A Creed for the Third Millennium (54 page)

It rained a little, greyly, and washed
away the blood that spattered him, put a sheen on his colourless grey
skin.

He had been on the island for exactly
three hours.

The last stage of the March of the
Millennium began on that fine Friday morning in May with Andrew and James,
Miriam between them, at the front of the cavalcade. They led the marchers out of
the compound and into the road, followed by a bevy of waving, smiling
governmental and military chiefs. No one had been too upset at the idea of
stealing this last day's thunder from the absent Dr Joshua Christian, which may
have accounted for the sheer width of the smile on the face of Senator David
Sims Hillier VII, who somehow had managed to place himself alone in the road
just behind the remaining Christians, and several paces in front of anyone
else.

All along the way as the people waited
for the leading procession to pass by so they could tag on in its wake, the
crowds gave that curious collective sound which is not a moan nor yet a sigh,
but lies somewhere between. For Dr Joshua Christian was not there, and grand as
this climax was, it could not be the same without him.

Ever afterward in her more cheerful
moments, Mama stoutly maintained that
she
led the March of the Millennium
into Washington and down to the banks of the Potomac; for she was the most
senior Christian of all, and she rode in the back of the ABC van as it ambled
along in front, filming the faces and striding legs of the vanguard.

Exactly at eight Dr Judith Carriol
arrived at the White House and was shown immediately into the Oval Office, where
Tibor Reece already sat watching his video monitors. The March was due to arrive
at the specially constructed Vermont marble
platform at noon sharp, so he had still several hours in hand before he would
have to leave. He was sitting by himself.

'I'm sorry, Mr President, I must be
early,' Dr Carriol apologized when her eyes failed to find Harold
Magnus.

'No, you're punctual as always, Doctor.
May I call you Judith?'

She flushed, made a deprecating gesture
with her hand, very gracefully and expressively and not at all reminiscent of
snake or spider. 'I would be honoured, Mr President.'

'Harold is late. The March, no doubt.
They tell me it's well-nigh impossible to move out there on the streets for the
hordes of people everywhere.' The President's dark mournful Christianesque face
lit up with amusement. 'And I just can't see Harold Magnus walking,
somehow.'

'No, sir, nor can I,' she said demurely.
Dr Christian's plight had slipped into the background of her thoughts, their
forefront being taken up with the pleasantnesses she was at this moment drinking
in. Thank you, Harold, for being late! I might never have got to see him alone
otherwise. And I
like
him! Why couldn't Joshua have had his detachment
and good sense? They're so alike in face and body. Still, a Tibor Reece couldn't
achieve the oneness with his people that Joshua Christian did. The comparison is
pointless and invalid.

'What a grand thing this has turned out
to be,' said the President warmly. 'Truly the most memorable experience of my
life, and I am humbled to think it happened during my incumbency.' His Louisiana
origins showed in his voice when he was moved, so he sounded suddenly very
southern gentleman, the more recent California twang he had adopted to catch
more votes quite gone. 'There is so little an American President can do to show his appreciation
to those who have served him so faithfully and well, Judith. I can't create a
peerage for you like the Australians, I can't grant you a dacha and paid
vacations at premier resorts like the Russians, I can't even overturn the
ironclad rules of the federal public service by bumping you up a couple of
grades overnight. But I do thank you, and I can only hope my thanks are enough.'
His eyes, dark as Joshua's and as deeply set, rested upon her extremely
affectionately.

'I've just done my job, Mr President. I'm
well paid for it, and I love doing it.' God in heaven, which were the proper
platitudes to mouth? And where the hell was Harold Magnus?

'Sit down, sit down, my dear girl! You
look exhausted.' The President of the United States of America fetched her a
chair and handed her into it courteously. 'A cup of coffee?'

'Sir, that I would appreciate more than a
peerage!'

And he fetched it himself, on a small
silver tray with creamer and sugar bowl alongside a big full china
cup.

She drank it down thirstily and would
have liked another, but didn't dare ask for it.

'I am very fond of Dr Christian,' Tibor
Reece said, and sat down himself. 'Please tell me about this
illness.'

She told him only as much as she thought
he ought to know, therefore she was not nearly so frank as she had been to
Harold Magnus; it was still more than enough to perturb the President, however,
on a personal rather than a national level. This he confirmed when she had
finished by saying:

'He came to see me at my invitation
before
God in Cursing
was released, and I have rarely enjoyed an evening
more than I did in his company. He is a
man!
I had a few personal
decisions to make at the time, and he was a great help to me in making
them, though in the one case he declined to
offer positive help. Very intelligent of him! It was a decision I had to make,
that no one else could have. But in the matter of my daughter — he put me onto
exactly the right people to help her, and changed her life. She's doing about a
thousand per cent better now.'

So that was what it had all been about!
How amazing. All that spleen she had poured on Moshe Chasen, and for what? All
that boredom too, dating Gary Mannering. Serves you right, Judith
Carriol!

'Yes, that's Joshua,' she said out
loud.

'I remember that when his name came up as
our choice for Operation Messiah — prophetic of you, Judith! — you implied that
you and he had established a very close relationship. I am so sorry that you've
had to bear the burden and the worry of his illness, as well as the March of the
Millennium. And why didn't you let me know this morning that you were planning
to accompany him for treatment? I would have understood.'

'In retrospect I realize that, sir. But
at the time it was — well, it was pretty hectic. Hard to make the right
decision, so many things seemed to be happening. Still, he's in the best hands,
and I'm flying to join him straight from here.' And she let her large strange
eyes look into his.

He cleared his throat, shifting his chair
so he could see the video monitors more comfortably; she followed suit, and they
sat watching the progress of the marchers through a bunting-decked, brilliantly
sunny Washington. Waiting in vain for Harold Magnus.

