A Creed for the Third Millennium (49 page)

'He's done, Mr Magnus. I don't know how
he walked this far, but it's his swansong, believe me. And if you want the man
healed instead of dead, you'd better help me prevent him walking to the Potomac
tomorrow.'

'Why the hell did you keep this to
yourself? Why wasn't I told?' He was bellowing so loudly he didn't notice his
secretary open the door, then shut it again quickly without coming
in.

'I had my reasons,' said Dr Carriol,
unintimidated. 'He will live and he will be all right, provided he's taken
somewhere very quiet and very isolated, given the best medical attention we can
command, and we don't waste any time organizing it.' She was feeling better by
the second. How nice it felt to dominate Harold Magnus.

He made up his mind.
'Tonight?'

'Tonight.'

'All right, the sooner the better. Shit!
What am I going to tell the President? What's the King of England going to
think? Come all that way at great expense and no one to say hi to! Shit! What a
shlemozzle!' He peered at her suspiciously. 'You're
sure
the man's done?'

'I am sure. Look at it this way, sir,'
she went on, too tired and too — heartsick? — to care whether she successfully
kept the ironic contempt out of her voice. 'The rest of the bunch are in great
shape. So they should be! They haven't walked all winter, they've trained all
winter, and they haven't walked the whole way to Washington, like him. Senator
Hillier, Mayor O'Connor, Governors Canfield, Griswold, Kelly, Stanhope and de Matteo, General Pickering, et cetera, et cetera, are all in fantastic form,
lapping up the attention. So why not let tomorrow be
their
day? Dr Joshua
Christian was the driving force behind the March of the Millennium, yes, but the
cameras and the eyes of the world have been fastened on him for eight days now,
with everyone else — no matter how important — aware he's taking a back seat to
the Man of the Millennium. And let's face it, Dr Christian doesn't give a shit
about the King of England or the Emperor of Siam or the Queen of Hearts, any
more than the King of England really gives a shit about Dr Joshua Christian. So
let Mr Reece and the senators and the governors and all the rest have tomorrow
for themselves. Let Tibor Reece be the one to climb that platform and address
the crowd! He adores Dr Christian; he won't deliver a speech that will fail to
do justice to the occasion. And the crowd won't care at this stage who addresses
them. They've been a part of the March of the Millennium; that's all they'll
want to remember.'

His brain had followed this line of
thought with somewhat less than its customary precision and flawless
self-interest; he hadn't slept properly for eight days, he hadn't eaten in many
hours, except candy, candy, candy, and he was feeling just a little
queasy.

'I
suppose you're right,' he said,
blinking. He yawned. 'Yes, it should work. I'd better see the President right
away.'

'Whoa, there! Before you go off
half-cocked, I want some decisions from you as to where and how we take Dr
Christian. Palm Springs is out, I arranged that before I knew how sick he was.
It's also too far. What worries me most is secrecy. Wherever we take him can't
be vulnerable to local speculation or gossip. We don't want any rumours leaking
out about the shocking state he's got himself into walking among the people; it
would make a martyr of him. He must be treated by a small, hand-picked group of
doctors and nurses in a place fairly close to Washington, but where no one will
find him. Of course the doctors and the nurses will have to be service personnel
with top security clearances.'

'Yes. Yes. We certainly can't afford to
make a martyr out of him, living or dead. We have to show him to the people in a
year's time or whenever, fit and well and ready to go.'

Dr Carriol raised her brows.
'So?'

'So — where? Any suggestions?'

'No, Mr Secretary, not a one. I thought
you might know of somewhere, as you're from Virginia. It can't be too far away
because we don't know what the medical team will really have to contend with, so
they'll have to be able to get extra staff or equipment from their usual base of
operations — I guess they'll be from Walter Reed?'

He nodded.

'Yet it must be an isolated place,' she
insisted.

He plucked the dead cigar out of the
ashtray, looked at it, then reached for a fresh one out of the humidor placed
shamelessly on his desk. 'The best cigars,' he said, getting himself puffing,
'have to be rolled on the inside of a woman's thigh. These' —
puff —
'are' —
puff puff —
'the best.'

