The Regime: Evil Advances (14 page)

prevailed. “Just wondering,” she said. “Did you feel a check at all in your mind, blurting your magazine dream to a newspaper executive?”

Cameron thrust out his lower lip. “I guess I didn’t. Should I have? Was that politically incorrect? impertinent? rude?”

The rest laughed. “It was commendable,” Rowland said. “A lot of people would have worried more about diplomacy.”

“Sorry,” Cameron said. “I wasn’t thinking. I certainly didn’t mean to offend.”

“Offend?” the woman said. “I found it refreshing. A little naive, perhaps, but refreshing.”

“Naive?”

“Let me put it to you this way,” she said. “A lot of our colleagues, even at our level, apply to the newsmagazines at least once a year, trying to get out of the daily grind—”

“—and into the weekly grind,” one of the men said, and they all laughed again.

“The competition for jobs at
GW, Time, Newsweek
, and
U.S
. News is fierce. Your career goal is neither a surprise nor unique. Just lofty.”

Cameron didn’t know what to say. The Ivy League-- Princeton in particular--was way past where he should have looked for college too. He wasn’t about to give up a dream because it looked unlikely. He wanted to live an unlikely life.

“Did you wonder what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Williams?” Rowland said.

“Well, sure.”

“Or did you just think it was to meet you and congratulate you?”

“I didn’t have any idea.”

“That’s refreshing too,” Rowland said. “I confess an ulterior motive. We want to hire you.”

Cameron wondered where his mind had been. Why was this such a surprise? He simply hadn’t considered it.

“Lest you think we say this to all the award winners,” the woman said, “we don’t. Of this year’s crop, you are the only one.”

“Well,” Cameron said, suddenly feeling like an inarticulate humbler. “Wow. Thanks. I had been hoping for a good internship.”

“We’re not talking about an internship, Mr. Williams,” Rowland said. “For the rest of your senior year you would remain on the staff of the student paper and continue stringing for the local paper, but you would make yourself available for the occasional assignment from us, should a regional story hit in your area.”

“Sure, I could do that.”

“But upon graduation, maybe after a week or two to get your affairs in order, we would expect you to relocate here for a full-time reporting position.”

“Full-time?”

“You are a gifted young man, Mr. Williams. We believe you have the stuff of a good newspaperman. Here you’ll get a chance to find out if we’re right. You’ll get grunt work and have a deadline every day. This kind of work separates the pros from the dilettantes.”

“And,” the woman said, “the
Global Weekly
wannabes from the real deals.”

Taking a solitary predawn stroll with his bodyguards at a discreet distance, Nicolae allowed Leon Fortunato’s strange counsel to dance in his mind. Long a sports fan, Nicolae had always been entertained by the braggadocios, especially those who backed up their boasts. He agreed with the adage, “It’s not bragging if you can do it.”

The strutting confidence of young physical geniuses inspired Nicolae, and he wanted that same image as a politician and leader. But if Leon was right, the populace would soon tire of a self-promoter, a cocky show-off. Where did one go for examples of humility or to practice the art? One thing was certain: if Nicolae was going to appear humble, it would be more than art. It would be an act.

Cameron made his way onto the snowy street in front of the
Globe
building, not knowing how to feel. He was chagrined at his starry-eyed dream of landing even an internship with
Global Weekly
and high on the rush of being offered a job with the
Globe
. He couldn’t wait to tell Dirk, let alone his family, particularly his mother. The Volvo was idling, and while huge, soft flakes lit

on the car, they melted quickly. He opened the door to greet Dirk, but he wasn’t there. He couldn’t be far. He wouldn’t leave an unlocked car on a busy street.

Cameron stood and turned to look, just in time to take a huge snowball in the chest that exploded all over his face and in his hair. Dirk came staggering across the street cackling so loud that Cameron feared he would pass out.

Cameron knelt and scooped snow he quickly formed into a ball, and before Dirk could dodge him, he fired away.

Dirk ducked and it splatted atop his head.

“Truce!” Cameron called out. “We’ve got to get going, and I have news!”

