The Collection

Followed by H. R. Haldeman.

He was older but still instantly recognizable. The crew cut was back, but its severity was offset by a pair of soften­ing bifocals. Haldeman nodded at them. 'Gentlemen.'

Frederickson stood, looked at his assistant. 'I assume you briefed him on the way over?'

Haldeman sat down in an empty seat. 'Yes, he did. And I must say that I'm very happy to have you people in the fight.'

They talked about the Nixon days, about the memos from Buckingham Palace, the hotline calls from the queen, the prepared speeches that Nixon refused to give, the complic­ity of certain cabinet members. Crowther had been around then as well, and Haldeman was shocked to learn that Adam had had the butler eliminated.

'Just like that?' he said.

Adam felt a surge of pride. 'Just like that.'

Haldeman shook his head worriedly. 'You don't know what you're in for. There are going to be repercussions.'

'That's why you're here. So we can pick your brain. I did this intentionally, to raise the stakes.'

Haldeman sighed.

'There's nothing you can give us?'

'We've been training paramilitary groups for years, planning to overthrow the British.'

'The militias?'

Haldeman snorted, waved his hand dismissively. 'Para­noid cranks. And those hayseeds are too stupid to be able to handle something like this. No, we put together the inner-city gangs. We founded the Crips, the Bloods, and their brethren. We'd recruited minorities for the military in Viet­nam and it worked beautifully, so we decided to do the same with our revolutionary force. We couldn't let the British know what was happening, though, so we disguised them as independent organizations, rival youth groups fighting over drugs and neighborhood turf. We established them as crimi­nals, made sure they got plenty of publicity, plenty of air-time on news programs, and now they're believed to be such an intrinsic part of contemporary American life that even if one of them breaks ranks the myth is secure.'

'You think it'll work?'

'Eventually. But we've already been doing this for twenty years, and we probably won't be ready for another ten or fifteen. We don't have the numbers. Britain can recruit from Australia, Canada, all of their colonies. If we went at them right now, we wouldn't stand a chance. Besides, some­thing like this takes planning.'

'We need more immediate results.'

'Sorry. I can't help you there.'

They continued talking, sharing secrets, comparing strategies until midafternoon. Haldeman had to fly back to Chicago, and Adam walked with him to the limo. 'Thank you for coming,' he said, shaking the other man's hand.

'Anything for my country,' Haldeman said.

Adam smiled. 'You still think of this as your country?'

'Always.'

Adam watched the limo roll down the drive and through the White House gates, and suddenly an idea occurred to him. He hurried back into the White House. Several of his advisors had suggested that the entire domestic staff be ex­ecuted as a way of provoking British forces in Washington to show themselves, but after talking to Haldeman he knew that that would be a suicidal gesture. This idea, though, was a good one.

This idea might work.

He ran into Simons in the corridor. 'Gather everyone to­gether again,' he said. 'I have a plan.'

'Hello?'

Even on the amplified speakerphone of the hotline, the queen's voice was distant, muffled.

'Greetings, Your Majesty.' Adam made sure his tone was properly subservient.

'Why are you contacting us? If we wish to speak with you, we will initiate the dialogue.'

'I'm calling to apologize, Your Majesty. As you may or may not have heard, there's been some miscommunication here at our end. Apparently, some of your subjects seem to believe that I and my people are somehow involved in the disappearance of the head of my domestic staff, Crowther.'

'We have heard rumors to that effect.'

He attempted to make his voice sound simultaneously obsequious toward her and condescending toward everyone else. 'I would like to invite you to the White House so that we might have a face-to-face discussion on some of these matters. I am afraid I am fairly dissatisfied with some of your representatives here, and I believe you would be as well. I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your position, and I fear that your underlings here are doing a dis­service to both you and Britain.'

Silence on the other end.

He held his breath, waiting.

'It has been some time since we have visited the States,' the queen allowed. 'And your accusations, we must admit, are somewhat alarming. We will come to visit the colonies and judge for ourselves. The proper people will be in touch.'

Communication was abruptly cut off, and there was only silence on the hotline's speakerphone. Adam stared at the red phone for a moment, then a smile spread slowly across his face.

He turned toward Simons, pumped his fist in the air.

'Yes!'

***

She arrived on the Concorde two days later.

All the arrangements had been made. Outside White House grounds, everything continued on as usual, but within, FBI agents had rounded up and detained all domes­tic staff members and all known or suspected British agents. Outside contacts and government workers who were suspi­cious about the sudden lack of communication were pla­cated with the promise that the queen would be arriving to sort everything out—a fact they could double- check with Buckingham Palace.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had assured him that the National Guard was ready for its demonstration and that the other branches of the armed forces were available as backup.

Everything was in place.

The second the limousine carrying the queen passed onto the White House grounds, and the iron gates closed behind it, National Guard troops blocked off the street and sur­rounded the area. Simultaneously, the White House press secretary put out the news that a bomb threat had been made against the queen and that precautions—including the use of armed guards—were being taken.

Adam waited in the Oval Office, the document he'd had drawn up by the chief justice of the Supreme Court sitting on his desk, a pen next to it. He was nervous, hands sweaty, but he was determined to go through with the plan. He would be assassinated if they failed—he had no doubt about that—but there was a good chance that they would not fail.

He was imagining his place in history when there was a knock on the door. He stood, composed himself, cleared his throat. 'Yes?' he enquired.

The door opened and a host of British dignitaries and American cabinet members entered the room, parting to allow the queen to pass by.

The queen.

She looked just like she did on TV and in magazine pho­tographs. Even knowing the extent of her power, even with all the knowledge of her position that he'd gained recently, he could sense no aura of exaggerated importance about her, no intimidating demeanor, none of the dictatorial trappings he would have expected. It was an illusion, though. He knew that. And he bowed extravagantly as she stopped before his desk. 'Your Majesty.'

She acknowledged his servility with a barely perceptible nod and sat down in the specially provided chair opposite him. 'Now,' she said, 'tell us what you have to say.'

'I'd prefer to do this alone,' he said, motioning toward the gathered dignitaries.

'Anything you say to us can be said in front of them.'

'I'm afraid that they might have a vested interest. May we speak in private?'