The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security

by Andrew Tisbert

  "I'm sorry.” She looked at him.

  He shrugged his shoulders, found his shorts on the other cot and went into the other room. With Gun and the scrambler, Leslie followed him. She watched him pull his clothes from the cold mantle and dress.

  "Russell let me escape twice now—but he's not a fool. If he catches up with us again I doubt we'll be getting away."

  "I don't really understand what he was trying to accomplish just now."

  "I know. It doesn't make sense. If Security's close, why would he bother to contact me and possibly alarm us into fleeing? Was he trying to scare me into surrender? Or was he trying to warn me about the rest of Security? Or was he trying to convince me to believe that he's my only true hope?"

  Roger pointed at the scrambler.

  "I guess it doesn't matter, does it? I mean, they can't get a location on us while you've got that belt."

  Leslie put Gun and the scrambler on the floor, then retrieved her own clothes and put them on. Dry, but cool and a little stiff. Roger was already on his way out the front door. When she picked up the scrambler, panic felt like it stitched her lungs to her chest. There was supposed to be a little green light on the buckle—had she turned the thing off when she knocked it across the floor?

  She sighed. Her thumb had been over the light, that's all; it was still on. Leslie shook her head and swung the device around her waist. As she holstered her Gun under her summer jacket, she wondered what Roger would have thought if she'd actually turned the thing off. It certainly would've panicked him, and he didn't do well when he was panicked. He would have been convinced she did it on purpose.

  Who knows what he would have done?

  She wiped at her face with an open palm, sighed again, and followed him out the door.

  On the porch she stopped as Roger jumped to the rust-colored pine needles on the ground. But for the whistling of a few unseen birds, and the whispering of a stream picking its way through rocks and roots to the Hudson, the surrounding woods were still—Leslie had almost forgotten how quiet forests could be. The fog was thinning. The trees were dripping.

  Despite their danger, despite the dread over Tom's message through the medium of Gun, she felt her spirit rise like an aching bubble expanding in her chest. She suddenly remembered this country as her home. It was almost as if she could remember this very clearing, this camp. Jumping off the porch, she grasped Roger's hand. “It'll work out somehow,” she said. “We have to make it."

  He turned to her. She didn't mind that the smile he showed her was forced; at least he tried. She squeezed his fingers. Then she let go and followed him onto the muddy path to the river.

  12

  Tom Russell put all his energy into looking relaxed and detached while he leaned back into the couch, and Meyer stood by the window looking as if all the weight of Security balanced on his shoulders. It was just after five in the afternoon and Tom waited for his second counseling session to begin. Meyer sipped intently at his oversized coffee mug and scowled at the gray sky. Overhead, an ocean softly licked at the gentle curve of a smooth white beach.

  "So let's begin, ahhh, Tom. I can call you Tom, can't I?” Dr. Hamen sat in his chair, one knee in the air, saddled in the interlaced fingers of both hands. He was wearing the same suit as yesterday, only now it was wrinkled, and his fat face hung like powdered dough. Tom stared at the man.

  Dough-face? Dough-fingers? Who needs him? Kneads him.

  "Why yes, of course, Doctor. You look a little tired."

  "A bit, perhaps.” Dr. Hamen smiled briefly, then glanced at Meyer. Tom wondered if the doctor was looking for approval. “Now Tom, I want to know if you've given your professional behavior any more thought since we met yesterday?"

  Tom sat up, clasped his own hands together and concentrated on looking earnest. “I did indeed,” he said. “I'm beginning to see how I've let my superiors down on so many levels. I took advantage of my position to date this poor girl, and I think the whole mess may have distracted me from my responsibilities. I just want to make things right—"

  "All right, Russell.” Meyer spun and walked around to face the couch. He slammed his mug on the black metal coffee table. Coffee splashed Tom's knee. “Why don't you cut your Commie shit?"

  Tom kept his expression flat. “I ... I'm not sure ... what do you mean?"

  Meyer leaned forward, knuckles on the table, his face a few inches from Tom's. “This may be a joke to you, but some of us still take the values of a security guard seriously.” His goatee trembled. Tom refused to flinch from his glare.