They brushed off and climbed into the car. Cameron had never understood this about himself, but besides loving storms, he didn’t mind driving in them. They could be scary, but he figured he’d drive for as long as he could and get as far as he could and try to outlast the blizzard.

Being in a warm car with a full tank and a good friend, well, what could be better than that? Getting through the city and onto I-90 took just a few minutes, and while traffic was slow, the plows seemed to be keeping up with the snowfall.

At the first tollbooth the attendant said, “How far you going?”

“Jersey.”

“Good luck. You got chains?”

“Do I need ‘em?”

“You might the farther you go south. Don’t be a hero.”

A couple of hours later it was well past midnight and Cameron was merging onto I-84. At first it looked clearer and the traffic was lighter, so he hoped to make up some time. Dirk had been holding forth on conspiracy theories the whole way, and when Cameron could concentrate, he found his friend amusing.

“I didn’t know the British Isles produced conspiracy theorists too,” he said. “I thought those Illuminati and Bilderberger and Trilateral Commission freaks were all stateside.”

“You don’t believe in any of that?” Dirk said. “If you’d worked under Joshua Todd-Cothran at the Exchange you might change your tune.”

“Or exchange it.”

“Hilarious.”

“Seriously, Dirk, you believe all that?”

“I don’t know what to think, but it makes a lot of sense to me. Jonathan Stonagal is a secret member of a lot of organizations, and when he and Todd-Cothran and a bunch of other muckety-mucks are rumored to be meeting, major financial decisions follow that affect the whole world.”

“Glad I’m not in economics.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Cam. We’re all in economics. It’s all about economics. You’d think a journalist would know that. Want to find the source of change, the source of trouble, the source of anything? Follow the money.”

Nicolae looked over his shoulder and found his bodyguards chatting among themselves. That was just as well. He felt safe in his own compound. And he didn’t need them watching his every move, noticing all he was doing.

He wanted to pray, but that was private. He didn’t need to kneel or bow, though he felt some obligation toward his spirit guide, whoever that was. Once he had deigned to admit his dependence on the wisdom of his guide and had the temerity to ask to whom he was communicating. He was met with obnoxious silence and took that to mean it either wasn’t his to ask or wasn’t the right time.

Just now he didn’t care about the identity of his netherworld communicant. All Nicolae wanted was some confirmation that his counsel from Leon Fortunato was worthy of consideration.

He peeked back again and believed he was far enough away to avoid detection. He walked slowly toward the rising sun, whispering. “My lord and my master, tell me how to comport myself so the masses will be drawn to me and give me what I want.”

He stopped and listened, knowing he would hear nothing audibly. He was opening his spirit to impressions, messages from beyond the mortal coil. Nicolae’s face flushed when he believed a message was delivered to his soul. “Let others praise you,” it said. “Make your gifts available, but exhibit no effort to strive.”

It was the wee hours of the morning by the time Cameron finally merged onto I-91 South. Normally it would take him less than half an hour to reach I-95 South and the one hundred ten or so miles that would get him into New Jersey. But the going was slow and treacherous. Cars had slid off the road, some overturned. The occasional snowplow provided something to follow slowly at a safe distance. Cameron did not understand how Dirk could sleep at a time like this. He had to tell himself to loosen his grip, to relax his shoulders, to blink, to breathe.

Anytime Cameron felt a slide or even a hint of fishtailing he let up on the accelerator. He spent another two hours on I-91, and when I-95 finally came into view, he believed he was halfway home. It was hard to imagine he’d be in the car many hours longer.

Jonathan Stonagal sat up in bed, suddenly awake a few hours before dawn in his Manhattan penthouse. Something was niggling in his brain. Carpathia, his hope for the future. According to Reiche Planchette, the young man was all and more than they could have hoped, except that he was clearly beginning to feel his oats.

Stonagal pushed a button on his bedside table, and within seconds his night-shift valet knocked softly and cracked the door open a couple of inches. “Do something for you, sir?”

“What time is it in Bucharest?” he said.

The valet entered and used the light from the hallway to illuminate his watch. “Late morning, sir.”

“Get Fredericka on the phone.”

“It’s just past four here, Mr. Stonagal.”

“I know what time it is here, Benny.”