Dr Carriol looked at him more alertly.
'Mr Magnus, are you all right?'

'Of course I'm all right! I can't think
without a cigar is all.' He sat and puffed some more,
then he said, 'Well, there is one possible place. An island in Pamlico Sound,
North Carolina. Deserted these days. It belongs to the Binkman tobacco family.
Fallen on hard times, of course. Didn't think to diversify. Must have been the
only tobacco family that didn't diversify.' He puffed on.

Get
on
with it, man! Dr Carriol
wanted to scream, but didn't. She sat as patiently as she could.

'One of the Parks and Wildlife people
brought it up with me just before the March. Seems the Binkmans want to donate
it to the nation as a designated park, if they can't sell it. It's already a
bird and wildlife sanctuary, has been for years, but the Binkmans just don't
have the money to use the place any more, and they're desperate to unload it
while it's still in good condition. There's an interesting old house on the
island that they used as a summer home for — hell, centuries, nearly! They've
just fixed the house up because they thought they had a firm offer for house and
island, but the sale fell through a couple of weeks ago. And unless they get rid
of it, they're facing a massive tax bill. Hence the offer to Parks. I think what
they're really hoping for is that the nation will buy it for a Presidential
retreat; it's ideal. But with the March taking up all the President's attention,
I haven't brought the matter up with him yet. There's no one in the house or on
the island, but Parks assured me it all works. There's water and proper plumbing
and a 50 kVa diesel generator to provide power. Would it suit your
purposes?'

She stretched, shuddered. 'It sounds
ideal. Does the place have a name?'

'Pocahontas Island. It's a bit the Cape
Hatteras side of Kitty Hawk and about in the middle of that end of the sound.
Only about a mile long and half a mile wide. I guess it's really a sand spit
that's stayed above sea level long enough to green up. It's on the charts,
Parks says.' He buzzed Mrs Taverner. 'Damn the
woman! Where's my coffee and cognac?'

They appeared very quickly, but when Mrs
Taverner went to leave just as quickly, he detained her. Hold it, hold it! Dr
Carriol, do you have sufficient medical knowledge to give Helena some idea of
what doctors we need and what equipment they'll need?'

'Yes. Mrs Taverner, we need a vascular
surgeon, a plastic surgeon, a good general physician, a shock and exposure
specialist, an anaesthetist, and two class A nurses. All with top security
clearances. They will need everything necessary to treat shock, exhaustion,
exposure, severe frostbite with what I suppose is gangrene or some other form of
necrosis, chronic malnutrition maybe, some degree of kidney failure, a full
gamut of drugs, plenty of wound dressings, the appropriate surgical instruments
to deal with abscesses and debridement of tissue — oh, and we'd better throw in
a psychiatrist too.'

This last requisition made him squint
narrowly at Dr Carriol, but he made no comment beyond a grunt.

'Got all that?' he asked Mrs Taverner.
'Good. I'll tell you what to do with it after Dr Carriol has gone. And get me
the President on the phone now.'

Mrs Taverner paled. 'Sir, do you think
you ought? It's nearly four in the morning!'

'Is
it? Well, too bad. Wake
him.'

'What shall I tell the aide on
duty?'

'Something, anything, I don't care! Just
do it!'

Mrs Taverner fled. Dr Carriol rose,
poured the coffee and the cognac and put the Secretary's in front of him before
returning to her chair.

'I didn't realize it was so late. I must
get back to him. Damn the crowds! If you don't mind, I'll arrange to go back by
helicopter. And I think it would be best to get Dr Christian straight into the
helicopter — before dawn, if possible — and down to Pocahontas Island. He's used
to travelling with Billy, our pilot, so it won't alarm him. I'll go with him, of course. The
medical team can meet us at Pocahontas. At the rate I'm going they'll make it
there before us anyway. At least they will if you get moving.' This last was
minatory.

