Bentley Little - The Collection

He smiled at her, leaned forward. "You're next," he whis­pered, and he was gratified to see a look of fear cross her face. "Now make my fucking bed."

He continued down the hallway, feeling good. Simons had called first thing with the news: Crowther had been taken care of. Somehow, just knowing that cheered him up, made him feel better. The entire atmosphere of the White House seemed to have changed with this one bold stroke. He had been skulking around for the past two weeks, certain that the staff saw him as yet another weak puppet who had been cowed into submission, but now he walked boldly through the corridors, noting with pleasure that the domes­tic workers were all in fear of him.

Maybe they would be able to pull this off.

The others were waiting for him in the conference room. Derek had already swept the place for bugs and positioned his listening-device detector on the table, and twin sets of FBI agents were positioned at the doors.

"So what's our next move?" Adam asked.

Paul Frederickson looked up at him. "Nixon."

"Nixon?"

The secretary of state nodded. "I've been thinking about it for the past week. If the president is only a figurehead, then all that hype about Nixon's so-called imperial presi­dency has to be British disinformation. How could Nixon try to circumvent the Constitution and grab additional powers for himself when he never had the power attributed to him in the first place?"

Adam smiled. "Yes! He put up a fight. He tried to do what he was elected to do."

"And they crushed him. They must have been behind his disgrace."

"Get me whoever you can from Nixon's cabinet and staff, people who would know about this."

"Done," Frederickson said. "Haldeman's already on his way."

"Haldeman?" Adam frowned. "I thought he was dead."

"Reports of his death are greatly exaggerated. He's in hiding."

"Good," Adam said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Simons spoke up. "Crowther said that Carter didn't buy into it either. You think—?"

"Carter wouldn't talk to us, but we could feel out some of his underlings, see what we can get."

Adam nodded. "Do it."

"Those Clinton scandals must have been played up for a reason as well. The pressure was kept on him even after he left office."

"Look into it."

There was a knock on the south door and one of the FBI agents opened it carefully. He spoke for a moment to the person outside, and then the door opened wider. Larry Her­bert, Frederickson's assistant walked in.

Followed by H. R. Haldeman.

He was older but still instantly recognizable. The crew cut was back, but its severity was offset by a pair of soften­ing bifocals. Haldeman nodded at them. "Gentlemen."

Frederickson stood, looked at his assistant. "I assume you briefed him on the way over?"

Haldeman sat down in an empty seat. "Yes, he did. And I must say that I'm very happy to have you people in the fight."

They talked about the Nixon days, about the memos from Buckingham Palace, the hotline calls from the queen, the prepared speeches that Nixon refused to give, the complic­ity of certain cabinet members. Crowther had been around then as well, and Haldeman was shocked to learn that Adam had had the butler eliminated.

"Just like that?" he said.

Adam felt a surge of pride. "Just like that."

Haldeman shook his head worriedly. "You don't know what you're in for. There are going to be repercussions."

"That's why you're here. So we can pick your brain. I did this intentionally, to raise the stakes."

Haldeman sighed.

"There's nothing you can give us?"

"We've been training paramilitary groups for years, planning to overthrow the British."

"The militias?"

Haldeman snorted, waved his hand dismissively. "Para­noid cranks. And those hayseeds are too stupid to be able to handle something like this. No, we put together the inner-city gangs. We founded the Crips, the Bloods, and their brethren. We'd recruited minorities for the military in Viet­nam and it worked beautifully, so we decided to do the same with our revolutionary force. We couldn't let the British know what was happening, though, so we disguised them as independent organizations, rival youth groups fighting over drugs and neighborhood turf. We established them as crimi­nals, made sure they got plenty of publicity, plenty of air-time on news programs, and now they're believed to be such an intrinsic part of contemporary American life that even if one of them breaks ranks the myth is secure."

"You think it'll work?"

"Eventually. But we've already been doing this for twenty years, and we probably won't be ready for another ten or fifteen. We don't have the numbers. Britain can recruit from Australia, Canada, all of their colonies. If we went at them right now, we wouldn't stand a chance. Besides, some­thing like this takes planning."

"We need more immediate results."

"Sorry. I can't help you there."

They continued talking, sharing secrets, comparing strategies until midafternoon. Haldeman had to fly back to Chicago, and Adam walked with him to the limo. "Thank you for coming," he said, shaking the other man's hand.

"Anything for my country," Haldeman said.

Adam smiled. "You still think of this as your country?"

"Always."

Adam watched the limo roll down the drive and through the White House gates, and suddenly an idea occurred to him. He hurried back into the White House. Several of his advisors had suggested that the entire domestic staff be ex­ecuted as a way of provoking British forces in Washington to show themselves, but after talking to Haldeman he knew that that would be a suicidal gesture. This idea, though, was a good one.

This idea might work.

He ran into Simons in the corridor. "Gather everyone to­gether again," he said. "I have a plan."

"Hello?"

Even on the amplified speakerphone of the hotline, the queen's voice was distant, muffled.

"Greetings, Your Majesty." Adam made sure his tone was properly subservient.

"Why are you contacting us? If we wish to speak with you, we will initiate the dialogue."

"I'm calling to apologize, Your Majesty. As you may or may not have heard, there's been some miscommunication here at our end. Apparently, some of your subjects seem to believe that I and my people are somehow involved in the disappearance of the head of my domestic staff, Crowther."

"We have heard rumors to that effect."

He attempted to make his voice sound simultaneously obsequious toward her and condescending toward everyone else. "I would like to invite you to the White House so that we might have a face-to-face discussion on some of these matters. I am afraid I am fairly dissatisfied with some of your representatives here, and I believe you would be as well. I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your position, and I fear that your underlings here are doing a dis­service to both you and Britain."

Silence on the other end.

He held his breath, waiting.

"It has been some time since we have visited the States," the queen allowed. "And your accusations, we must admit, are somewhat alarming. We will come to visit the colonies and judge for ourselves. The proper people will be in touch."

Communication was abruptly cut off, and there was only silence on the hotline's speakerphone. Adam stared at the red phone for a moment, then a smile spread slowly across his face.

He turned toward Simons, pumped his fist in the air.

"Yes!"

***

She arrived on the Concorde two days later.

All the arrangements had been made. Outside White House grounds, everything continued on as usual, but within, FBI agents had rounded up and detained all domes­tic staff members and all known or suspected British agents. Outside contacts and government workers who were suspi­cious about the sudden lack of communication were pla­cated with the promise that the queen would be arriving to sort everything out—a fact they could double-check with Buckingham Palace.