A couple of minutes later Benny informed the billionaire that his secretary was on the line.

“You awake, Fredericka?” Stonagal said.

“Well, I am now,” she said. “Is there an emergency?”

“I want to know when Planchette is coming.”

“And you need to know now.”

“Soon.”

“I’ll call you.”

Stonagal hung up without saying good-bye or thanks or sorry for waking her. He had never apologized to a subordinate, and he wouldn’t start now. He paid Fredericka more than enough that she could be on call twenty-four hours a day without letting that pique

invade her tone. He didn’t call her off-hours that much.

She ought to learn to roll with it. When she called back a few minutes later, Fredericka reported, “Mr. Planchette can be here by this afternoon. He has cleared it with Mr. Carpathia, but he would like to talk to you now if he can.”

“He cleared it with Carpathia? Whatever for?”

“I didn’t ask, sir. Can he call you now?”

“Heavens no! Ask him if he knows what time it is here. Tell him I’ll talk to him when he arrives, and keep me posted on the details.”

Cameron became aware that his blinking had become more and more deliberate, his eyes staying closed longer than they should each time. He opened his window a sliver and slapped himself in the face. This was no kind of weather to be driving through with other than complete attention.

“What the—?” Dirk said. “It’s freezing.”

“I’ll close it and keep you toasty if you want to try driving,” Cameron said.

“Sorry I said anything. Carry on. How are the gauges looking?”

Cameron hadn’t even thought to check. He had enough fuel to make it to Princeton, but he was alarmed to find the temperature gauge pointing straight up and the oil gauge the opposite. “Uh-oh,” he said.

“How far to the next oasis?” Dirk said.

“Half an hour maybe.”

“Not good.” Dirk wrenched around in his seat and stared out the back window. “You’re already burning oil,” he said. “You’re going to lock up the engine.”

“I should pull over?”

Dirk shook his head. “I don’t know. We’re in the middle of nowhere and we’d be low priority for emergency workers. Better try to limp to the next rest area.”

The daily papers in Romania were full of the story of the largesse of Nicolae Carpathia having established a trust fund for the education of the teenage son of his recently deceased accountant. The stories made an issue of the fact that the victim had recently left Carpathia’s employ to join the firm of his biggest competitor and political rival, Emil Tismaneanu.

By the time the story made the television news, Tismaneanu was being grilled about why this should be Carpathia’s responsibility. “In all fairness,” Tismaneanu said, “the man had barely begun with me. I believe Mr. Carpathia owed him more than I did.”

Nicolae was tempted to rail against his opponent and challenge him to match the educational fund, but when he ran his response through the grid of Fortunato’s counsel and what he believed his spirit guide had impressed upon him, he changed his mind.

“Mr. Tismaneanu has enough problems right now,” Nicolae said. “He appears to be trailing in the race, and

there are many issues over which we vigorously disagree. I do not choose to add this spat to the mix. I am happy to fully fund the educational trust myself and would not want to burden my opponent with the responsibility.” Fortunato called. “Brilliant, Nicolae,” he said. “Just wait until tomorrow’s polls. You will surge even more because of this; you watch. And with your permission, I will plant challenges everywhere for another debate with Tismaneanu. Accepting could be his death knell. Declining would be the same.”

Everything associated with the Volvo went at once. Cameron had been proud that he’d kept the thing on the road, and suddenly all the gauges lit up, the dashboard lights went out, the headlights dimmed, and the car shut down. With the power steering gone it was all he could do to wrestle the car into a snowbank.

“We have no source of heat,” Dirk said, “and I’m not interested in cuddling.”

Cameron dug through his luggage for a dirty T-shirt and tied it to the top of the car. He and Dirk stayed inside until they saw headlights. Then they jumped out and waved for help. The first several cars either didn’t see them or ignored them.

Forty minutes into their ordeal, the cold beginning to reach Cameron’s core, he came dangerously close to a snowplow that buried the car and him and Dirk in freezing slush. The driver must have seen them at the last

minute, however, because he quickly slowed and pulled over, carefully backing up to them.

“Sorry about that!” he called out. “What’s the trouble?”