Ben Bova - The Multiple Man

Jeffrey dropped me off at my apartment building before going on to the White House. The limousine had one-way windows, so no one could see into it, and he stayed back in the shadows when I opened the door and quickly hopped out. Barring an automobile accident, there was no way for anyone to see him. The chauffeur drove slowly, and he had Secret Service credentials; the limousine was built like a tank, and its license plate bore the special White House code. They’d have to run over Abraham Lincoln before anyone could pry The Man out of the back seat. And there were unmarked cars gliding along in front and behind us as well. No noise, no sirens. But the limousine was well escorted.

When I finally stumbled into my apartment, I felt suddenly drained, emotionally and physically washed out. I let my flight-weight travel kit clunk to the floor of the living room, made my way to the bathroom for a fast leak, and was already halfway out of my suit when I turned on the bedroom light.

Vickie was in my bed, rubbing her eyes like a kid who’s been awakened by her loutish parents’ party.

“You’re back…” she mumbled sleepily.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I’m nothing if not gracious when surprised.

She pulled herself up to a sitting position. She was wearing a nightgown, but it was flinty, transparent.

“I thought this would be a safe place. With you out of town, nobody’d think to look for me here.”

I sat on the bed beside her.

“Besides,” she said, “I wanted to be here when you got back.”

She leaned slightly toward me, and I kissed her. I didn’t feel tired anymore.

“I was worried about you,” she said.

“I called the office every day.”

“But you didn’t talk with me.”

“I thought it’d be better if I didn’t.”

All this while I was holding her, kissing her, and squirming out of my clothes at the same time. If I didn’t wrench my back then, I never will.

Between making love and making talk, bringing her up to date on what had happened at Aspen, it was damned near dawn before we fell asleep. And Vickie hadn’t shut off my radio alarm. It started floating Beethoven at us at 730 sharp.

We showered together, I shaved while she dried her hair, I dressed while she put on makeup, and I flailed the last four eggs in the refrigerator into breakfast while she dressed. For kicks I sliced the butt end of an old pepperoni and tossed it in with the eggs. Start the day with a bang.

After breakfast we grabbed our respective hand-bags and went to the elevator. Vickie reached for the Lobby button, but I pushed her hand away and punched R, for roof. She started to ask me why, but I put a finger to my lips.

When we got to the roof and stepped out into the fine spring morning, I walked her to the parapet at the edge, as far from the door, and any listening devices, as we could get.

“I want to bring Hank Solomon up to date on what’s happening, but I’ll be damned if I know how to get in touch with him without tipping off whoever’s watching us. They most likely know he’s in with us, but still…”

Vickie shaded her eyes from the sun. “Do you think we’re still being bugged?”

I nodded. “This thing isn’t over yet. Far from it. Peña’s death may have been natural, but none of the others was. Maybe it wasn’t the General who did it, but it’s somebody close to him.”

“Wyatt?”

“Could be.”

“Why?’

“If I knew that, I’d know for sure if it was him or not.”

“So what do we do?”

“That’s what I want to ask Hank about. He ought to know more about this kind of thing than we do.”

“He told me he’d find a way to contact you. You shouldn’t try to reach him.”

“You saw him? When?”

Vickie grinned. “Very tricky stuff. I got a letter at the office, addressed to me personally. All that was inside was a clipping from the newspaper, with ads for the movies on it. One theater’s selection was circled in red, and the time of the showing was underlined. The envelope was from the Treasury Department, so I assumed it was from Hank… Secret Service is in Treasury.”

“So he met you at the theater.”

“That’s right. For about three minutes. He told me he was keeping a watch on me. And that he’d get in touch with you when you got back.”

I found myself taking a deep breath and half wishing I had stayed in Boston. Not even Beacon Hill politics was as devious as all this.

We drove to the office together, and by the time the elevator had stopped at our floor, Vickie had put on her office personality. Just a sunny smile and a “Have a good day!” Not that I made a grab for her. I had my office personality on, too. It had been warm and good in bed; it was great to have her there when I got home, rather than an empty apartment. But don’t start to expect it, I warned myself. Or depend on it.

I got a lot of kidding from the press corps at the morning briefing about being a gentleman of leisure. But no undercurrent of worry or rumor that my recent absences might be a symptom of something cooking inside the White House. If a Cabinet officer or a Pentagon official started playing hookey, then there’d be rumbles of interest from the newshawks. But the press secretary? Nobody cared.

As the briefing broke up, His Holiness told me that The Man wanted me in the Oval Office at 5:30. I made a mental note and went back to the Aztec Temple to plow through the accumulated paperwork on my desk.

Hank Solomon was one of the security guards down at the inspection post under the West Wing that afternoon. He winked at me, and I did my best not to make it look as if I knew him as I stepped through the sensor arch that screened me for identification and weapons.

The President was behind his big, curved desk as I stepped into the Oval Office. Wyatt was sitting in my favorite chair, the Scandinavian slingback, so I took his usual standby, the rocker next to the fireplace.

The Man watched me as I sat down. He grinned. “I can see exactly what’s going through your mind,” he said.

“Sir?”

“You’re wondering, Which one is he? Right?”

I grinned back at him. “Yes… that’s right.”

“I’m James John, the one whose hand you shook when you agreed to take the job.”

Somehow I felt relieved.

“It’s no use staring at him,” Wyatt groused. “You won’t be able to tell the difference between them. I can’t, for God’s sake, and I’ve known them since childhood.”

“What’re we going to do about this?” I blurted.

The President’s smile faded. “The deaths, you mean.”

“The murders, ” I said. “Somebody’s killing you—your brothers, one by one.”

Wyatt stirred uncomfortably. “That’s not…”

“Don’t give me that ‘natural causes’ crap again!” My voice was rising. So was my blood pressure. “Maybe the General believes that, but I don’t. Peña didn’t either. I was there when he tried to convince the General.”

“Peña was an old, old man,” Wyatt said. “I think maybe he went senile, right there at the end. Too many shocks. After all…”

“He would know better than anyone else,” I insisted.

The President shook his head. “Meric… murder has got to have a motivation. If somebody’s killing us, who is it? And why?”

I swear the words were out of my mouth before I realized that my mind had come to that conclusion. “It’s one of your brothers,” I said. “The one who wants to be the only President of the United States.”

For what seemed like fifteen minutes there was absolute silence in the Oval Office. Wyatt sat like a marble statue, completely unmoving and emotionless. The President looked thoughtful; then his face clouded darkly. And my own brain was telling me, Yes! That’s the answer! It’s the only possible answer. One of them is killing the others. One of them wants this office, this power, this nation all for himself One of them is insane.