Edward Llewellyn - Prelude to Chaos

“I remembered!” I put my face in my hands. Rubbed my aching eyes. I remembered Helga and Gloria. Both murdered by Futrell’s men. As he had meant to murder me. The Pen had saved me. “Every detail!” I staggered as I got down from the table.

Barbara caught me, steadied me. “You’d better sit down.” There was compassion in her gray eyes, the first I had ever seen in them. “You look like hell!”

“Feel like I’ve been there.” I recovered control of my legs. “I’ll be all right. The fighting? What’s happened?”

“Fighting finished hours ago. Chuck Yackle arrived with reinforcements. Landed on the far side of the Point and came charging across it like the US Cavalry.”

“Oh Christ!” I had seen religious fanatics charging Troopers. “How many killed?”

“None! A lot of bruises and a few cracked ribs from falling on the rocks. That’s all. By the time Yackle got here Futrell had almost persuaded the soldiers that the best thing they could do was to fix those two gunships and take off. Yackle’s arrival with ten boats and eighty rifles convinced ’em. So they did—leaving most of the civilians behind. I’ve got ’em locked up in separate cells. Maybe they’ll tell us what all this is about.” If Judith wore her present expression when she asked them they’d tell her without further persuasion. “Where’s Futrell?”

“By himself in your old cell. I’ve patched him up.”

“Can I see him?”

“Are you sure?” She studied me with the uncertainty of a teacher eyeing an untrustworthy pupil. “Can you control yourself now?”

“I think so. If I can’t—you’ve still got the Jetal”

Futrell was lying on the bed; washed and bandaged he looked more like his TV image than the drowned rat I had dragged from the cabin of Sea Eagle. He sat up when I came in, and the hatred in his eyes matched mine. “Hello Knox! Still obeying your master’s orders?”

Judith followed me into the cell, then stood with her back to the door, her Jeta at the ready. “No violence!” she warned.

I sat down facing him and for a few moments we stared at each other. Then I said, “Grainer ordered me to protect you.”

“Protect me?” His surprise changed to a sneer. “Protect me when you couldn’t protect him! Why the hell would Grainer tell you that?”

“Then—I couldn’t imagine. Now—I know! Because you were the biggest bastard in his team. Because he could count on you not to crack in the crunch. Grainer saw the crunch coming. He must have known about Impermease. Did you?” My question caught him off guard. He hesitated, then said, “Only after the damage was done. When all we could do was to reduce its effects.”

“By keeping people in line? By forcing industry to fill up these dumps?”

“Of course! And we’re one of the few governments who managed to plan for survival.”

“Like you planned for your own? And for your pals?”

“For all America!” He clasped his hands around one knee. “Do you think I had Grainer killed?”

“You had him murdered. Like you had Helga and Gloria murdered.”

“Helga and Gloria? Who were they?”

“Two of Grainer’s friends.”

“There were a lot of people keen to kill Grainer’s friends—once Grainer was gone.” He smiled his ugly smile. “I wish to hell they’d killed you! But I didn’t arrange Grainer’s assassination. I just let it happen.”

“You just let it happen? What the hell do you mean? If you didn’t arrange it, who did?”

“Grainer himself!” He laughed at my expression.

I heard the hiss of Judith’s breath and felt her hand holding me back as I started to rise. I shook her off, sat down, and spat, “That’s a lousy lie! Arnold wouldn’t have faked an assassination—”

“Not faked—real. That bullet killed him instantly. As he had expected. As he had hoped!”

Futrell must be lying. “Why the hell should Grainer let himself be murdered? Murdered on the eve of an election he must win to block the big shutdown?”

“An election he was likely to lose.”

“Balls! Back in April, after New York, Grainer had enough delegates to get the nomination. You bastards may have thought he hadn’t—”

"Us bastards thought he had. When he carried the Convention we were all sure he’d win in November. In October he learned he wouldn’t. That even if he won the Presidency he’d lose the game!”

“Bullshit! Randolph ran on Arnold’s record. And took every State except Ohio. Roat wouldn’t have held even Ohio if he’d been up against Grainer.”

“Roat had hard evidence tying Grainer to the veralloy scam.”

“A dead issue!”

“Involving a dead man.”

“That old lie!” I hesitated. “You mean Shantz? He deserved what he got.”

“I agree. But he got it from Grainer in person. And Roat had enough evidence to nail the killing on Grainer—even if Grainer hadn’t done it.” He studied me. “Why the hell did Grainer kill Shantz himself? When he had guys like you who’d have been glad to do it for him.”

“Arnold was that kind of man. He did his own dirty work.” I hesitated, and stared at Futrell. “Where did Roat get his evidence? He was the dumbest Senator in Congress.”

“And the smartest ward heeler in the United States. That’s how he clawed his way into the Senate. His intelligence was minimal but his instincts were unerring. Verbal assassination was his metier. And he’d built up a case against Grainer too convincing to ignore—if made public.”

“I never heard a whisper of it. And I heard about most things.”

“Neither had the rest of us—not until October. Roat and his pals held back until the Party—until all of us, including Randolph—were completely committed to Grainer. Then he followed his ward-heeler instincts and offered Grainer a deal. He showed Grainer the evidence and said, ‘Quit now and I’ll keep quiet.’ He thought he had Grainer cornered.”

“Christ—he was lucky to leave Camp David alive!” I remembered the night of Roat’s secret visit. The stink of his sweat when I escorted him from his chopper; the smirk on his face after his meeting with the President. The smirk of a pol who has made a deal. At the time I’d assumed he’d parlayed a lost election into an Embassy.

“We were on the verge of rapprochement with Moscow and Beijing. Both suspected that Impermease was one of our biological weapons which had backfired, but Lobachevsky and Chung trusted Grainer when he showed them the American statistics and proved that we were being hit even harder than them. He convinced them that the danger was universal and acute. He also persuaded them to trust Randolph. If Roat had become President, or if Grainer had been discredited, there’d have been a superpower confrontation and we’d have lost what little stockpiling time we had.”

“Arnold should have told me to get Roat!” I breathed. “Still the simpleminded hit man, eh Knox?” Futrell laughed. “There were a dozen Pubs to inherit Roat’s role— and evidence. If Grainer’d won he’d have been the first US President indicted for murder while in office. Whether he quit or ran, the result would have been disaster. Grainer did all he could to postpone it. Pushed the Tripartite Pact through Congress and then let himself be assassinated before Roat could pull the plug. He’d already got planning for Impermease off the ground; he bailed out and left us to cope with the crash!” Futrell gave another of his ugly smiles. “Grainer didn’t give a damn about what happened to his friends. Or his enemies. Or his bodyguard. All he cared about was his own niche in history.”

“You’re claiming he arranged his own death! That’s suicide!”

“Suicide dressed up as martyrdom! Grainer made sure he died a hero. That his mantle would cover Randolph and make him the next President. Even Roat and his gang had the sense not to slander a hero who’d been dead less than a month. And once Randolph was safely in, I was able to take care of Roat.”