McKinnon stepped over that. "I don't need to be told the U.S. has deep flaws, important ones. I know more than all of you put together, more than almost everybody alive, about its flaws, its mistakes, its deep shames. I was there at the time, doing what I could to minimize the horror, and I'll be the first to admit I didn't do enough. But the Constitution and Bill of Rights are among the most enlightened political documents the human race has produced so far, and its people are, God help us, some of the kindest who have yet walked the earth."
Nika reacted as most Canadians probably would have. "Are you serious?" she asked. "Who thought up the War on Drugs? Who else lets people die of poor credit? Kindest?"
"As empires go. I know you Canadians are kinder, but there are hardly any of you—not enough to populate California. Ask anyone who lived under Pol Pot, or Idi Amin, or Hitler, what I mean by 'kind.' We may have an occasional McCarthy era, but we don't have Cultural Revolutions or intentional famines or ethnic cleansing as policy. We took Europe, and we gave it back, helped it get back on its feet. The same with Japan. The same with the Evil Empire itself. We're the country that didn't set up apartheid. We're as racist as any other nation in history—including kinder Canada, as you must know—but so far nobody's ever been as ashamed of their own racism as we are. O'Rourke wrote that all nations are basically parliaments of whores . . . but at least we've always wanted to have hearts of gold.
"I do not deny we are also sometimes total utter bastards. If I start giving examples we'll be here all night, and I'm sure you have your own list. America has done shameful things, lots of them. I did some of them myself. But it's unusual for our soldiers to rape, for our cops to be fences and pimps, for our judges to be for sale. Yes, too many of us are bumpkins, drones and corner boys fooled by even the most childish tricks, ready to believe any nonsense we hear on TV, chasing the wax carrot while being whacked from behind by the credit stick. But we try. Tell me you wish the Soviet Union had won the Cold War."
Russell and Nika were silent, frowning. "I don't disagree with what you say in general terms," Jesse said finally. "But I'm sorry, Tom, America really needs to get its head out of its ass. And soon."
He nodded vigorous assent. "Yes. Exactly. Look . . . can I assume all of us here agree that America has been stampeding blindly toward a cliff at least since the towers fell, acting almost as irrationally as possible?"
All three said "Yes," in near unison, and Russell added, "If not long before."
McKinnon declined to quibble. "And do we all share a sense that people of good will and good sense seem helpless to do anything about it, even once they get the facts? That no matter how many voters want us out of Afghanistan and Iraq, or how loud they shout, there somehow doesn't seem to be anybody in Washington, even a Democrat, who's willing or able to bring that any closer to happening?"
"They just broke ground on fourteen new permanent U.S. military bases in Iraq, half a billion dollars worth, and the largest embassy building in the world, bigger than the Vatican," Russell said. "A hundred and four acres, over a thousand employees, and a guard for every two of them. We'll definitely be leaving any day now."
"Perhaps you've noticed that no matter how many Americans are finally growing ashamed of Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib, the best we seem able to do is get them relocated or outsourced? That no matter how many of us write our senators and congressmen demanding action for New Orleans, nothing gets done? That no matter how many of us cry out for a decent health-care system like every other industrialized nation on the planet has, we can't seem to find one politician interested enough to come up with a halfway sensible plan, even with all the excellent examples available for study and improvement?"
"I never did get why a government can't possibly care for its people more efficiently than corporations legally required to show their stockholders a profit," Nika admitted. "Some things government just should do. Prisons. Firefighting. Disaster relief. Defense."
"What are you telling us?" Jesse asked.
"I'm saying that the kind of decay I'm talking about didn't just happen, all because nineteen psychopaths had a lucky morning one September. The United States of America I've lived in for seventy years didn't suddenly change its mind and decide monopolies were good and small business and poor immigrants were bad again on its own. It didn't dismantle its own Constitution and Bill of Rights and the Geneva Convention and its own image of itself in less than ten years without help."
