by Martha Carr
In the past, Management, an older, larger monolith, had not only managed to thwart the Circle’s plans to grow larger, they had slaughtered most of their members almost killing the movement altogether. Management has violent issues with control.
“What does the Vice President think?” asked Ty.
The President turned his head quickly and narrowed his gaze at Ty, making Ty instinctively draw back for a moment.
“Ellen Reese is unaware of the Butterfly Project. Not everyone who achieves higher office is necessarily in a high enough cell within the Circle. The Vice President is a good legislator but protecting all of the children that we promised to raise on those orphanages is our priority. Even above whether or not they choose to stay with us as adults and move out into the world as part of the Circle.
The Circle’s answer to Management’s dominance eventually became the Butterfly Project. The old timers, the zwanzig who were left, stilled called it the Schmetterling Project.
The Circle needed to find a way to fill their ranks again but feel like they were doing it for the right reasons. It wasn’t too long before someone noticed there was an entire population of children who needed a home and not enough homes to go around.
The Circle stepped in and quietly started building large campuses, hiding the connection to the Circle, holding their collective breath for years.
“If we are ever found out, we will have risked thousands of innocent lives,” said the President. “Wasn’t all of this explained to you, already?”
“No sir, not about Ellen Reese and her depth of knowledge,” said Ty, squirming in his seat.
“Of course not,” said the President, “my error. I know that all cells are insulated somewhat from each other,” he said, the frustration showing in his voice. “This is why I need Fred Bowers back in my own inner circle. He has always seen how all of the parts fit together, even when he didn’t necessarily have all of the information. Invaluable. Like an instinct with the man.”
Ty gave a nervous cough, working up the courage to say something he was sure wouldn’t be well received. Don’t get yourself fired on the first day, he thought, straightening out his tie.
“Sir, with all the respect in the world, Fred Bowers left a couple of dozen people dead on the streets of Richmond. The first large wave of young recruits are entering the workforce. There is not still a need for old operatives who have gone astray to be kept around and risk more destruction.”
The President took his time answering.
“We were at war and those were enemy combatants,” said the President, “and these are very unique times for more than one reason. Hell, when are they not unique?” he said, not turning his head.
“How would you even get Mr. Bowers into the office without being seen?”
“Not your concern. Do you have the report?” he asked, finally turning back around.
“Yes sir,” said Ty, pulling out the thick blue folder. “Norman Weiskopf is believed to still be alive and in relatively good health.”
“Relatively?” asked the president, raising an eyebrow. “Is that like Management’s fondness for the phrase, an apparent suicide?”
“No sir, we mean that he may be bruised but we don’t believe any permanent or serious harm has come to him.”
The president guffawed. “Go on,” he said.
“The subject, uh, Mr. Weiskopf was taken from the parking lot of a Richmond, Virginia church. There was a witness, a minister…”
“Father Donald. We are acquainted. Every profession has a very small circle.”
“Sir?” asked Ty.
“Go on,” said the president, finally leaning forward.
“Yes, sir, Father Donald, who had his nose broken but was otherwise unscathed. I believe Esther Ackerman arrived in time to see the van drive off but couldn’t identify the operatives.”
“That would not have mattered anyway,” said the president. “There had to be multiple teams in play.”
“Yes sir, that point is agreed upon. We believe Mr. Weiskopf was moved to different parts of New York City but there’s been a problem.”
“Are you going to make me guess?” asked the president, getting up to walk closer to the doors that opened onto the garden.
“We found one of their Watchers, if that’s what the rogue element is still calling themselves. We found one of them dead, strangled. The New York City police are handling the investigation but we have done what we can to confuse the witness. Our informant is at risk.”
“He’s been at risk from the very first moment he took the assignment. There’s really no leap from where he is now, except death, maybe torture.”
“He was at risk for either one. Sir,” said Ty. “We think he killed the Watcher but it wasn’t planned. It became a necessity. A woman, an ordinary woman saw him standing over the body. We’ve asked her questions over a series of days, suggesting different scenarios. She has begun to frame up the story with different details. That problem has been handled. There is another one.”
There was another soft knock on the door and the president’s secretary stepped into the office just far enough to be seen. “He’s arrived,” she said in a low voice.
Ty looked from the secretary to the president but no one was looking back at him. He had a bad feeling about all of it. The door was shut with another small, sharp click.
Ty let out a deep sigh. There was nothing to do but continue.
“There are a lot of elements to this that are not being managed and given the circumstances…”
“Given that it’s George Clemente who has given up being a part of Management and is attempting to start his own team,” said the president.
“Yes, and that the body was found with a handful of crushed white petals on it.”
