The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  "Nothing is ever simple," Ambrose pointed out. "Nor is it foolproof. We already know that governments around the world are watching that young lady, but she is our citizen and that gives us an edge. She and her intelligent friends think they will cure cancer, feed the starving, and change the climate. We see that it can be used for so much more. Unlike Miss America, we will not just hope for world peace, we will some day assure it by wiping a brain's ability to hate. It is doable. We must take steps to make sure this and other advances are not left in the hands of brilliant idealists and their tunnel vision."

  "But it's bulky, Ambrose. Granted, the headpiece is a far cry from the early net caps and electrodes, but it's hardly subtle," Woodrow pointed out.

  "Except," Mark Hyashi countered, "once a technology breakthrough is made, improvements follow in months, not decades. Mainframe computers used to fill rooms. Now a woman carries an even more powerful computer in her purse. Fifty years in the making and yet everyday someone builds on the pioneering science. I agree with Ambrose, this isn't a parlor trick."

  Mark Hyashi wandered toward the television. He tapped the screen.

  "Ten years ago that thing he is wearing cost tens of thousands of dollars, but she said this one was manufactured for a few hundred dollars. Two years from now it will cost pennies and the technology will be hidden in the earpiece of a pair of glasses or buried in that guy's head." He turned back to the men, his handsome young face clouded with conscience. "The question is what part do we play?"

  "We fund it with enough caveats to assure that it belongs to us for as long as possible," Woodrow answered.

  "We can attach funding to any number of bills," Jerry agreed. "Most of our colleagues don't even read the darn things. We'll probably be the only four who know the funds have been requested or allocated."

  Woodrow played devil's advocate and pointed out the obvious.

  "Homeland Security is the place for this kind of thing but it isn't going to appropriate funds for anything like this, Mark. You guys are being watched like hawks. The country has sunk a ton of money into virtual border fences that don't work, TSA is inept and–"

  "Yes, yes. We know. All outdated. All ridiculous programs." Ambrose waved away the obvious. "Billions have been wasted because no one looked ten steps ahead. We boasted about achievements before they were achievable. We all look like fools and aren't trusted because of it.

  "Did you know our government conducted experiments in psychic driving at one time?" Ambrose glanced over as Eugene quietly took his glass and refilled his drink.

  "That was 1965. Someone saw the possibilities of controlling the mind of a driver of transport trains, airplanes, or cars. That was the original vision and what we just saw is the result of that."

  "Who funded that one with the brown paper bag and subliminal messages way back when?" Hyashi chuckled, missing the point or, to give benefit of the doubt, lightening the mood.

  "That would be Intelligence." Jerry Norn raised his hand and pretended to be chagrined.

  "I see a certain poetic justice there."

  Woodrow's laugh was accompanied by the clink of ice. He had gotten up to refresh his drink and when he turned around he was holding the bourbon decanter as if it were a tarnished crystal ball.

  "'62. Operation Northwinds. That was my favorite. Or how about False Flag? There was a friggin' great idea. Hijack a few of our own planes, bomb a few of our own citizens and blame it on Iran. Thank goodness the president saw the light on that one."

  "He had to have some convincing before he gave it up," Ambrose winked.

  "Ambrose. Ambrose," Woodrow lamented as he put the decanter back. "According to you, you've been responsible for half the good decisions every administration made since George Herbert."

  "You wound me. I will take credit for at least ninety percent. However, I fear I was in no position to counsel anyone back then. I'm old, I'm not Methuselah."

  "I doubt there was ever a time you didn't make sure you were pulling some strings, Ambrose."

  Jerry barked his signature laugh. It was easy to see why he was re-elected time and again. Big and jovial, he could kiss a baby and a call girl with the same aw-shucks aplomb. His PR was so good that only a handful of people knew that he was the biggest skirt chaser in D.C. and that handful didn't included his wife. Ambrose didn't like that, but he did like Jerry's smarts. The man could remember everything: every detail of testimony, every statistic, every word uttered in his presence. He was driven not by power but by the puzzle of politics; a puzzle of how people fit together, why certain ones were pivotal and others passed through life without notice. Of course, Jerry wasn't Woodrow. Woodrow was the real deal; he was Ambrose's moral compass.

