your ideas, won't suffer; someone to your liking will almost certainly win the November election. And you may even get to keep your little secret."

  Kranes did not reply. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, then stared down at his shoes.

  It was Garth who broke the silence. "He's not going to do it, Mongo," my brother said evenly. "Fuck him. Let's stop wasting our time and get out of here."

  "Is my brother right, Mr. Kranes?" I asked, stepping closer so that I could look up into his face. "Are you going to give these murderers what they want?"

  His reaction was to quickly step around me and away from both of us, shuffling a few steps further down the corridor. When he looked up, his face was flushed, his eyes wide. "There's too much at stake for me to resign from the Speaker's post."

  Garth said, "Oy."

  I said, "What?"

  "We're on the verge of making this country right again, and I'm the man who brought us here. My party needs my continued leadership. You come to me with this completely wild story, without any solid proof of any of it, and you expect me to immediately step down from my position of leadership. Even if you're not consciously part of any scheme to bring me down, the two of you may still be pawns of people who are trying to do just that. All of this could be part of some elaborate liberal plot to derail me and our plans for this country. At the very least, I have to have time to think about it. I will not-"

  Somewhat to my surprise, he abruptly stopped speaking when I raised my hand. I said quietly, "While you're mulling it over, here's something you can do on your own to check into this wild speculation and the possibility of some liberal plot against you. Loosen up with some of your buddies in the Twilight Zone who you've been avoiding lately for fear they'll embarrass you. Take, say, Taylor Mackintosh out for a few drinks. He may wind up telling you a few things you don't want to hear."

  Garth raised his right hand and cocked his thumb and index finger like a gun, which he aimed at the man standing down the hallway. Then he smiled thinly, winked, and said, "You've been warned. Don't come crying to us if you end up having to be president."

  Chapter 11

  We arrived back in New York at 4:45, were at the brownstone by 5:30. There was a long, black limousine with smoked windows parked at the curb. A bored-looking chauffeur in a uniform that was too tight for him leaned on the hood, smoking a cigarette. The occupant of the limousine, wearing a tan summer suit, two-tone brown cowboy boots, and his muskrat top was waiting for us in Francisco's office.

  "It's about time you got here!" Taylor Mackintosh snapped, leaping off the chair he'd been sitting in as we entered. "My agent said there was a message that you wanted to see me right away! I'm not used to waiting on people, especially people I figure are looking to get some money from me!"

  "Mr. Mackintosh," I said sweetly, "you can't imagine how happy I am to see you. Hang on just a couple of seconds and I'll be right with you."

  As Garth leaned on the reception desk, I went to the back of the office and peered through the Venetian blinds at the scene in my office, which was already littered with pizza cartons, sandwich wrappers, and empty soda bottles. The air in there, I knew, would be foul. The source of all this putrescence, the best hacker in New York City or any place else, as far as I knew, was a three-hundred-pound, red-haired man in his mid-twenties who was sitting at my computer console smacking his lips and mumbling to himself as his stubby fingers fluttered over my keyboard. The ripped T-shirt he wore was thoroughly sweat-soaked and covered with food stains. Francisco, looking thoroughly dejected but resolute, sat next to the man, pad and ballpoint pen in his hands, dutifully recording the Slurper's mumblings. I tapped on the window. The Slurper just kept working away, but when Francisco looked up and saw me he beamed as if I was the Second Coming. He motioned toward the closed door of the office, as if asking permission to escape for a few moments to talk to me, but I smiled and shook my head. His smile vanished. I motioned for him to come over and close the blinds, then turned away from his plaintive, pitiful gaze as he did so.

  "Now, Mr. Mackintosh," I continued in the same sweet tone as I turned to face the indignant-looking actor. "I don't believe you've met my brother. Garth Frederickson, this is the famous Taylor Mackintosh."

  Garth grunted as he reached out and rested his hand on the telephone.

  "Skip the formalities, Frederickson," Mackintosh said curtly, reaching inside his suit jacket. "How much money do you want to make this poetry bullshit go away? I assume that's why you wanted to see me."

  "Actually, it isn't. Did you know I used to be in the circus?"

  His hand stayed inside his jacket, and he scowled. "What?"

  "I wanted you to come in so that I could show you how high I can jump. Check this out." I took three quick steps, leaped into the air high enough to snatch the toupee off his head, came back down and bowed a couple of times, holding out the ratty hairpiece for his inspection. "Pretty damn impressive, huh?"

  Taylor Mackintosh's face turned the color of brick, his eyes went wide, and he put both hands on top of his bald head. "What are you doing?!"

  "Here," Garth said, picking up the telephone receiver and holding it out toward the thoroughly astonished man. "You'd better call nine-one-one."

  Mackintosh, still holding his hands on top of his head, bolted for the open doorway, but when he got there he found me blocking it. He came to a halt, spun around toward Garth. "Are you crazy?!"

  "You shouldn't believe all those rumors floating around about us," Garth replied evenly.

  "Why should I call nine-one-one?!"

  "Because it looks to me like Mongo is getting ready to beat the shit out of you. You'll need emergency medical services, and then you'll want to press charges. I'll call the tabloids myself. I would recommend the headline, 'Dwarf Pulverizes Gingivitis Spokesman.' Sound all right to you?"

  His eyes wild, Mackintosh tried to make a dash over, around, or through me. I smacked him on the right thigh, not hard enough to risk damaging old, brittle bones, but with sufficient force to give him a charley horse and assure his attention. He sat down hard on the floor, kneading his thigh and making whimpering sounds. If I hadn't had such a vivid image of Moby Dickens' mutilated body in my mind, I would have felt
thoroughly ashamed of myself.

  "Nine-one-one?" Garth intoned mildly, extending the telephone receiver out even further. "If you tell the police your life is in danger, they may get here before Mongo snaps your scrawny, red neck."

  "What do you want?!" the old man wailed.

  I stepped closer to him, until my face was only inches from his, and I could smell the garlic, fear, hate, and death on his breath. "Your problem resolved itself," I said, looking hard into his pale eyes. "Thomas Dickens is dead. He was murdered."

  His mouth dropped open, the blood drained from his face, and he began to frantically crab-walk backward. I followed right alongside, keeping my face in his. I could tell by the expression on his face and the panicked look in his eyes that he was receiving the news for the first time. He stammered, "I didn't… I didn't have anything-"

  "Also, some of your like-minded friends are planning to assassinate the president and vice president. You know anything about that?"

  He came up hard against the opposite wall, hit his head. He cringed and tried to turn away, but I grabbed his chin and turned his face back toward me. "Answer me!" I spat at him.

  Even with my hand cupping his chin, he managed to vigorously shake his head back and forth. "They talk," he whispered hoarsely. "But it's only talk."

  I released his chin, stepped back. Garth came over, and together we lifted him up off the floor and into a chair, where he slumped dejectedly. I filled a cup of water from a jug in the corner of the office, brought it to him. "I'm sorry I had to hurt you, Mr. Mackintosh. But there are some serious problems we're dealing with here, and we need information quickly. There isn't time to be polite."