Russell's weapon was no longer pointed at him. "What do you mean, 'image of itself'?"
"All my life, if there was anything everyone in America knew for sure, without even thinking about it, it was that John Wayne would never beat up a little guy. We've done it twice, now—and the latest one turned out to an innocent bystander. We used to know that Americans were the ones who didn't torture people, ever, and that it hadn't made us weaker than the Nazis or the Japanese. A man I greatly admired, one of my teachers, solemnly assured me there were no imaginable circumstances in which the United States would ever fight a preventive war. He told me that in 1965, and he said it again in 1980, and he still believed it when he died in '87. Twenty years later, the America he knew is gone.
"That process of change didn't just happen. It had help."
"From whom?" Russell asked. "Are you talking about the extreme religious right wing? A political elite? White Power fascists? The Illuminati? The fucking DaVinci Code? Who are we talking about, here?"
McKinnon shook his head. "The kind of people I'm talking about are not politicians or religious nuts or even gangsters. They're just very very rich. So rich, in some cases, that not many people know just how rich they are. They're not impressed by political power, popularity, or viciousness. They use people like those as chess-pieces—pawns. They've got handles on them all. They themselves are off the radar. They don't think of themselves as Americans. They don't even think in terms of nations or ideologies or the improvement of mankind; they are fundamentally indifferent to all suffering and death except insofar as it affects their game."
"Getting richer."
"What's new about that?" Jesse asked.
McKinnon shook his head. "Too much."
"I don't get you."
"Look, the history of the U.S., like that of all countries, is basically a story about the battle between the very rich and everybody else. Since 1776, those two groups have struggled for power, and democracy leveled the playing field just enough to make it a standoff, a continually revised working compromise. But at least once a century, the very rich get sick of having limits placed on them by their inferiors, and make a grab for total power. So far, every time somethng has screwed them up. When the J.P. Morgans came along, the rest of the country invented antitrust legislation and unions . . . and so on.
"But what's going on now is an historic joint push for real power by some really stupid rich people, some of the dumbest the world has ever seen . . . and the tools they have now are finally good enough to completely subvert democracy. It doesn't matter how many people want their country to supply free fair health-care, like every other civilized country. No politician in America will even offer it to them, and if one tried she'd be bought off or put out of business."
"The internet will save America," Jesse said, and then repeated it. Like a mantra.
"Maybe. I hope so. I really do. But they're already working on controlling that, too. For months, Google Earth was forced to show us all fake pictures of New Orleans, taken before Katrina happened. That not only shows you how powerful they are, it shows you how stupid they are, like cats trying to pretend there isn't a turd on the floor.
"Good luck with the internet underground. But be real careful what sites you visit, and look carefully to see who's watching."
Jesse started to reply, and thought better of it.
"I think of them as the Vandals," McKinnon went on. "They are both ignorant and stupid, extremely powerful, absolutely selfish, utterly contemptuous of all morality and ethics. They believe in no god,
do not hope for an afterlife or rebirth, are certain life is pointless and death is extinction. So they want to have fun while they're here, and things like the War on Drugs and the War on Terrorism are their idea of a joke. The Cold War was fun, but it's done. The new one with their opposite numbers in China has been under way for more than five years now, but almost nobody has noticed, or will for a while yet. So they're working on toughening America up for the struggle."
"Another McCarthy era," Russell said, "but subtler and with better technology. Another fucking Cold War."
Nika lowered her weapon for the first time. "Who are these people?" she exclaimed. "How many of them are there?"
McKinnon shook his head. "I won't discuss that with anyone but Zandor Zudenigo. If he'll let me."
"Why not?"
He sighed. "It took me almost half a lifetime of unusual access to identify these bastards—some of them, anyway—and I've spent every day since doing my very best to conceal that awareness from them. They scare me more than the fires of Hell. They're like the monster you two buried down by the stream, capable of anything. I cannot risk letting them learn I know about them . . . and forgive me, but I just met you people. No names. It's one of the movie clichés I hate most of all, but I'm afraid this is one time it really applies. If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"Why tell Zudie, then?" Russell asked.
