Shadow of Eden (35 page)

“Bad. It’s one thing for us to say we’ll defend them in the event of an attack from China, but Taiwan declaring itself independent would be like the South seceding. It means war. China has no choice unless they want to relinquish all current and future claims on the island.”

“No choice?”

“Well, I suppose Lincoln had a choice in fighting the South, but from what China’s always said, if Taiwan declares independence, it will go to war. The U.S. joining in only means it’ll be our boys shedding their blood, too.” Valenti went over to the refrigerator, looked in and closed it in disgust. It was empty. “He didn’t even leave himself any wriggle room. He just came right out and said it. Stupid.”

“Could that be a loss of judgment?”

Valenti looked sharply at Steve and whistled. “Touché.” Valenti scratched his ear thoughtfully. “Then, how can we narrow it down?

“Well, if he’s taking Eden and gets intermittent delusions, it’s almost certain, I’d say.”

“Maybe he already does, you know, have the delusional thing.”

“Right, but we can’t tell from here, besides, I can’t imagine anyone letting it go that far . . .” Steve held his fist to his lips in thought. “Of course, they don’t really know even if they are seeing some of the early symptoms. Maybe we—”

“Oh, no you don’t. Not ‘we.’ That isn’t our problem.”

Steve raised his eyebrows.

“No way.” Valenti protested. “Besides, I got out of Washington with my hide intact, well, sort of, and I’m not showing it around there again.”

Steve shrugged with a slight smile. “Okay, if you don’t want to . . .”

“What about your problems here?” Valenti crossed his arms.

“Who else knows about Eden’s disease?”

“Sheridan. Trident.”

“Right. Any of those goons around the President know?”

“Probably not.”

“And who’s going to tell them?”

Valenti stared at Steve a long time. “Fuck. Fuck you.”

Steve smiled to himself and walked into the kitchenette and put his glass into the sink. “How the hell do we tell him?”

Valenti fell back on the couch and put his hands under his head. “Well, easy. You march in to the President and say, ‘Mr. President, you are dying of an incurable brain-eating disease and I’m relieving you of office.’ Simple.”

“And don’t start a war with China,” Steve added, walking back from the kitchen.

“Yeah, and please overlook that tax thing last year, I didn’t really mean it.”

Steve frowned. “So, who do we call?”

“Ghostbusters? Jeez, Louise, I haven’t a clue. Who’s your congressman?”

“Mine? Hell if I know. Who’s yours?” Steve scratched his chin. He had not shaved since yesterday morning and his whiskers itched.

“Won’t work,” Valenti continued, “too political, with a congressman wanting an investigation of the president. Who do you know who has connections in the administration? Like an appointee from this state or something? I don’t hobnob with the blue-bloods like you doctor people.”

That stopped Steve. Who did he know? “Nobody I can think of . . .” his voice trailed off. “Wait, I know,” Steve said. “What was his name—he was on the airplane. The Secretary of HHS. Crap. What’s his name?

“Castell?” Valenti offered? I remember his interview after your plane crash.

“Yeah, that’s him. We met. I think he’d remember me.”

“Well, he damn sure owes you. Still, politics is a very fickle mistress. He might get clued in on your problems and bail.”

“Well, we should at least try.”

“Are you going to call and tell him you think the President’s gone Loony Tunes, or whatever technical term you docs use for those things?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly how we talk.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Say super sleuth, can you find his number?”

“Sure, it’s a semi-public record, being that it’s a civilian agency and all. Just a minute.” He punched a number on his cell phone. “Dianne,” he said after a moment. “Can you get me the number of the Secretary of Health? . . . Yeah, in Washington . . . Right. Call me back.”

To pass the time, they watched the TV pundits analyzing the President’s announcement. They were as nonplussed as Valenti had been.

After a while, Valenti’s phone rang. He jotted a number down on a piece of hotel scratch paper. “Okay, thanks, Dianne.” Valenti handed it Steve. “Here. Actually, it’s his cell phone number. That Dianne, she amazes me.”

Steve looked at the number beginning with area code 202—Washington, D.C.—and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Valenti plucked it out of his hand.

“Wait. Not that. It’s only for emergencies. It can be traced and then you can be located.” Steve looked up irritated at Valenti’s paranoia.

“We’ll use a pay phone. Someplace far away from here.”

“Damn it, that’s too much trouble. For nothing.”

“Get used to it or I’ll have a dead client and no way to collect my fee. He pointed his forefinger at Steve like a gun. “Remember, the life you save is my retirement.”

Forty minutes later, under a cloudless, deep blue Arizona dusk, Steve picked up the receiver of a pay telephone on the outskirts of Phoenix. A minute later he hung up, and pocketing the newly purchased phone card, he got back into the Cherokee. “Got it. In five days. Some place called the Mansion Club.”