  "I only take credit where it's truly due, Jerry," Ambrose said magnanimously. "And when it is to my advantage."

  "Next year you're going to be elected president," Hyashi interjected. "Then you will have to take credit or blame for everything. It won't matter if you make the decisions or not."

  "If I was reluctant, I wouldn't run," Ambrose noted. "I don't want eight years to go by and–"

  "I think you better figure four, there, Ambrose. No need jinxing things," Woodrow warned.

  "Eight years. Four is not enough," Ambrose insisted. He was speaking to the choir but sometimes the choir forgot the tune. "My friends, there are those inside our country who believe our borders are not sacrosanct and that our country belongs to anyone who wishes to claim a part of it. In the extreme, there are those who would like to make us disappear like a little cube on a computer screen. I'm not talking about our troops. I'm talking about all of us. Wiped away. Gone and forgotten."

  Ambrose's eyes clouded as he thought of the things that pained his heart more than he could say. People who did not understand the exceptionalism of this country, of everything its people had accomplished in a few hundred years, appalled him. But even these realities were nothing compared with the one that cut him deepest.

  "More importantly, gentlemen, there are those who believe in nothing: not hard work, not morals, not intellect. My grandparents would be ashamed. I am ashamed."

  "As we all are." Hyashi truly believed as Patriota did, but Hyashi was more practical. "Still, no matter how much you want it, Ambrose, even eight years is not enough time to change the way our citizenry thinks or for this science to reach its full potential. The most we can hope for is that technology can be used to keep us safe until our collective thinking changes again."

  "This isn't the only technology." Woodrow took his seat again, sobered by the turn of the discussion.

  "It doesn't matter what technology we're talking about, none of it is ready. We're going to have to fund the testing quietly, and we'll have to be patient. Same as we're doing with the nonlethal weapons testing," Jerry pointed out. "I think we're all agreed on that."

  Ambrose raised a hand shoulder high. Behind him Eugene Weller engaged at his signal.

  "Eugene. How many grants has this young lady applied for?"

  "Thirteen. Seven federal applications, three with her home state, California, and three private."

  "Where are the private funds?" the senator asked.

  "Google, Apple, and The Universal Group."

  "Fine. Let's have The Universal Group handle it since they have the lowest profile and are the most dependent on government contracts. They can approve her funding with one of our own people on the oversight committee," Ambrose decided.

  "Senator Norn, could you also get to someone at Health and Human Services to approve her grant?" Eugene asked.

  "I can. There is a most lovely and influential undersecretary who will assist," Jerry chuckled.

  Eugene ignored the senator's boast. "We also have access to private donors who will only need a slightly revised prospectus and, perhaps, a phone call from Senator Patriota to get on board."

  "Very good, Eugene," Ambrose said. "And with that, I think we'll call it an evening. We have a full year, my frien
ds, but the convention will be upon us before you know it. It is a symbolic exercise and nothing more. Polls say the general election is also assured, but I will still have to campaign. That will be grueling. I'm not a young man, but this program and others like it will define my presidency. I want results by the end of the first term."

  Ambrose stood. The others set aside their drinks. Woodrow smiled as Jerry clapped him on the back and made small talk as they moved toward the door. Coats were found, buttoned up, scarves draped around necks although it was doubtful they would get chilled on their short walks to the chauffeured cars awaiting them. Ambrose, ever the good host, saw them out. Mark Hyashi hung back, wanting one more word with the next president of the United States.

  "Ambrose, I just want you to know that I am willing to do my part in all this, but I don't want political speak between us. We are talking about cultural manipulation not guidance, and we have no idea what the unintended consequences of that will be – economic not being the least of them. I want your assurance that research and application will be transparent from the start to those of us who sign on."

  "My only concern is the safety and prosperity of this country, Mark." Ambrose grasped the young man's hand. "We want to be left in peace. What I propose is enlightenment. Permanent enlightenment."