The president turned around slowly and put up his hand, leaving it there to keep the room quiet while he thought for a moment.
“You know, Ty, it’s already a truth that there is more than two forces battling it out here. Thank you, I had just about forgotten. The Order of the White Rose is one of the only independent forces out there. It actually gives me comfort to know that if the Circle was ever foolish enough to evolve into something that forgot its original intention, they would fight us just as hard as they stand up to Management. Come, walk with me,” said the president, as he turned the handle on the door.
Before he could get the door all the way open, a Secret Service guard standing just outside held it the rest of the way open, talking into his sleeve. “POTUS is on the move.” All the guards closest to the president were Circle operatives. Just as when Management was in control of the White House everyone would be replaced with their own trusted servants. It was the same at every Governor’s mansion across the country as well.
Ty and the president stepped outside to the long walkway that ran alongside the Rose Garden. There was a biting wind that made Ty hunch his shoulders slightly, as he walked quicker to keep up with the president who had picked up his pace.
A hive of workers were busy setting up a large clear tent over the garden that Ty could see was being filled with tables and chairs. It was for a reception for the ambassador to China. The president had set it up as a way to talk more about Africa.
“I have a meeting to get to,” said President Haynes, “we will need to continue our chat later. This is your first day. Get to know the West Wing. Go have breakfast in the Navy Dining Hall, meet some of our senior people. There should be the odd Senator lingering over their omelet. After all, this will be where you spend most of your waking hours for the next four years. Sam,” he said, waving over an agent. “Get the car.”
Ty watched the President walk away but at the corner the president turned abruptly on his heel, already shaking his finger in the air and said, “Ty, do you want to know my idea of a perfect world. A perfect ending to all of this madness that somehow even we help to perpetuate?” Without waiting for an answer the president kept talking. He was used to not being interrupted.
Ty waited until the president was out of sight before he went back in the way he had come, cutting through the Oval office. He still didn’t have his bearings enough to try a different route.
His giddiness that had bubbled in the pit of his stomach for the month since he had known the job was his had subsided. Something inside of him had turned over on itself and he wondered, for probably the first time, how much he could ever really know about the world. There was always going to be another layer of information.
The president had walked to the entrance of the East Portico where the car had been brought around but he never left the grounds, at least not by the car. He had them drive him over to the Old Executive Office Building to an entrance that was rarely used where he could enter without a lot of fanfare and make his way down the stairs to the offices in the basement and the entrance to one of the main tunnels.
The Secret Service walked just ahead of him shining large square flashlights, mostly to scare off the rats who would be sleeping along the edges. Every now and then at the edges of the light the president could hear the quick scratching as a large water rat decided to move further away from them. He was used to the ritual.
They got to a T in the tunnel and took the path to the left, stepping gingerly on the old handmade bricks as they came to the oldest parts of the tunnel.
The president stopped and said, “This is as far as you come. Wait for me here.”
No one protested as they stepped back and gave him a smaller flashlight to help guide him the rest of the way. He turned another corner and came to the entrance that was almost hidden and known only to the Keeper and the President and a handful of others.
He pushed on the old oak door and felt it give way, as a familiar face greeted him in the beam of light.
“Bishop Crane,” he said, in greeting, taking the offered hand to step over the wooden threshold and into the secret tunnel that led to the Cathedral above them.
“It’s been too long since I’ve seen you,” said Bishop Lionel Crane, the bishop of Virginia, as he turned to lead the way. “Your friends are waiting for you.”
“Friends? He brought someone with him?”
“Oh, yes, one of my favorite people. Someone who has taken the old adage, set the truth free and watch it do its own work, to heart. Helmut Khroll is traveling with Fred Bowers. Apparently they have become inseparable. I would have thought this was your doing.”
“Very little is my doing these days. You’d be surprised.”
“Bitterness doesn’t suit you, and besides, it’s a flattering lie. This entire meeting was your doing,” said the bishop, making a small splash as he stepped in a pool of rancid water. “Blast, have to remember to wear the galoshes for the next clandestine meeting.”
“I’d have thought you’d keep a pair handy these days.”
“Well, I suppose you’d be surprised. You are my only acolyte. Keep up, President, I don’t like being in these tunnels a moment longer than we need to be down here. Always a bad feeling sneaking around in secret passageways. No good can come from it.”
“Much good has already come from it,” said the President, as they turned a corner and the light from the small meeting room in the basement of the Washington Cathedral shined into the tunnel.
Fred Bowers stepped into the light, creating a long shadow into the tunnel. He offered a hand to the bishop, helping him over another old wooden threshold before turning around to help the President.
“Old men should not be out in the middle of the night scurrying around in tunnels” said the Bishop.