"Because he's the only man I know who can help me stop them. I need more information to fight them, but I don't dare look for it. They're too careful. Zudie is my only hope of learning more about the bastards without getting caught looking. My unsuspected Enigma code-breaker. My only way to sneak up on their blind side, penetrate their security. That's why I've kept hunting him for so long."
"Jesus Christ," Russell said softly.
"Forgive me for bringing this up," Jesse said, "but you are in your seventies. What could you possibly hope to accomplish in the limited time you have left to live?"
"How much difference did Osama make in one morning? I don't even know what I would have to do to whom, to have that big an impact. I haven't dared to find out yet. But I know there is something, and I know if I had a telepath I could find out what that is, and do it. All I'm asking is that you put Zudie and me together, in circumstances where he'll feel safe approaching me close enough to read me. I believe if he does, once he sees my mind and knows what's in my true heart, he will agree to help me. Give me that chance."
"What if Zudie doesn't agree?" Russell asked.
McKinnon's shoulders slumped. "Then he's of no use to me. If he doesn't want to help me, I can't imagine a way to coerce him. I admit I've thought about it, as a mental exercise, but the idea is ridiculous. I doubt I could manage to keep him in custody."
Russell held his eyes. "You know it tears him up to be close to other people? That his so-called gift hurts?"
McKinnon nodded. "When I knew him, he had to keep everyone at least fifty meters away, just to stay sane and conscious. Hence the whole 'Smelly' business. Ingenious."
"Well, it's gotten worse with time. Much worse. He says it makes migraine look good. He couldn't walk across a college campus today without having a meltdown and passing out. And then being trapped in a hospital, surrounded by minds full of fear, agony and sorrow, would probably finish him off. He's a pretty limited secret weapon."
"I expected that," McKinnon said. "I can work with it. Think of the way he found out about Allen Campbell: a plane went by overhead unusually low. Imagine Zudie a few hundred yards beyond the end of a runway, miles from anybody except the targets who sail over his head and never notice him. There are a dozen other ways I could use him effectively without hurting or endangering him. If he wants to. And no way I can think of if he doesn't.
"For Christ's sake, let me ask him. And then one way or another, at least all of us can go home and get some sleep."
Seconds ticked by.
Russell cleared his throat. He went to where his boy was sitting, bent and handed him the gun, "Hold onto this for me, son."
"Sure, Pop."
He straightened and turned back to face McKinnon. "Let's go in the kitchen, Tom. I'll make us coffee before we go. And then I'll introduce you to my friend Zandor."
McKinnon exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thank you, sir."
"Hold on a minute," Nika said, and got to her feet with an ease McKinnon envied. She held her weapon at her side, but did not holster it. "I have a question I want answered before I sign off on any of this."
"Ask."
"What the hell did you do to my cousin?"
McKinnon grimaced at the memory. "I pressured Vasco hard. Scared the living shit out of him. Made him believe he was two steps from Guantanamo. And had him transferred as far away as I could. I had to. He's really tough, and he really cares about you, and he was the best lead I'd had on Zudie in more than twenty years. I know that doesn't excuse it."
"Did you hurt him?"
"Yes, I put a crimp in his career, and another in his self-image."
"Did you lay hands on him?"
"No." He hesitated. "But I might have made him believe I would, if nothing else had worked. I was desperate."
"Jack Bauer wouldn't have hesitated to torture under those circumstances."
He shrugged. "I don't care about cartoon characters. I was taught you don't become a Nazi even to beat Nazis. I went further than I should have. I'm going to have to make it up to Vasco somehow."
"See that you do," she said. She holstered her weapon. "Let's get that coffee."
McKinnon said, "I'll be with you in a minute. I have to do something first." He stood, picked up the Powerbook, and saw everyone in the room tense up. He left the room with it, and they all followed him.
