3 Thank God it's Monday (8 page)

S
ometimes he wished he could be in several places at once. What
he would give to be in Washington right now to watch his little drama unfold? Or
in London as the Prime Minister was exposed before being shot by the nephew he
molested as a child? Or in Paris as the French President’s wife finally kills
the Prime Minister for sleeping with her husband for almost a year?

Instead, he sat in a recliner with a wall of massive flat screen
televisions. He hated American internet connectivity speeds. He found that his current
home, a converted 14
^th
-century fortress in the Transylvania Alps
near Rasnov, Romania, had better connection than his homes in Montana, Maine,
or even in Texas. Somewhere below, dozens of servers whirred. Technicians
worked like slaves (extremely well-paid slaves) to access and to re-route
information.

One thing that he did not hold in common with his
compatriots, his true brothers of Viveri, was his love of technology. He
believed that technology was finally the tool they needed to wrest power away
from those less competent. Advancements in communication, automation,
mechanics, and most importantly, medicine, would level the playing field.

Just hours before, several crises hit the globe. An attack
on an American Embassy in Juba. A scandal in London involving not only the
pedophile in the Prime Minister’s chair, but also the complete financial
collapse of the crown as well. In Amsterdam, a series of red-light district
murders were pinned on conservative police chiefs. In Tokyo, several health
care facilities were closed, the employees never showed up to work. Hundreds of
sick people were rioting in the streets.

Of course, in the next twenty-four hours complete
pandemonium would be in full force. Leaders and popular figures would bleed. The
political and social systems in the most powerful countries would collapse. The
fakers and incompetents would be replaced. The true rulers of the world would
arise, flex their considerable muscle from afar and set all things right again.
This all would take place over the next two weeks. It would take that long to
answer the millions of cries for order and peace.

Peace. That was what this all was about. Zeke Galbraith understood
the value of peace. He had dedicated his life to maintaining the balance of
power in the world by eliminating resistance to balance. His Machiavellian
philosophy required that the ends justify the means.

The Mystery Man had been confident that Galbraith would be
an easy convert and a valued addition to the Viveri brotherhood. So far, he had
not been disappointed. They had the massive capabilities and global power of
the Galbraith Association at their disposal. The technology that he desired was
now at his fingertips.

He raised a controller and changed a channel on the set
directly in front of him. He pulled on the crease of his slacks and put his
feet on a marble and maple table. The scene changed to a feed from an
underground bunker in Colorado. Clarence stood at a terminal nearby, a young
woman at his side. The Mystery Man grinned wickedly.

“So Clarence. I see you have my prize with you.” He let the
gravel of his voice punctuate his statement.

Clarence appeared startled for a moment and turned,
composed.

“Yes. Sir, Mr. Monday has arrived in Washington. He passed
the cortex test. He is prepped and prepared for the press conference.”

“Press Secretary Trent has come through for us, then? Good. I
had not seen the update.”

“Capitol Hill is abuzz. It is only the second terrorist
attack since President Vine lifted the sanctions in the first year of his
term.”

“He gets what he deserves. The madman actually thought he
could go around us. Today he will be repaid. There will be no mistakes this
time?”

“None that I can foresee. Over a dozen of the agents on site
today have already been compromised. The Press Secretary assures me that Jake
will have the access he needs to get within range. He will be using his
signature weapon. An improvised knife.”

“Excellent work so far Clarence.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“When can I expect the delivery of my victory prize?”

Clarence looked uncomfortable for a moment. He could tell
Clarence wanted to wipe his forehead or pull on the sleeves of his shirt. Clarence
was full of these vain idiosyncrasies, but he had faithfully served his family
for almost a decade now. Even though Clarence was prone to pride and vanity, he
was an able and motivated facilitator.

“I am afraid the package may have been damaged.” Clarence’s
voice did not sound remorseful.

“That was bound to happen. We must remember that we are
playing with the human mind. Not all minds are as pliable as our Mr. Monday’s. His
resilience is quite amazing. It is a shame that a specimen as unique as his
should be wasted on such a meaningless gesture.”

“I thought that assassinating Vine was key to your plan.”

“Don’t be disappointed if I tell you it does not matter. Our
corruption runs so deep, I could have his cleaning lady kill Gabriel in his
sleep. Catherine has phoned me twice in the last month begging me to let her do
it.”

He knew that Clarence was surprised. He was proud of him for
concealing it so well.

“Then why?” Simple question. Complicated answer. Maybe it
would be wise to cut Clarence off at this juncture.

He shrugged.

“It will be amusing to give Eilif his revenge at the cost of
his daughter’s life.”

Clarence smiled at that. He glanced back at Giselle and his
beady, watery eyes returned to the monitor.

“We will prep her for the trip, sir. Once we discover the
trigger Dr. Forsythe used, we will be able to recover most of her functions.”

“That will be delicious. I am looking forward to it. Send
her on to Rasnov with an escort. I plan on being here for the next week
watching this global drama unfurl its wings. The phoenix rising from the ashes.”
He smiled. It felt good. He put the unlit cigar to his mouth and bit down on
the end, chuckling softly.