They were standing in a small room that was lit by a brass table lamp with a square green shade, sitting on a side table almost too small to hold it. The bishop had brought in three folding chairs for the meeting but besides that the rest of the room was bare. Normally, travelers through the tunnel collected their composure for a moment in this room before traveling up to the Cathedral or ducking down into the tunnel. No one wanted to stay in the small, dank room for very long.
“I will leave you men to your meeting,” said the bishop. “I have a little morning reading of Paul. Let me know when the return trip is ready to get under way.”
The President waited till the bishop had closed the narrow wooden door that led to another set of stairs out of the maze. He took a seat but neither Fred nor Helmut moved from where they were standing.
“I was sorry to hear of your loss,” he said. “I’ve been waiting almost a year to tell you at least that much.”
There was an awkward silence. Fred winced as Helmut looked down at the ground. He didn’t answer but waited for the President to find something else to say.
“Well, let’s get to why we have all risked everything to be here. George Clemente has kidnapped Norman Weiskopf. Our source has only been able to tell us that Clemente hopes to create a third superpower built out of resentment that will tear away at both Management and the Circle. Somehow Wallis Jones is at the center of his plans and Norman Weiskopf is the leverage. That makes your plans dovetail nicely with mine. I want George Clemente destroyed once and for all. And I want you back by my side.”
Fred stood up straighter. “I serve at the pleasure of the President,” he said.
“That’s good,” said Helmut, “because it’s only going to piss off the rest of the world, or at least those who find out about it.”
“Then no one needs to find out about it,” said the President. “At least not yet. We need to have a plan that hopefully has Norman Weiskopf alive when this is all over.”
“A requirement?” asked Fred.
“I’d say so,” said Helmut, thinking of his friend.
The President frowned, looking up at Helmut.
“If that can be possible but we cannot miss another opportunity to kill Clemente. How many people have already died because that man still lives?”
“At least one too many,” said Fred, quietly. “What are my orders?”
“Go to Chicago and set up surveillance. We believe that’s his next stop. Keep track of them and take Mr. Khroll with you. He may yet prove to be valuable to someone.”
“Journalists getting on your nerves these days?” asked Helmut, grimacing. The President ignored the dig.
“Why is it so hard to kill this one old man?” asked Helmut, letting it go.
“God, for the life of me, I wish I knew but I plan to figure it out,” said the President, “Tell my old friend, the bishop that I could walk myself home. Take this,” he said, pulling out a small brown envelope with a red wax seal and the impression of a circle of thirteen tight stars. “Don’t open it unless you find yourself in a situation you cannot get out of any other way, and only with Circle operatives. It’s a letter from me saying you are acting on my orders. It will keep you safe long enough to escape but that’s all it can do.”
“Where’s mine?” asked Helmut.
The President gave a small laugh. “Fortunately, your writing has not made you famous. You should be alright.”
“Try to stay close,” said Fred, shining his flashlight in the tunnel as the President stepped back over the threshold. He turned around and took a long look.
“For God’s sake, man, we plan to come back alive,
” said Helmut. “No need for the grand male gesture of one last look. It’s not the battlefield, just an old leaky hole in the ground.”
“Plans get interrupted,” said the President. “Make sure you kill the devil.”
“Consider it done,” said Fred.
Chapter 12
Wallis pulled up near the abandoned beer caves and circled the block, looking for a place to park further back, near the busier shops instead. She parked close to the tall, red Conch Republic restaurant near the waterfront that was full of people eating lunch. She got out, taking a look around to see if anyone was watching her, and felt a little foolish in the middle of being scared.
She started walking across the parking lot and caught herself running all the things she wanted to say to Norman through her mind. He would know she was scared without being told but wouldn’t point it out. He’d make a joke that would convince her things would turn out alright.
But he was in danger. The next thought, that he might be dead, slipped through her mind before she could stop it. Sadness rolled up through the middle of her chest, threatening to swamp her. “Come on, Black Widow,” she said, using the nickname she hated so much. “You can do this. Suck it up.” She wiped away a tear and kept walking, glancing out at the James River.
“Dammit, everything reminds me of Norman,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek. “I make a really bad spy,” she said, shivering despite the warm, woolen coat she was wearing on top of the sweater.
Wallis stepped onto the sidewalk, blending in with the shoppers along Rocketts Way. The chatting, smiling faces around her made every step seem surreal to her. She was carrying large secrets inside that would seem crazy if she started saying them out loud.
A man in a charcoal gray overcoat brushed past her, knocking her shoulder hard enough to jostle her.
“Sorry,” he said, over his shoulder as he hurried along his way. Wallis tried to memorize his face in case it turned out to be important later.