By nine he hadn't come. Something was
definitely wrong. Dr Carriol got to her feet.

The President looked around at her,
raising his brows.

'Mr President, I would like to go across
to Environment. It isn't like Mr Magnus to be so late without letting anyone
know. Would you excuse me?'

'I'll phone,' he said, not about to tell
her that at four o'clock that morning his Secretary for the Environment had been
silly drunk.

'No, sir, you carry on watching. I'll go
over.' She had to get to Environment herself, because she knew something was
wrong. Very wrong.

Of course there were people milling
everywhere around the White House, waiting for the President to emerge. Dr
Carriol went to the helipad and asked her pilot to put her down as close to
Environment as possible, preferably closer than the Capitol landing area. The
pilot scratched his head, then elected to set her down in K Street right outside
her entrance, hovering down slowly enough to permit the few people in the
vicinity to scatter safely.

It was the greatest public holiday in the
history of the country, so of course Environment was closed, but when she got up
to Section Four she found little John Wayne at his desk, working
busily.

'John!' she cried, tossing off her coat.
'Have you seen or heard anything of Mr Magnus?'

He looked up, looked blank.
'No.'

'Come on, then. He was supposed to be at
the White House over an hour ago, and he hasn't turned up.'

Mrs Taverner's desk was unoccupied, the
small telephone multi-line console on it flashing every light it could; Harold
Magnus disliked bells, so it was not wired to ring. No doubt the White House was
trying to get him too.

'Find Mrs Taverner,' she said to John
Wayne curtly. 'I believe she has a couch in her private rest room, so look there
first and the hell with your natural modesty.' She went on into Harold Magnus's
office.

At some stage he had transferred himself,
still hovering between sleep and coma, from his desk to the big comfortable sofa
against the far wall. And there he lay on his back, one foot trailing off, a big
old-faced dribbling snoring baby.

'Mr Magnus!' She bent down to shake him.
'Mr Magnus!'

The level of sugar in his blood had been
falling slowly during the hours between the last time Dr Carriol had seen him
and this moment, but it still took a good two minutes to rouse him.

Finally his lids lifted, fluttered,
opened, and his eyes goggled up at her like two boiled skinned gooseberries,
pale greenish grey.

'Mr Magnus, will you wake up?' she asked
for the twentieth time, tight-lipped.

The glaze in his gaze cleared gradually;
at first he did not seem to recognize her.

'Shit!' he yelped suddenly, struggling to
sit up. 'God! Oh, God, I feel awful! What time is it?'

'Nine-thirty, sir. You were supposed to
meet with the President at eight. He's still waiting for you, but he won't wait
much longer. The March is due to end in a couple of hours, it's on schedule, and
he'll be leaving on schedule.'

'Shit! Oh, oh, double shit!' he
whimpered, grinding his teeth. 'Get me coffee! Where is Helena?'

'I don't know.'

At precisely that moment John Wayne
buzzed to tell her he had found Mrs Taverner, and in what condition.

'Bring Mr Magnus some coffee, would you?'
Turning, she leaned against the edge of his desk, folded her arms, crossed her
ankles, and watched her boss ironically as he sat on the edge of the sofa,
pressing his fingers into his fat stubbly cheeks so deeply their tips quite
disappeared.

'Didn't feel well,' he mumbled. 'S'funny!
Just — passed out! Never done that before, even on ten drinks.'

'Have you got a change of clothes here?
Something suitable for the ceremony of the century?'

'Think so.' He yawned enormously, eyes
watering. 'Uh! Gotta think! Gotta
think!'

John appeared with the coffee.

'How's Mrs Taverner?'

'She's all right. Contemplating suicide.
She's never collapsed on the job before, she keeps telling me.'

'Tell her in this situation my sympathy
is entirely with her, and no job and no boss are worth killing yourself over.
Why don't you send her home?'

As John went from the room Dr Carriol
bore a mug to the sofa and handed it to Harold Magnus, who drank it down black
and sugarless at a gulp in spite of its heat. He held out the mug.

'More.'

She obliged, pouring coffee for herself
also.

This time he sipped it. 'Oh, what a day!
I still don't feel a hundred per cent well'

'Poor old you!' said Dr Carriol, not
sympathetically. 'I
don't suppose you know that Mrs Taverner passed out
too? With a damned sight more justification, I might add! You flog that good
kind loyal woman to death.'

Perhaps luckily, there was a tap on the
door. Mrs Taverner appeared, looking bandbox neat; she had used ten minutes to
best advantage.

'Thank you, Dr Carriol, I will go home if
Mr Magnus will give me permission. There's only one thing — what do you want done
about the list of doctors and equipment you gave me last night,
ma'am?'

All the colour fell out of Dr Carriol's
permanently colourless face, mocking at degrees. For a moment Mrs Taverner
thought the chief of Section Four was going to have an epileptic fit, for she
went utterly rigid, her eyes rolling up in her head and her lips drawing back
from her teeth; she even made strange and horrible noises in her throat. Then
she struck so fast Mrs Taverner did not see her cross the space between desk and
sofa; she simply was there at the sofa. With one hand she lifted the bulk
of the Secretary for the Environment clean off his behind, then put her other
hand on his other arm, and shook him fiercely.

'Pocahontas Island!' she said. 'The
medical team!'

Her words sank in. 'Oh — my — God!
Judith, Judith, I didn't do it!'

'Get John,' said Dr Carriol to Mrs
Taverner. 'And you can't go home now. We've got work to do.' She brushed the
Secretary away like a noisome insect and went back to the desk to pick up the
phone, but before Mrs Taverner made it through the outer door she was summoned
back. Helena, go outside and get me Walter Reed Hospital, the duty
administrator.'