  Ambrose shook Mark's hand and clapped him on the shoulder, following him onto the doorstep. Woodrow had paused beside his car, his driver holding open the door. He caught Ambrose's eye and a question passed between them. Ambrose lifted his hand and waved him off without anyone else seeing. Woodrow ducked into his car. Ambrose went back inside where Eugene lingered.

  "Ah, Eugene, it's time you go home. It seems you've had a long day."

  Ambrose took the last coat from the hall closet. He was tired but he still had an hour or two of reading to do. It bothered Ambrose that the boy was breaking protocol in so many small ways this evening. He passed the coat to Eugene who took it but made no move to put it on.

  "Eugene?" Ambrose prodded.

  "I was late because of the man at the hearing today. Ian Francis?"

  "Yes?"

  "He's dead." Eugene blurted.

  "Really?" Ambrose was less than curious.

  "Senator, he jumped out of the window of his hotel," Eugene insisted.

  "That's tragic. Poor man." Ambrose shook his head and opened the door wider. Eugene missed his cue.

  "His name is Ian Francis, Senator. Perhaps you'll remember him from this."

  Eugene took three sheets of paper from his breast pocket and gave them to the senator. It took a moment for Ambrose to understand what he was looking at. When he did, the silence stretched even further. Because the senator still stood at the open door Eugene did not imagine that the shiver that ran through the great man was anything but a reaction to the frigid air. Finally, he spoke.

  "I didn't realize. I didn't know him personally." Ambrose refolded the paper.

  "But you were a part of it. You were the one who. . ." Eugene began, only to stop when Ambrose closed the door and came close.

  "It is history, Eugene," he said quietly, "and I was a very small part of that history, I assure you."

  "Given the discussion this evening, I thought it relevant. This could be devastating to the campaign, not to mention this new program. If the press gets wind of this, it would be a scandal, sir." Eugene insisted.

  "I have no enemies in the media," Ambrose insisted. "The opposition is considered fringe, not me."

  Eugene shook his head, unconvinced. "Times are different, Senator. The media can change from one minute to the next. I think we need to be ready."

  "What I think is that it is very late." Ambrose left no room for dissent. "We'll talk later if you really think we must but as you said the poor man is dead. That rather ends the matter, I believe. No one will come asking questions. Trust me."

  "We're heading into a national campaign." Eugene tried again to engage the senator, hoping that he would at least acknowledge his brilliance in putting two and two together. That wasn't going to happen.

  "And that's what we should be concentrating on." Ambrose opened the door again and stood aside to give Eugene a clear exit path. "It sounds like everything is taken care of. Good night then, Eugene."

  Eugene hesitated still. He had never questioned Ambrose's judgment but alarm bells were sounding in his head.

  "Josie Bates was in the room when he jumped."

  Eugene was finally rewarded with Ambrose's undivided attention. Ambrose's brow furrowed, his mouth turned down, his head tilted as if he could now hear the call to action.

  "She knew him all along then? Do you think Ms. Bates was laying the groundwork for something? No, no," Ambrose shook his head, answering his own question. "To what end? There's no connection between this man and Eastern Europe. There would be no reason to disrupt a hearing on a subject that was so personal to her."

  "I don't think it's anything like that." Eugene was quick to reassure him. "I was thinking that Francis possibly came there for you. It was unfortunate that he ran her down and that his rambling could be construed as pertinent to her problem. It was my fault not to recognize how determined she was to follow-up. I could have mitigated the outcome by monitoring a meeting in controlled circumstances. I'm sorry. I let you down."

  "Nonsense, Eugene. I wouldn't have thought it of her either. I believed we had sent her on her way. We miscalculated, that's all. There is no fault. It was a fluke," Ambrose assured him but the senator's mind was still working on the permutations of possible problems that could come from that woman's curiosity about Ian Francis. "If Josie Bates did have an agenda of some sort, we would have had reporters on our doorstep by now. Did you speak with her?"