“What do you want to do about Chen? He is making counter
moves.”

“We have China under our surveillance. Do not worry. Once
they think it won’t touch them, we will set our foot down on their neck. Rice
fields will burn, the Great Wall will fall, and their banks will fail in the
span of two days. Chen will join the ranks or fall prey to financial
destruction. There will come a great purge of the perceived nobility. When the
dust settles, we will take the reins again. With or without Chen.”

“And Granville Arms? Their shipments are not ready. Should
we put more pressure on there?”

“With the recruitment process in question, I say we just
give them a reminder. He did say by Christmas. Give him some more time.”

“I will visit him tomorrow. In the meantime, we have one
more issue.”

He hated words like “issue” or “difficulty” or “challenge.”
They all spelled the same word: failure. Clarence had a complete section of
vocabulary for these failure words. The only reason he indulged Clarence was
because he was otherwise so efficient, so unemotional, and so mechanical.

“What is it?” He tried not to allow his irritation to creep
into his voice. He kept his tone neutral.

“The recruits are resisting the programming after about
twenty four hours.”

“Submit them to re-programming, then. Or eliminate them. They
are useless to us if they think independently.”

“That is the problem, sir. Over forty percent of the
subjects reject the treatments on the second try. It completely fries their
motor and cognitive skills. Many of them go into a vegetative state. We are
quickly running out of recruits here.”

“Then scrap the whole damn thing.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Eliminate them all. Put the Sychol back into
the cases and send it to the FDA or pour it down the drain. I simply don’t care
anymore. It was a touchy science anyway. Besides, the failure of the program
will make Chen happy. He loves being right.”

“There is that,” Clarence offered. He was disappointed. The
Mystery Man could see it in his eyes. He had liked the control. Clarence was
acting like a teenager who had been told to put the electronics away for the
night.

Damaged goods. I bet.

“Concentrate on Granville for now, Clarence. And send me the
girl.”

“Yes Mr. Komnenos.”

He felt his lips press together and his eyebrows narrow.

“I hope you have a secure channel, Clarence,” he said.  He
knew that his veiled threat would cow the man.

“Of course,” Clarence stammered.  Surely, he understood his
mistake. Absolutely no one called him by his name.

“To be certain, from now on, you will resist the temptation
to reveal my name, even in supposed private.  Do you understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Send the girl. I am finished with you for now.”

Clarence nodded.

He changed the channel. He could barely look at the man anymore.
Clarence was practically gyrating in front of the camera. He was only mildly
successful at disguising his discomfort.

He switched back to the Washington feed. It was only minutes
before the press briefing. Clarence should be tuned in as well. He reached for
the bowl of nuts at his side and almost knocked it over.

The feed he was watching showed several camera views at the
same time: the entrance to the West Wing, the press room itself, and a camera
on the Washington monument that overlooked the grounds, showing two entrances. Guards
at the south entrance were interrogating a man that looked remarkably like
Eilif Nicholaisen.

A sense of dread crawled up his intestines and to his heart.
Andronikus Komnenos—ancestor to the great kings of Greece whose lineage
included Constantine and known for the last two decades as the Mystery Man—felt
a sense of unraveling. He sat back and put his hands in his lap and
contemplated. People were so unpredictable. He refused to give in to despair.

He had not lied when he boasted that President Vine was just
one more chink in the armor. However, his assassination was to be the blow that
felled the giant. He pressed the zoom button and confirmed that indeed Eilif
had arrived in time to “save the day.” He could only hope that Monday would
make it quick.

J
ake was patient. His job often required it. However, the
others in the room seemed anxious. It was perhaps because it was so crowded. He
listened as the crescendo of voices ebbed as everyone ran out of things to say.
A sense of expectation dominated the room. The photographers behind him
muttered and shuffled.

He could hear conversations in the hall and behind the stage.
Then, someone yelled and when Jake involuntarily glanced behind him, he saw
Eilif coming his way.

He barely had time to register this oddity when he noted a
Secret Service ERT agent in all black had followed Eilif, his FN P90 visible. In
a room like this, the gun was truly frightening. Even with the special 5.77x28
NATO ammunition, a single burst could injure or kill several bystanders. Jake
frowned.

Why was Eilif here? Was this some sort of suicide mission? Did
the parameters change? Jake could not think on it. Eilif would reach him and he
could not let that happen. He made a split-second decision. Sometimes suicide
could be like that.

Jake turned and leaped over the front chairs, knocking over
an elderly lady slumped in the front row. He heard her topple softly to the
floor with a surprised squeal. Jake ducked under the podium, fully expecting
someone to stop him as he sprinted between two Presidential aids.

He could hear Eilif behind him. Eilif was shouting, but
others were shouting as well.

His timing was perfect. Almost.

His father stood, straightening his tie. Director Loxley
stood behind the President looking at Jake with disapproval. His mouth moved in
what appeared to be slow motion as his eyes registered recognition.

That was when he noticed Hallie. She was talking with Gabriel
in hushed but anxious tones.

“Hallie!  Dad!”  Jake shouted.

Hallie saw him, her mouth falling open.