  "Ahhh, gentleman,” the doctor said, releasing his knee. “Guard Meyer. Please. You need to sit down.” He waved at the chair he had pulled out for Meyer. “Now, sir."

  The force in Hamen's voice surprised Tom. It must have surprised Meyer, too, because he straightened, turned and sat in the chair without another word. Tom regarded him, all sharp angles and seething intensity. He looked like his skin was too tight. Tom realized Meyer must have met with Jefferson since the last session. He certainly must have had some questions for the boss about what was really going on here. And judging from his short temper he knew a good deal more than he had before.

  So the rules have changed a little since yesterday. If Meyer knows where Leslie came from and he's failed to inform Washington, which Jefferson would certainly have insisted upon, he's become even more dangerous to me. And I'm his fall guy now, too.

  Tom decided to ignore his own vulnerability for the moment and try to address Leslie's.

  "Did you check out the information we discussed yesterday?” he said. “Did you talk to the mem techs?"

  Meyer's gaze shifted away from him. “You know something? Why don't I ask the questions for a while?"

  "Fine."

  "There, now this is progress.” Dr. Hamen, leaned back a bit. “You see how easy it is to cooperate with us, Tom?"

  "Oh, I certainly do.” He smiled at Meyer.

  Meyer's eyes narrowed to slits beneath his rough eyebrows.

  Tom leaned forward slightly. “So ask me a question."

  "All right,” Meyer said. “We need to know some things about Leslie."

  Tom raised his palms and jerked his head expectantly.

  "For instance, do you have any idea what Leslie's motives might be?"

  Besides the fact that her whole life was forced into a major change, she felt guilty about her first kill, and I went and got her pregnant?

  "Maybe she just didn't want to be controlled any more. Maybe she was sick of the programming, and Washington and Security."

  "But what would she think she could accomplish by turning renegade and becoming a fugitive?"

  "Ask Jefferson. He's the one who forced her—"

  "Listen, Russell. I'm not buying your bullshit. You were involved with Leslie from the start. You worked on her old man. If you wanted to, you could help us—even let us in on her possible destination. You know her mind."

  "I know her mind well enough to know you can't push her to accomplish your objectives. I know her mind well enough to know full activation of her head mem would be a disaster from which she might not recover."

  Meyer shook his head. “Why are you so convinced everyone's out to destroy her?"

  "I know what's at stake here.” Tom felt his composure evaporating. He wanted to grab this inexperienced, arrogant little worm by his soft little neck. You'd stab Leslie in the back without a second's hesitation if you thought it would further your career. And you'd laugh while you handed me the knife and let me take the blame.

  There was a commotion in the hall outside the office and all three men looked toward the door. Voices argued loudly, briefly—then in hushed tones. The handle of the door moved, stopped, and moved again. Dr. Hamen cleared his throat and muttered, “What now?"

  As the door opened, Hamen said, “Excuse me, we're in private session he—"

  Two of Father Washington's aides were backing their way into the office. “Let us do our job,” one of them said. “We
can handle this; Mr. President, wait.” Father Washington's thick, steady hands parted them like the Red Sea, and He stepped into the office, His silver hair perfectly combed, His shoulders perfectly squared.

  Meyer and the doctor jumped to their feet. “Mr. President!” Dr. Hamen said, glancing at Tom and gesturing with his head for him to rise. Tom didn't move.

  Father Washington looked from side to side at His aides, raised a hand to silence them, snapped His fingers and pointed at the door. “I told you gentleman,” He said, “this is about family, and I will take care of it myself.” Tom wanted to disappear into the couch. He swallowed hard. Washington knew? How was that possible? Washington was still pointing at the door. “I greatly appreciate your concern for my well-being. But I implore you to wait outside the door."

  "But Mr. President...” one of the men began.

  "Get out!” Father Washington snapped. The aides froze for an instant, then scrambled. The door closed softly behind them.

