Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

Smith wanted to protest, but the other man was right-he didn't know anything about PR. That wasn't part of his job description. Covert was covert; they never admitted or denied anything.

“You beginning to see the situation, Smith?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, what we want is to make sure that this Beech doesn't start a revolution. We want to dump the blame for the riot. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the direct approach hasn't worked with Beech-and you can be proud of that, if you want, because that's exactly what you programmed him for, asshole. He's supposed to be able to handle any kind of direct attack, isn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So why the hell did you use them? Chrissake, man…”

Smith swallowed uneasily.

The chief of staff took a moment to collect himself. “So we need to find another approach,” he continued eventually.

“Like what?”

The chief of staff smiled. “Why, it's obvious. You heard his speech, saw the vids?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He says he's not a revolutionary,” the tall man pointed out. “He says he wants peaceful political reform.”

“That's just propaganda, sir,” Smith said. “It's in the Spartacus File. It's all just talk, for public consumption. He's still programmed for violent revolution.”

“Of course,” the other agreed, nodding. “But what if we take it literally? What if we invite him to Washington for talks?”

“What?”

“What if we apologize, say it was all a misunderstanding, and invite him down here to meet the president?”

“Sir, he'd assassinate the president!”

“Okay, then, to meet somebody, some geek from State maybe. It doesn't matter who he talks to. The point is, we get him out of the underground, out where we can see him, keep an eye on him.”

Smith blinked. “And then we can get him with his defenses down and kill him?”

“Oh, God,” the chief of staff said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling in disgust. Then he leaned forward again and hammered the desk with his fist. “ No, asshole! We don't kill him. We co-opt him. How the hell is he going to recruit an army if he's here talking to the Under-Secretary for Urban Affairs? Hell, we could even appoint him Under-Secretary for Urban Affairs if we have to! We make him think we're taking his reform talk seriously, and tie him up in red tape until everyone just forgets him, until he's just one more former radical giving speeches no one listens to!”

“But… he won't do it. He's compelled.”

“That's fine, too. Then we can point and say, ‘Look, we tried,’ and we can send the SWAT teams after him and blow him away right out in public and people will cheer for us instead of starting riots! And we'll take our time about it and do it right, with bombs or serious firepower, no more half-baked crap with snipers using armor-piercing shells… Jesus, Smith, where'd you come up with that, anyway?”

“It seemed… we wanted to be ready for everything, and we thought he might wear a vest…”

“Right.” He grimaced in disgust. “You thought.”

For a moment the two men were silent; then Smith asked, “So you'll issue a pardon for him, then? And after that Covert's out of it?”

The chief of staff shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “We need to dump the blame for the riot. We need a scapegoat if we're going to pull this off and have the public on our side when we ask Beech to surface.”

Smith felt a sudden cold dread.

The chief of staff smiled.

“You got it, Smith. Seems there's a small covert unit gone rogue, went after this Beech character without authorization, but of course we've caught them now. We'll have a nice show trial, you and maybe three or four others will be convicted and given twenty years, and then we'll quietly lose you on the way to prison, and next thing you know you'll be in the Witness Protection Program somewhere.”

“But… my work… my career…”

“So you'll have a two-year vacation. It'll be about that long before this blows over. A sabbatical, Smith-you can do some studying, brush up on your practical politics. Maybe when you come back you'll have a better handle on the way the real world works.”

Smith shuddered.

“Cas! C'mere, quick!” Mirim shouted.

Casper was out of his seat at the kitchen table before he even realized he'd heard Mirim's voice-the Spartacus File, as he'd discovered right from the first, had its own reflexes, faster than his own natural ones.

“'Scuse me,” he said to Cecelia and Ed, as he hurried into the living room.

Mirim was watching Headline News; a government spokesman was on the screen, half a dozen microphones shoved into his face.

“…responsible for this regrettable incident are under arrest,” the spokesman was saying.

“What's happening?” Casper asked, as he settled onto the couch.

“I repeat,” the spokesman said, “their actions were completely unauthorized, and a thorough investigation is under way.”

“The sniper at the rally,” Mirim said. “They're saying he was part of a rogue cell within the national security structure, acting illegally.”

Casper threw her a quick glance, then locked his attention on the screen.

“Sir!” a reporter called, “does this mean that Casper Beech, the speaker at that rally, is in fact not a terrorist?”

“We can't say that definitely at this time,” the spokesman replied, “but it appears that in fact, there is no evidence that Mr. Beech had broken any laws at the time these renegades issued their order for his apprehension. Mr. Beech has not been indicted, and the government has dropped all charges against him. We do have some questions we'd like to ask him in connection with prosecuting those responsible for this outrage, and the City of New York apparently has some problems with his failure to obtain a permit for his rally…” He paused, grinning, for the reporters to laugh appreciatively. “…but if he was sincere in saying that his organization, People For Change, is dedicated to peaceful political reform, we trust he'll come forward and share his insights with us. Together, I'm sure we can prevent any further abuses of this sort.”

Cecelia had followed Casper from the kitchen, without rushing; now she stood in the doorway, listening to the speech.

“Pretty good,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “Notice how he left everything open. If they decide you're trouble, Cas, they can still hit you with failure to get that permit, and wrongful death suits by the relatives of the four feds in Philly, and a lot of other shit.”

“Yeah,” Casper agreed, “it's a nice recovery. I hadn't thought of this. If I surface, they can keep an eye on me and tie me up six ways to Sunday, and stage an accident if they decide it's necessary. But if I stay underground, I'll be discredited-they'll be able to ask everyone why I'm still hiding if I'm not a terrorist.”

“So what do you do?” Mirim asked.

“For now,” Casper replied, “I stall.” He reached into his pocket and extracted his wallet, then pulled out a bill. “Here, Celia,” he said, “take this as a retainer, would you?”

Cecelia didn't move. “Why?” she asked.

“Because you're going to surface, of course, and start negotiating my surrender.”

“I am?”

“Sure. Weren't you saying that keeping me alive was just a matter of the right P.R. and legal shenanigans? Well, here's your chance to prove it.”

“You're going to give up? The Spartacus File hasn't got some clever way to twist this around again?”

Casper shrugged. “Hey, Celia, they've got me-the File doesn't cover anything like this. Schiano and his people couldn't think of everything, and besides, this is really outside what Schiano had planned on. He was figuring on guerrillas and battles, not political duels. The Party's got the real political pros here, and they're finally using them. I'd hoped they wouldn't catch on in time, but they have. They've outmaneuvered me by giving up those Covert guys and saying they were acting alone, out of control. I don't have a power base to argue that from. If I stay underground now, it'll prove I'm a terrorist, as far as the public is concerned, so I've got to surface pretty soon-but I'm not about to just walk into the local cop shop. I could have an accident, or commit suicide. So I want you to stall until I'm sure I'll be safe.”