Then he was tackled from behind. He hit the carpet, his head
banging against the wall. His vision clamped down and he felt himself rolling
over in slow motion, someone pinning his hand and knocking the recorder away.

“He has a weapon, sir!” Someone yelled.

His ears rang from the hit to his head.  He blinked several
times to clear his mind.

He looked up and an agent with graying hair was holding his
index finger to his earpiece. Another agent, a man with perfect, dark skin and
close-cut hair, patted him down as he sat on Jake’s wrists with his knees. He
wanted to get up, but found it near impossible. The agent straddled him and
another agent must have been holding his ankles.

“Let him up!  He means no harm!”

A sense of pride welled up in him. Hallie was there to speak
up for him. She never stopped believing in him. It did not bother him that the
agents had caught him.

He managed a smile.

“Thanks guys. I thought I was going to have to do something
drastic. You saved me the headache.”

“Let him up.” Hallie was reaching for him.

“Really John. I thought you played tailback. A tackle like
that, the coach should have put you on defense,” Jake teased his former
partner.

He chuckled in response and gave Jake a hand. He had known
John since they were at JJRTC together. John had spent the first week puking
his guts up from the intense work outs and the Maryland humidity. Jake had
given him a “buck up” speech and they had been friends ever since.

“You should stop trying to do an end around in front of all
the press, my man. Get up. I know this will be hard, but we will have to
process you, Jake. Please cooperate.” John’s face was grave, but his eyes
twinkled with mirth.

“I understand,” Jake said around the blood in his mouth.

“We don’t have time for this,” Hallie said, her hands on her
hips.

Jake ignored her and looked over at his father. He was in a
deep conversation with Harold Loxley and another man that looked vaguely
familiar.

Jake held his hands out as John put the cuffs on. Jake
motioned with his head to indicate the man with the President.

“You know him?” Jake asked Hallie.

She nodded, exasperated.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Calvin.”

“Lars’ son?”

“The very one.”

“I should kill him,” Jake said through clenched teeth.

Hallie smiled.

“You have something for authority figures, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“He is technically your boss,” she explained with a smug
look.

Jake shook his head and looked past the door into the press
room. There was still a ruckus inside the room as three ERT agents manhandled
Eilif. They were escorting him back through the side door to the West
Colonnade.

“What was Eilif doing here?” Hallie asked.

Jake shrugged.

“I couldn’t tell if he wanted to stop me or to help me. I
guess we won’t know.”

“We have to get you out of here,” John said. “I hate to
interrupt this little reunion. Hallie, you can come with us. Director Loxley
has set up a briefing room in the Roosevelt Room. The National Security Advisor
and Agent Royster. We have to secure the President as well. So be patient.”

Jake thanked him. John was a good man and he was doing his
job.

Normally, an entry into the back room to threaten the
President of the United States would elicit a more aggressive result for the
perpetrator. He knew he was fortunate. Jake understood it mostly had to do with
his father. He glanced over at him again. So far, he had not even acknowledged
his existence.

This bothered Jake more than he wanted to admit. He wanted
some sort of response. Even a scowl of disappointment would be better than
being ignored.

Jake had spent his time in Colorado deep in the mountain
trying to remember why he had hated his father so much. Some of the answers came
easily. Many of them were petty and tied to mistakes that all people make. Jake
was more surprised by his own lack of forgiveness than he was the atrocities
that he had attributed to his father. Gabriel Vine was a vain man with
political ambitions. His drive and focus on his career had driven a wedge
between him and his wife and had alienated his son. Those were certainly not
crimes punishable by death.

Hallie followed them. They walked past the cabinet office
where several agents stood about, talking excitedly, looking for something to
do.

John motioned two of them over.

“Take these two to the Roosevelt room. Don’t let them out,
and don’t let anyone but the Director, the NSA, the President, or Agent Royster
in to see them. Understand?”

They took over the detail of escorting them to their
temporary jail.

Jake looked at Hallie with alarm.

“Wait. How did you get here?” He asked, realizing suddenly
that her appearance was odd.

Hallie dipped her head back toward the room they had exited.

“I came up from the old pool.”

Jake remembered some of his colleagues—old school guys—talk
about it.  It was converted from bunkers built in the fifties and used to have
a button to drain the pool.

“Tunnel from nowhere?” He asked.

“Yup. Good to get you back in one piece, Monday,” She
teased.

“I love you, too, Hallie,” he said with a smile. He looked
down at her. “I have to say, you have never looked so beautiful.”

“Shut up. Flattery will get you nowhere. By the way, how’s
your head feeling right about now?”

“My noggin’s knocking, that is for sure. Between the
chemical they pumped into me and those transmitters messing with my vision, I
am just peachy.”

“I meant that gash on your forehead. Looks nasty. We’ll have
to tend to it before we start our briefing.” She looked back at their escort
and leaned in close to him, wiping some blood from the bridge of his nose with
a tissue. She took the opportunity to whisper to him.

“They never took my gun from me.”

“Good to know. Hope we don’t need it.”

Hallie looked sick for a moment, but smiled.

“Highly unlikely, Monday.”