To the guest bathroom just outside. Where he set the laptop in the bathtub, plugged the drain, and turned on the water.
16.
There had been lively discussion over coffee in my kitchen. I had envisioned a two-man party: Tom and me. Keep the minds to a minimum, for Zudie's sake. But Nika and Jesse were adamant about accompanying us. "We'll stay back well out of range. Zudie's range. No offense, Tom," Nika said, "but for all I know you could be a really great con man, and I've been taken by a few just good ones. When you're within a hundred meters of Zudie and he tells me everything is alright, that's when I'll really start to relax."
He nodded. "See why I need him? He's the only touchstone in a world without trust."
Then more chatter about how many vehicles to take. Nika and Jesse both wanted to ride with us, protective of me, which I found warming and annoying in equal measure. This time I put my foot down. Tom and I were going in my car; they could follow in the vehicle or vehicles of their choice. Reluctantly they agreed to ride together.
I assumed they would pick Jesse's Echo or Tom's Camry, but when we left Nika made straight for her ancient piece-of-crap Honda. She called "I'll back it out of your way," over the ghastly noise of it starting up, and that did make sense; I could have just backed around it, but not without difficulty. Jesse got in the passenger side, and that made sense, too: she could take them both to his car, up at the end of Doug's driveway next-door. Tom's Camry was safe enough for now where it was, out on the road next to the big green mailbox-box.
As we reached my car, I handed Tom the keys.
"Really?" he said.
"I shouldn't drive with a pneumothorax. I've only got one good arm."
He nodded. "Is it bad?"
"As these things go, no. So far."
We got in, and did the seat-adjusting and seat-belt dances. He adjusted the rear view to his satisfaction, gave the dash and controls a quick inspection, and turned the key. Nika and Jesse had opted to remain in her heap, waiting for us out on the road. Tom backed out in front of them, put it in drive, and they fell in behind.
Once we were on the road I said, "I'm going to get something from the glove compartment."
He nodded. His eyebrows rose when he saw it was a joint.
&n
bsp; "I hope you don't expect me to ask if you mind in my own damn car," I said mildly, and pushed in one of the last car cigarette lighters in captivity. "The windows are open."
"I didn't object," he said. "A guy once said to me, "'I'll live by your rules in your house. You can live by your rules in my house. But if you ask me to live by your rules in my own house, then you go too damn far.'"
"It helps Zudie for me to be a little buzzed when we're together. Not too much. Take the right fork here, and slow down by about a third."
"Got it. I can see how that would be," he agreed. A few moments of silence went by while I lit up, and took a few tokes. They helped. Then he sighed audibly, and said, "What the hell. It's been more than twenty-five years. Give me a toke."
"When we're almost there," I said, pinching it out. "I had you slow down because suicidally stupid deer hang out on this road. And if you haven't smoked anything in that long, this will be much stronger than anything you remember."
"Okay."
We only saw one deer and he missed it easily. After a while he made a snorting sound.
"What?"
"I was just thinking about the drive up here, how the drivers changed as soon as I crossed the border. At the time, I felt contempt for them, found their odd habits irritating, made fun of them in my mind. Thinking back on it, all they were doing was treating each other with courtesy and common sense. Merging without cheating. Not tailgating. That kind of thing. The kindness I was talking about earlier, that Canadians do so well."
I waited.
"I see now that what made me mad was, people used to treat each other that way in America when I was a boy."
"It has a lot to do with why I moved up here," I said.
"Maybe I've lived there too long," he said softly.
In no time we reached the Yacht Club. Instead of parking in the lot, I had him drive past it all the way downhill to the beach access for boat trailers. I'd climbed that damn hill already tonight; once was plenty. He parked just short of the sand, lit the joint, and took a single deep hit, then put it out again and gave it back to me. Nika's Honda pulled into the parking lot and parked facing out. Then they walked down to us. She and Jesse must have smelled the weed, but neither commented, even with their expressions.
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