Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

“So much for scientists and soldiers, and the governments who jerk them around like puppets.

“You people were selected by Simon Correll and the associates of the Correll Group — Eric Van Pelt, Lord Conestain and Mies Kraager — to implement an alternative to the collision course we’re on with oblivion. Your areas of influence are strategically pivotal, because they spread across the world’s most dangerous social fault lines. Your states are classic amalgams of the modern disastrous mix — right-wing military juntas, left-wing rebels, massive poverty and overpopulation, crime, disease and all the other contemporary ingredients of terminal eruptions — torture, terrorism, genocide. Which is exactly why you’re qualified to receive a franchise for Ancilia Four. I like the irony of that, by God, I do.”

The general was interrupted by a series of delicate chimes from his wristwatch.

“When you control the emotions of your people,” he went on, clicking off the timing device, “ you will control everything else they do. That is what our film will demonstrate to you. But before that, ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to break for a glass of something or other and some lunch.”

During Taggart’s briefing, Jennifer and Simon Correll waited in a conference room adjoining the general’s office. Quade brought them coffee and a bottle of Spanish brandy. Logs burned evenly in a corner fireplace and reflections glinted on the wooden frames of parchment maps on the paneled walls. With the rain came the throb of coursing helicopters.

Jennifer said, “Why did you insist I come along, Simon?” The reasonableness in her tone emphasized her exasperation. “I hate places like this, guards and fences and gates. The soldiers are like animals in cages. They’re polite and docile with their ma’ams and heel snapping but their eyes give them away.”

“They probably resent you because you’re out of reach. That’s normal enough.”

“I have the feeling nobody’s been laid around here since, God, I can’t imagine.”

She was seated in a leather chair with wide arms. Her slender legs were crossed on a suede ottoman. The chair was huge, the leather against her shoulders and hips was cold and unyielding. She uncrossed her legs and twisted about to make herself comfortable.

“I just don’t understand, Simon. Are we going to be here long?”

Correll stood looking out at the playing fields, at the gray and misting rains. “Yesterday morning Bishop Waring called me in New York.” He walked to Jennifer and put his hands on her slim shoulders.

She looked up at him. “Is that unusual?”

“My mother isn’t well. That was one reason he called.”

“Simon, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, she has the best of care.” Correll gently but expertly massaged her neck and shoulders. His probing fingers felt her muscles relax.

Maps glowing in the firelight showed German attack lines in Belgium marked with black-and-red arrows. Others routed ancient Roman marches in England. The cold, spare room depressed her, he knew, that and the rain and the menacing sound of the searching helicopters.

“His Excellency also wanted to tell me,” Correll said, “that one of Lester’s investigators, a Victoria Kim, was at Mount Olivet yesterday. She had a subpoena for my appointment books, correspondence and so forth.”

“Haven’t you been expecting that?”

“Yes, but Senator Lester is moving faster than I thought.” He suddenly pressed his thumbs hard against her neck muscles. “There, that should do it.”

“Oh, yes, yes . Thanks, that marvelous. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy.”

Correll absently stroked her pale, smooth hair, his thoughts turning back to his own problems.

Someone with sensitive information was briefing Lester’s people. The senator had a competent staff, was wealthy, and could afford to buy every variety of “deep throat” that infested Washington and most other world capitals. He could enlist undercover agents if he wanted or needed them, police officials, aides to other committees, spies tucked away deep in opposition offices. But it was more than that, Correll suspected; the penetration and pressure against the Correll Group here and abroad suggested higher echelons. The White House or State, possibly one of their all-purpose so-called advisers.

Last night he had tried to pump Bishop Waring. His Excellency was politically sophisticated, catnip for Washington hostesses, much like the late, charismatic Bishop Fulton Sheen, and with wide government contacts, on easy terms with Ferdinand Bittermank, who worked in low profile for both the Oval Office and State.

But the bishop was no help. He’d been in his most apostolic mood last evening, on a plane far above the trivial and mundane. His concern was only for Correll’s mother’s spiritual welfare. The old woman was probably dying; the trip to eternity must be attended to, forms stamped, bookings confirmed; all of which occupied the bishop’s total attention.

Correll paced in front of the fire and said to Jennifer, “One thing worries me about Miss Kim’s subpoena. Can you guess what?”

She was wearing smoked glasses that were like black mirrors in the firelight. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Her search warrant included your rooms. Any idea what she was looking for?”

Jennifer quickly removed the glasses and looked up at him. “Can they do things like that?”

“Of course they can.”

“But supposing I’d left something personal around. A... gift I’d wanted to surprise you with?”

“Who knows what they’re after? It could be bureaucratic make-work, or a scare tactic. But that’s why I brought you here with me. Even a United States senator couldn’t serve a warrant on you now. I don’t want you surprised by Miss Kim before we have a chance to talk.”

“But what’s there to talk about? It’s unfair to put it like that, I don’t know anything. You’re accusing me of something, whether you realize it or not.”

“I’m sorry. Would you like a brandy?”

“No. Just tell me why you think the senator’s people wanted to search my rooms, and why they’d want to talk to me.”

“Have you ever kept any notes of our conversations?”

“Why would I do that?”

“But have you?”

“Of course not.”

“What about a diary? Shopping lists, phone calls, notes about what to pack for trips?”

“What harm would there be if I had?”

“None at all. But they might be interested in whether you were packing for a ski trip or a vacation in Cape Town, let’s say.”

“I see. The itinerary. But I never know when we’re leaving Olivet, or anywhere else for that matter. Quade usually lets me know the night before.”

“Did you say anything to Harry Selby at Summitt that might connect you with me? Anything that would tell him where to contact you?”

She sat up. “You’re making me nervous, Simon. What’s Harry Selby got to do with a search warrant?”

“You said you tried to impress him, told him more than you should have—”

“That’s not what I told you. I talked too much, that’s true. But I didn’t say anything I shouldn’t have. I was nervous because I didn’t feel comfortable with him.”

“If you’re questioned by Miss Kim or the senator’s people, what will you tell them?”

She hesitated and Correll forced himself to be patient because he knew there was still another ordeal in store for her this morning. Which was difficult, because he had been distracted by Bishop Waring’s news... “Your mother was restless at supper, I knew something was wrong when she refused the fruited chocolates she likes so much. I noticed her manner at Vespers too. Usually the music calms her...” The senator’s investigation and Miss Kim’s court order were of trifling importance compared to the old lady’s refusal to be calmed by chocolates or the solemn filigree of the old Latin hymns, Cibabit Illos and Ecce Sacerdos Magnum...