  "I thought it best not to connect your office in any way outside of the hearings. I was in touch with Officer Morgan throughout. Morgan was following Francis to see where he went. He didn't even know Bates was in that room until the incident. Then he interviewed her. Francis didn't say anything to her about his work. He never spoke to the desk clerk or other residents. Morgan and Ms. Bates agree that he purposefully fell from the window. The girl who was with him has disappeared."

  "Then it sounds as if you have things well in hand, Eugene." Ambrose squeezed Eugene's arm. It was done.

  "Would you like me to take that?" Eugene's hand was out. Ambrose looked at the sheets of paper in his hand.

  "No, but thank you," he said. "You need to be off. We have an early morning."

  "Good night then." The younger man took the outside stairs slowly, pausing on the last when Ambrose called out to him.

  "It really was a long time ago, Eugene. Intentions were good. We learned from it."

  "Yes, Senator," Eugene said.

  "Thank you, Eugene. I'm blessed to have you. I trust that you won't speak of this to anyone."

  If Eugene responded Ambrose Patriota didn't hear. The door was closed but the chill remained, so Ambrose went to the dying fire and stood in front of it. It did nothing to warm him so he threw the papers onto the embers. They curled at the edges, singed, and then caught in a quick burst of flame. It was a silly thing to do. If Eugene had found this information anyone could, but watching it burn made Ambrose feel better.

  So many people came and went in a man's life one couldn't remember them all. But he remembered the time, the mission, the high hopes, and the ignominious fall of those powerful men who had since gone to their rest. Now he was in power and he would do things differently. The paper was ash, so Ambrose packed away the memories, flicked away the speck of guilt that had landed on his shoulder, and went upstairs. This time the outcome would be very different.

  This time no one would get hurt.

  ***

  Woodrow Calister dialed Ambrose's private number but disconnected the call before it rang through. His chest expanded as he took a deep breath, but he made no sound as he let it out again. He felt like an old man after one of these evenings with Ambrose. The senior
senator, the party's pick for president, was a rare individual to be sure. To have Ambrose's energy, to believe so surely in one's own destiny, was a gift. Or a curse. Or just plain stupidity. Woodrow couldn't decide which it was. Still, he admired Ambrose greatly and was honored to stand beside him. They would make a good team when it was the two of them running the country.

  His eyes wandered from the view of a city he had long ago stopped admiring. It was all show, every last bit of it. A great show to be sure. Still, to those who knew it well, there was no comfort to be found in it.

  "Matthew?"

  His driver indicated that he was listening by the merest motion of his head as he made a clean and sweeping curve through an intersection at a light that was questionably more red than yellow.

  "Did you ever see that movie Westworld? You know, Yul Brenner is some kind of robot and people go to this place for vacation and they can live in any time period they want for a week. The robots act like roman slaves or Greek gods. Yul Brenner is a gunslinger robot in the old west and he goes berserk and then all the robots go berserk and kill everyone. You know the movie?"

  "Sorry, Senator. I don't think I've seen that one," he answered.

  "Too bad. Good movie. Mindless people doing outrageous things to please themselves because the robots can't feel anything. Of course, all the robots look like people and they are all beautiful. Anyway, it was a statement. Eventually the things you abuse or try to control will turn on you. At least that's how I took it." Woodrow spoke to the back of Matthew's head, longing for a bit of conversation, and hoping to coax it out of the man whose job it was to see and hear nothing.

  "Wish I could help you, sir," Matthew said. "I'm not sure I know who Yul Brenner is, sir."

  "The King and I? The Ten Commandments? Yul Brenner."

  Delighted that the chauffer was interested, Woodrow was ready with a bio of the great actor but just then the car passed under a streetlight. Woodrow saw that Matthew was smiling and it wasn't a good smile. It was the kind Woodrow's kids gave him when he was showing his age. It was the smile his wife gave him before she had enough of the political life and left him. Those smiles never bothered him, but this one did. This was his chauffer humoring him and that just ticked Woodrow Calister – distinguished leader of the Armed Services Committee, respected senator, soon to be vice-presidential candidate – off in the worst way. It angered him so much his eyes burned with it but he stayed silent. In the grand scheme of things Matthew was nothing. Woodrow wasted no energy on him. Instead, he dialed Jerry.