“I know the joint,” Valenti said. “A swanky hang-out of the famous and wannabes. It’s the kind of place that puts crushed ice in the men’s urinals.”

“You used to live there?”

“Eight years in the Bureau.”

“FBI, right? Officer Harmon told me.”

“Yeah. Sore subject. End of discussion.”

ELLIOTT buzzed with a notification of an “event.” The soft buzzing continued until a technician reluctantly put down his Kindle and rolled his chair over to the monitor. It was marked with a red “Priority” flashing at the top of the screen. He clicked the mouse and the buzzing ceased.

The screen read, “Jacob Castell, Mobile.” This guy Castell had dozens of conversations with people all day, the technician mused. Why did this one pop up? He punched a few keys and ELLIOTT told him: the sentinel word that triggered the alarm was ‘Dr. Steve James.’

Donning a pair of Koss headphones, he listened to the recorded conversation. It was actually with Dr. James. Castell apparently owed this Dr. James something and agreed to meet him.

The technician quickly downloaded the conversation and stored it on the server. He tapped out an automated phone notification to the client who, in this case, was Vicktor Morloch. The tech attached the compressed audio file to the message, marked it for priority delivery and hit the ‘send’ button. Automatically encrypted so only Morloch’s private cell phone could unscramble it, the message disappeared from his screen.

The technician next sent Mallis a text. According to SOP, Mallis listened to every priority message over his secure phone. The technician wondered idly if his boss used the information for insider stock trading, but figured it was probably to sell the client more services.

His job done, the technician went back to his novel.

Chapter 75

“L
ong fucking day,” Linda said, flopping down in a deep chair in Bell’s office. She kicked off her shoes and rubbed her feet into the pile carpet. She had not remembered feeling this drained for a long time. The press had eaten her up when she tried to support the President’s precipitous decision to support Taiwan. She, of course, agreed with them that it was a dumb move, but the President’s position was clear.

“Drink?” Bell asked, walking to his bar.

“Scotch rocks.”

Bell poured the drinks. “I know the Chinese are supposed to be inscrutable, but did you see the look on Quin’s face? He looked like the cat that just ate the bird. Dammit, Linda, we got taken but good.”

A knock on the door preceded Vice President Sullivan’s entry. “May I join you?”

“Come on in, John.” Bell waved his hand to an empty leather chair. “Drink?”

Sullivan held up a glass. “I’m set, thanks.” He slid deep into the overstuffed chair. Sipping his drink, he watched Bell hand Linda her drink and sit down. “So what happened? I don’t think there were two people alive who had any idea he would support Taiwan.”

“Quin played him like a violin,” Resnick said. “Masterful performance. But, get this, Lai’s wife never died of leukemia, she died from breast cancer. Our latest bosom buddy lied to us. The President never saw it coming. And,” she sipped her scotch, “neither did we.”

“So what’s your take on the one billion dollars?” Sullivan asked.

“It’s bullshit, that’s what,” Bell said.

“But that’s a lot of money,” Sullivan responded, swirling the amber liquid in his squat glass.

“Look at it like this,” Bell said. “He gives us a down payment of one hundred big ones. We go to war. If he loses, no more payments. China takes over and doesn’t look back. If he wins, he’s got a new country for a measly billion over ten years.”

Resnick leaned forward. “John, he just bought the entire U.S. military for the price of five fighter jets and I can’t talk the President out of it. He’s temperamentally inclined to fight for the oppressed underdog and he’s stubborn as a bull once he’s made up his mind.” She made a rueful face. “Plus, it spits in China’s face and he loves that part.”

Sullivan looked hard at her. “There’s something else . . .”

“What?”

“He’s changed.”

Linda hesitated, not sure she wanted to talk about her own thoughts on the matter. “He’s not the same.”

“And his judgment . . .?” Sullivan pressed.

“We’ve all seen it,” Bell sighed. “I’ve tried to discuss it with him, his bolting the White House and that prayer thing—thank God it blew over without a major stink—but this stress thing has gotten to him in a way I’ve never seen.”

“And what are those twitchy movements?” Resnick asked, drawn in despite her initial caution.

Sullivan and Bell shrugged. Bell answered, “It’s got to be the stress.”

Sullivan swung his gaze from Bell to Resnick. “I’m worried about him. I think he needs to see a doctor. Jeff, do you think you can talk him into it?”

Jeff shook his head. “He knows unplanned visits to a doctor get a President in trouble and he’s got his eyes firmly set on the next election.”

“So, what do we do?” Resnick asked.

“Let’s all think about it,” Sullivan said quietly. “Reconvene in two days?”