  Smiling, Father Washington sauntered farther into the room and waved to each man separately. “That's all right, gentlemen,” He said. “Sit down.” Then He sat on the couch beside Tom, smelling like disinfectant and peppermint. His voice was a deep vat of oil: “Please, gentlemen, sit."

  Dr. Hamen fell nervously back into his chair. “What a pleasant surprise, Mr. President. What can we do for you?"

  Meyer's joints were apparently not working properly. It took him a long time to sit.

  "Well, I've just met with Andrew Jefferson—fine young man.” Washington turned His ocean-colored eyes on Tom. Tom forced his face to go blank. “I've been given information on this Saint Leslie situation, although I would hardly say at this point I've been brought up to speed. But when he was through briefing me, I asked Jefferson a question he could not or would not answer. I asked him if this whole thing has something to do with my ... with my long lost brother. Mr. Russell, do you have any idea why he said I should ask you?” Father Washington still smiled reassuringly.

  Tom forced himself to smile back at the President. Think! Did Jefferson just decide to throw me in? It was possible, Tom supposed, but it didn't really make sense. The threat of Washington finding out about the Leslie fiasco was just about the only leverage Jefferson had to make him cooperate right now.

  Has Jefferson gotten nervous enough to bring the Leslie story to Washington and gamble he can lay the entire blame on me and then survive an inquiry himself?

  Maybe, if he was scared enough, but somehow Tom didn't believe Jefferson had reached that point. He was too arrogant. And Tom had to remind himself, he still didn't know exactly what Father Washington knew—or thought He knew—yet.

  "May I have permission to be frank, Mr. President,” he said, then glanced meaningfully at Hamen and Meyer.

  "Hmmm,” Washington nodded slowly. “Doctor, you don't mind, do you?"

  As Dr. Hamen made polite noises and rose to leave, Tom watched Meyer's bristled jaw tremble. Meyer rose too, and took a step toward the door.

  "Not you,” Father Washington said. “I think I will require your input as well."

  As Tom watched Meyer's face turn crimson, he realized who must have gone to The President. As soon as he found out Leslie represented information which had been concealed from Washington, Meyer buckled. Apparently he and Jefferson weren't as close as Jefferson had thought. Meyer was willing to sell them all out if he thought it would keep him out of trouble. And like the coward he was, he'd hoped to slink away from the room without a confrontation.

  Watching Meyer blush and fall back into his seat, Tom couldn't help it: He lost his composure for an instant and laughed.

  Father Washington looked at him sternly. Tom noticed for the first time the night crawler of a vein sticking out on His temple. “You know,” He said, “I don't see what you could possibly find so humorous right now. I'm already supposed to be in New York City. The Rebel Day celebration is in a few days. I'm very thin on patience, and you have a great deal of explaining to do. Now—I would appreciate your candor."

  "What exactly do you know?” Tom asked.

  "Well, let me see. I know Saint Leslie is the product of an experiment that was supposed to have been completed, and successful, according to your former boss. But I understand now that it's quite possibly neither of those things, and this poor girl should not have been allowed a position that could have jeopardized my safety."

  "That's not fair Mr. President, and I think you know it. She saved your life and has always served Security appropriately.” Tom refused to allow his gaze to falter from Washington's. It felt like the hardest thing he'd ever done.

  "I'm not here to argue with you, Mr. Russell. And as a friendly warning, I should tell you not to push your luck with me."

  Tom chewed on his cheek. From the corner of his eye he noticed Meyer starting to grin at him. Don't worry. Your turn will come.

  "I also know Leslie's past has been carefully obfuscated by members of our team, and has been considered a threat to National Security. Why, Russell? And what does all this have to do with my brother?"

  There, he's said it again: His brother. Since when does the President know he has a clone?

  Tom thrust his jaw out at Washington, fighting a growing spirit of belligerence. “At this point I don't have anything to hide from you, Mr. President...."

  "Certainly not, now the whistle has been blown.” Washington sat back, smiling.

