Ben Bova - The Multiple Man

“Then let me go, and you stay here.”

“Not on your life!”

A quizzical look came over her face. “That’s an interesting choice of words.”

“All right,” I said. “The argument is closed. I’m going to Aspen this afternoon. You hold the fort here.”

She didn’t answer. It was impossible for that elfin face to sulk, but she was damned close to it.

“And I want you to stay with friends while I’m away,” I added. “You’re not immune to an accident here in Washington, you know.”

“I have some friends I could stay with,” she said.

“Male or female?”

Vickie arched an eyebrow. “Does it make any difference?”

“Would I ask if it didn’t?”

She smiled. But she didn’t answer.

I took the United flight to Denver and the Rocky Mountain Airways bounce-along to Aspen. Deciding that boldness was my best protection. I rented a helicopter and told the pilot to land me at the pad alongside the Generals house.

“I gotta have clearance first,” he told me over the whine of the chopper’s turbines. “Those guys don’t think twice about shootin’ at ya.”

He was a grizzled, fiftyish, hulking bear of a man, the kind who didn’t look as if he scared easily. On the other hand, a man doesn’t earn a living flying in the tricky air currents of the Rockies if he’s inclined to take chances and trust to luck.

We were already airborne and in five minutes we’d be over the General’s estate.

“Okay,” I said to the pilot. “You raise them on the radio, but let me talk to them.”

He gave me a wary glance but did it anyway. I took a headset from his chunky hand as the valley slid below us. The chopper was riding fast and low; the air was smooth enough to make the ride almost pleasant. The snow was still heavy on the ground, broken only by plowed roads and the dark green of big fir trees reaching up toward us. The town was behind us, out of sight. The only signs of habitation I could see were occasional houses or ski lodges sitting low and stony against the snowy fields.

As I clamped the headset on, a tinny voice grated in my ear: “Who’s asking for landing clearance? Repeat, who is requesting landing clearance?” The voice already sounded annoyed.

“This is Meric Albano, press secretary to the President of the United States.” The title always impressed the hell out of me; maybe it would buffalo them a little. “We’ll be landing in a red and white Snowbird Lines helicopter in about three or four minutes. I’m here to see General Halliday and Dr. Peña.”

“I’ll have to check with—”

“Check with whoever you want to, after I’ve landed. We’re coming down and we don’t want any interference. If there is any trouble, the President will hear about it immediately.”

We landed without trouble. But it seemed to me that my pilot could’ve waited until I was clear of his rotor downwash before he took off again. He jerked that whirly-bird off the General’s property like a spatter of grease jumping off a hot skillet.

I coughed the dust and grit out of my face and followed an escort of three very large men—the kind who go from careers in the state police to careers in private goon squads. They led me up to the house, but apparently they were strictly outside men. I was picked up at the door by a very polite Oriental, dressed more or less as a butler. Probably could crack bank vaults with a single chop of his hand.

The butler was extremely polite. He showed me into a very comfortable sitting room with a view of the valley through the ceiling-high windows. He spoke in a very soft voice, with an accent that was more UCLA than the other side of the Pacific. He asked me if I cared for anything to drink. I said no. He bowed slightly, just a slight inclination of his head.

“General Halliday was not expecting visitors this afternoon. He begs your indulgence for a few moments.”

“I’ll wait,” I said.

“Is there anything I could do to make you more comfortable?”

“You could tell Dr. Peña that I’m here and want to talk with him.”

He blinked. For a moment I got the impression that he was a cleverly built transistorized robot, run by a computer that had to search through its entire instruction program to find the correct response to the mention of Dr. Peña’s name.

At last he said, “I don’t believe Dr. Peña is receiving any visitors at all.”

“But he is here.”

“So I have been told. I have not seen him myself.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

He bowed, a little deeper this time, and withdrew from the room.

It was a large room, very pleasantly decorated. Rustic style. Knotty pine paneling. Big gnarled beams across the ceiling. Stone fireplace with a grizzly bear rug in front of it. Balcony outside the windows. I walked across a scattering of Navaho carpets and admired the view: the mountains were still glittering with snow, forests of pine and spruce marching up their flanks. I couldn’t see the valley or the town from here. Maybe from the balcony. I tried the sliding glass doors. They were locked.

I spun around and saw that the room had only one other door, the one I had come in through. It was closed. I hurried across to try the handle. It was locked, too. I wasn’t getting out of this room until the General wanted me out.

So I sat around and waited, trying not to get the shakes. There were no books to read. The fireplace was cold and dark. A few magazines were scattered on the coffee table in front of the room’s only couch—old issues of Camping Guide and Investor’s Weekly. I gave the phone a try and got that oh-so-polite Oriental butler, who informed me that General Halliday had requested that I refrain from making any outside calls until he had spoken with me.

In disgust, and to keep my mind from winding itself up into a terrified little knot, I turned on the television set and watched an idiotic children’s show about a park ranger and his teenaged kids who somehow had gotten themselves mixed up with dinosaurs.

During the fourteenth breakfast food commercial, the General came in. I didn’t hear the door open behind me, but the TV picture winked off. I turned and there he was, leaning over stiffly, one hand still on the control keyboard set into the little table next to the door.

“I’m glad to see that you found something to occupy your mind while you were waiting,” he said as I got up from my chair. He was far from smiling.

“I’m glad to see you didn’t keep me waiting all that long. Time passes slowly in jail.” I decided as the words were coming out that I’d better not let him think he could cow me. Old reporter’s habit: mouth first, then brain. Instinct followed by rationalization.

“Just what in hell are you trying to do, Albano?” The General normally looked annoyed at lesser creatures. Now he looked blazingly angry.

“I’m trying to save your son’s life… and his Presidency. Or doesn’t that matter to you?”

He hadn’t budged an inch from where I’d first seen him. “Get out of here,” he said, his voice low and slightly trembling. “You wise-mouthed son of a bitch… get out of my house!”

“Sure,” I said, taking a couple of steps toward him and the door. “But once I’m outside I’m going to call a press conference and blast this story wide open.”

“Like hell you will.”

“If you’re thinking I won’t make it back to Washington, guess again. An assistant of mine knows all about this, and she’ll take over if anything happens to me.”

He didn’t bat an eye. “If you mean Ms. Clark, forget it. She can be bought off very easily. Or silenced.”

Jesus! “Maybe so,” I bluffed. “But I’ve also spilled the story to a reporter who’ll break it as soon as anything happens to either one of us.”