Jack Chalker - A War of Shadows

“Thirty-five or forty, I think,” Hartman said. “Want me to check?”

Edelman dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. “So, let’s say forty. Now, they’re going to hit the twenty top U.S. cities—maybe the top twenty-five, but the ones we have are all in the top twenty so let’s stick to that.” He shifted, looking directly into the eyes of the other man. “Bob, even if the impossible happened and all of our plants got through undetected—an incredible result for a makeshift organization like this—what would be the odds of us getting plants on fourteen different teams out of a possible twenty? Or fifty, for that matter. See what I mean?”

Hartman was awake now, and his mouth opened a bit in surprise. “So that’s the answer,” he said.

Edelman nodded. “That’s right. It all ties together now. All of it, a hundred percent. I don’t think we have to hold off on those raids for fear of warning the others any longer. Let’s hit them.”

Hartman nodded. “And then what?”

Edelman’s face was grim, his tone of voice more chilling than Hartman could ever remember. “Bob,” the older man said, “I came into this agency when it was rocked up and down by abuses of power. In reaction, they weakened it beyond its ability to function, lots of nasty things happened, and we got a compromise that lasted until the emergency. Secrecy was the rule, yes, and we played by the rules. Absolutely. Or we got tossed in the pen ourselves. Besides, I believed that my grandparents had been gassed to death by a system that abused its absolute power, opening up the worst in human beings. I was never going to let that power rule me, never let the temptations of abuse creep up on me, for that would be a betrayal of the principles for which my grandparents died.” He sighed. “And now, after all this time, I realize that when this crunch came it was a cage, a prison. It was one of the reasons they put me on this investigation. Hell, Bob, the Nazis of my grandparents’ Germany arose in a democracy, and took over and dominated an enlightened and educated population. That was because the Nazis didn’t play by any rules, Bob—and in opposing them, you had to debase your principles or you would be debased by them. My ancestors didn’t, and they died.”

Hartman, who had no such connections to the past and no particular feeling for it, still saw the older man’s point.

Edelman’s fist slammed down on the desk, making papers and objects jump. “Damn it! I’ve been used—we’ve all been used—by the spiritual children of those Nazis! I’m mad, Bob. Damned mad. They set up this emergency, they created this crisis, and all so they could play by these rules, gain this absolute power. Well, by damn, I’m not going to be another good Jew who’s marched to the ovens! We’re the authority, too, for a while—as long as they let us.

And we’ve got all the powers they gave themselves for the emergency. Well, now we’re going to use them! I’ll still play by the rules—their rules! Let’s see how they like it!”

The last was said with such bitter acidity that it made even Hartman uncomfortable. “Easy, Jake. You know your heart—”

“Heart be damned!” he said. “That’s the other reason it’s me in this chair, Bob. When they don’t need me any more, a little syringe filled with air and —zap! The old man’s ticker went out. Hero’s burial.” He calmed down a little. “What about our mysterious phone number?”

Hartman’s eyebrows rose. He was taken aback by the sudden change in tone. “Well, the 500 exchange is the overload from the 800s,” he replied. “A lot of it’s legit business. The 555 exchange, however, is strictly Executive Branch, White House. The number goes into a centrex computer inside the White House and is routed according to a preprogrammed codex. No way to trace it specifically unless we were inside the computer with somebody who really knew what was what, and that’s out of the question.”

“Not Health and Welfare?” Edelman was genuinely surprised.

Hartman shook his head. “No, that’s 517. This is White House.”

Jake Edelman sighed and assumed his thinking pose. Hartman knew better than to disturb him, and, frankly, he felt like hell and didn’t want to, anyway. Finally the senior agent broke out of it, lit a cigar, blew a big cloud of bluish-gray smoke into the air, and said, “Bob, I’m going to take a gamble. It’s a big one, but solid, I think. If not, it won’t make much difference anyway. I’m asking you to handle it, so the initial hot potato is in your lap. It can kill you, Bob. Are you game?”

The younger agent was puzzled, but nodded. “You know I am, Jake.”

“You know Allen Honner?”

Hartman whistled. “The Chief of Staff? By reputation. I’ve never met him.”

“Well, I have, many times,” Edelman said. “He’s the. President’s man on the crisis committee. I checked out a lot of that committee, Bob. Several of them are fans of Mickey Mouse. But Honner—hell. He could do anything—program that centrex computer, get the goods on anybody blackmailable, even rig the assignments of Secret Service. And, if I were running a plot as elaborate as this, I sure as hell would be on the committee to solve my own crisis, wouldn’t you? It’d be the only way to know whether the plan was working, developing cracks, whatever. I’m betting on him, Bob.”

“Logical,” Hartman admitted. “So?”

“I want you to put the snatch on Honner, Bob,” Edelman said icily. “I want him snatched, then stashed at a safe house so secure even you don’t know where it is. I want Bart Romans from Bethesda brought in, and I want a complete mind probe. A hundred percent. I want names, dates, places. When you get him established, call me on the green box line and I’ll get there. Clear?”

Hartman shook his head slowly from side to side. “You don’t want much, do you?” he sighed. “Wow! Kidnapping and mind-probing the Chief of Staff!” He looked up. “Where’ll you be until my call comes in? Here?”

“An even better alibi,” Edelman said. “I’m going to personally lead a raid on the D.C. target team over in western Maryland.”

The younger man yawned again, got up, and stretched. “Well, okay. Have fun. I’m going to go run some Mickey Mouse fan names through the little computer. We’ll see just what the hell is going on here.”

The house was easy to spot; there wasn’t anybody living in the others and hadn’t been for some time. Although the target showed signs of occupancy, it still looked as if no one was home.

They had it ringed and targeted, and were ready for just about anything when they delivered the utimatum through bullhorns.

The lack of any response worried Edelman. Soldiers and agents finally rushed the place, and got no response, either. The door was blown open and they ran inside, quickly fanning out all over the house.

The only human they found was one handsome, muscular black man bound and gagged in one of the bedrooms. In the kitchen, though, they found the remains of the paraphernalia used to administer the vaccine and a number of blue cylinders. None of them were leaking, but the gauges on three of them showed them to be partially empty.

Edelman had no trouble identifying Sam Cornish; he had a photo and prints to settle his plant’s identity.

Cornish was upset. “You the head man?” he asked the Chief Inspector. Edelman nodded. “Good! They’re crazy! She’s the craziest of the bunch!”

“Did they make you?” Edelman asked. “And, if so, how come you’re still breathing?”

Cornish shook his head almost in disbelief. “No!

At least, I don’t think so. I got them to check out the vaccine, though. I had this feeling all along we were gettin’ played for suckers. And we were! It’s water—Plain water! And she knew it! Knew it and still sent ’em out, after icing me to make sure I wouldn’t tip ’em! Water!”