  Maybe I should just shut up. Maybe there's no fix to this. Tom felt the sweat dampening his shirt along his back and under his arms. “You and I both know that the young man sitting there with the stupid smirk on his face would have told you and your aides anything at all to cover his own ass. If you're looking for honor and a team player, it's not in that chair."

  "The President,” began Meyer, “does not need to sit here and listen—"

  "Shut up, Meyer, until someone speaks to you directly,” Washington said. “You've already proven your worth."

  Tom relaxed somewhat. “I'm happy to tell you whatever you want to know, Mr. President, for one reason only. I feel Leslie is in danger and I believe I'm the only one who can get her back safely."

  "I'm listening."

  "To begin with, then, Leslie is your niece. She's Everett's daughter."

  "I knew it. Jefferson and I discussed your assignment with Everett years ago, just before Leslie appeared in Washington. Explain the situation to me. And I want to know who knew."

  Father Washington was silent as Tom told Him about saving Leslie, the head mem experiment and how it assisted her, how it suppressed her past. Tom told Him about Security supervision's imperative to keep the operation quiet, and how they'd tried to make Tom solely accountable.

  After a pause, Father Washington said, “I think I'm beginning to get the picture."

  "Leslie doesn't trust anyone more than me,” Tom said. “I believe if I control the operation I can get her back."

  "You aren't telling me everything."

  "I'm telling you what you need to know. I'm telling you enough to ruin my career forever and possibly indict myself as a criminal and a traitor. If that's not enough for you, then I suppose this problem can be yours alone."

  Washington advanced and grasped Tom's shoulder. “You certainly do have some balls to talk to me in this fashion, Mr. Russell. I like a man with balls. But do you realize the mess you're responsible for? Do you realize what my political enemies could do with this information? I've turned a terrorist's daughter into a saint. And they happen to be related to me on top of it all, because he's a blasted clone!"

  "I'm not going to take all the responsibility in this."

  "Let me finish. All this can be cleaned up, there's no doubt in my mind—just as my mother cleaned up the whole Everett situation in the first place."

  "With all due respect, Mr. President, your mother created this mess."

  "My mother should have been proclaimed a saint, Mr. Russell, don't forget it. And if you've been inconvenienced in your duties bec
ause of a random error in her judgment, then you should feel honored to be a part of her legacy."

  Tom made his face go blank again.

  "The first step now is to deal with Leslie as quietly as possible."

  "Deal with her?"

  "It seems clear to me your motivations in this were admirable, even if you did make the wrong decisions, even if you did betray me and your agency. But it's obvious you already know you're through in Security. I want to believe you're the man to bring our Leslie home. This drama of inter-office politics, this blaming and back-stabbing, offends me.” Washington turned and jabbed the pipe of his index finger at Meyer. “Be sure you tell your boss that."

  "Mr. President, I am deeply sorry,” Tom said.

  Washington slowly shook his head. “I will not hear any apologies or supplications at this point. How we decide to deal with all involved in this fiasco is secondary right now to resolving the crisis. And it's clear to me you are needed for us to do so. I will see to it your counseling is suspended until Leslie has been returned to Washington. I'm having Jefferson reinstate you for this operation. If Leslie's going to trust anyone to bring her back, it's going to be you—it's that simple. I'll send orders for him to share whatever new intelligence they have on the matter. So here's a chance to redeem yourself, Mr. Russell. At least to some extent. Don't squander it. Bring my niece home. Then we'll see."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Rising, Father Washington stretched like a great lion. “There is to be no discussion of any of this. No one who doesn't already know about it will be brought into confidence. No one. Understood?"

  Tom nodded. Meyer murmured something incomprehensible.

  "By the way, Russell. No one, I mean no one, has spoken to me the way you did today in a very long time.” Washington looked down at him. Tom hadn't been frightened during the entire course of the interview. But now his stomach began to churn and his shoulders shook.

  "It's refreshing,” Father Washington said, and he left the room.

  Meyer stared at Tom for a long time before finally standing up. Then he scratched at his chin, his nostrils flaring. “You are dead,” he said softly. “You are fucking dead.” He followed The President out the door.