'I can assure you, Dr Carriol, that I
intend to get moving! It is no part of my plan to endanger Dr Christian's life,'
he said with great dignity. He picked up his brandy balloon, grimacing at the
small amount of liquid Dr Carriol had poured into its bottom. 'I like my drinks
Texas style,' he said, drained the glass in a gulp and held it out. 'A decent
one, if you please.'

His secretary buzzed while Dr Carriol was
busy with the decanter.

'Sir, they're wakening Mr Reece. He'll
call back.'

'All right. Thanks.' He took several
rapid gulps of his replenished cognac. 'You'd better get going,
Judith.'

She looked at the clock behind him and
pulled a face. 'Hell! It will be five before I get back, even by helicopter.
Just as well double daylight savings has put the dawn back quite a bit. Now
don't forget to instruct the medical team properly, and tell them they will be
met at Pocahontas Island by their patient. Oh, we had better have someone along
who can deal with a diesel generator.'

'Dammit, you're worse than my wife! Stop
fussing! The place will be in perfect working order — hell, they're expecting
the President to look it over! God Jesus, will I be glad when this zoo is a
thing of the past!'

'Me too, Mr Magnus. Thank you. I'll keep
you informed.'

As she left him, Harold Magnus was on his
feet pouring a third cognac, and preparing to light up another thigh-rolled
cigar.

In the outer office she paused by Mrs
Taverner's desk to call Billy and arrange that he meet her at the Capitol
helipad. 'How I wish Environment had a pad!' she said as she hung up. Then she looked
at Mrs Taverner closely. 'You are absolutely beat!'

'I
am indeed. I haven't been home
since Dr Christian left New York City.'

'Literally?'

'Yes. Well, Mr Magnus has been at the
White House, so someone's had to keep things going, and you know him. He's never
been one to trust deputies or delegate authority.'

'He's a bastard. Why do you put up with
him?'

'Oh, he's not so bad when things are nice
and calm. And this is one of the few top-graded secretarial positions in the
federal service.'

'You'd better go in to him — but not
until after he gets his call from the President, okay?'

'Okay. Good night, Dr
Carriol.'

Four in the morning, thought Harold
Magnus, drinking his third cognac at a gulp. He blinked, yawned, his head
swimming. Shit. Brandy never went to his head! Oh, God help him if things
continued to go wrong! He didn't feel his best, he really didn't. Too much
candy, not enough proper food. But fuck the doctors, he did
not
have
diabetes! Four in the morning. No wonder he wasn't feeling his best. No dinner.
Fuck Dr Judith Carriol. Fuck Dr Joshua Christian. Fuck the doctors. Fuck
everything. Thinking about doctors and his own state of health made him remember
Dr Christian's plight. He reached to buzz Mrs Taverner to come in and take her
instructions. But she beat him to it; she buzzed first.

'Mr Reece is on the line, sir. He doesn't
sound happy.'

The President wasn't happy. 'What the
hell are you waking me up for?' came his voice, sleepy and crotchety.

'Well, Mr President, if I am kept awake
and from my dinner by the state of the nation, why the hell should you sleep? It's your nation, not mine!'
he said, and giggled.

'Harold? That is you?'

'Mi mi mi mi mi mi! Of course it's me!'
sang Mr Magnus. 'It's four a.m. and I'm a gem!'

'You
are drunk'

'God Jesus, I must be!' The Secretary
fought hard to regain some control. 'I apologize, Mr President. It's been too
long between food and this brandy is all. I'm sorry, sir, I am truly
sorry.'

'You had me wakened to tell me you're
drunk and hungry?'

'Of course I didn't. We have a
problem.'

'Oh?'

'Dr Christian isn't walking. I've had Dr
Carriol here this morning, and she tells me he's mortally ill. So it looks like
the March of the Millennium is going to have to end without its
leader.'

'I see.'

'However, the rest of the important
marchers are in good shape, so with your permission I intend to let them lead
the March in. Oh, with his family right in front, naturally! But we need someone
to give Dr Christian's oration, and I think it can be none other than
you.'