Without warning

Precisely modulated buffoonery seemed to be the appropriate response to this gladhanding mountebank.

‘Nope. Air force,’ he replied as they continued towards the Municipal Tower, cutting across Marion into 5th Avenue.

‘Well, that’s all right too, I suppose. And what threat to national security are you dealing with down here, Major McCutcheon?’

‘Oh, I’m just a humble liaison officer, Jed… You are Jed Culver, right – one of Governor Lingle’s people? It is my job to know.’

Culver’s smile was knowing, but he allowed just a small twinkle of admiration to light up his eyes too. This guy wasn’t half bad. He certainly wasn’t nearly as stupid as he pretended to be. It was telling that he’d referenced Culver’s official designation as a Hawaiian delegate, and not his more infamous profile as the prime mover behind the ‘No’ lobby, the makeshift alliance opposed to any radical change in the nation’s constitutional arrangements.

They turned the corner into Fifth, where a line of trees leading up to the Municipal Tower had shed all their leaves and died. The exposed branches called up an image of witch’s hands, clawing at the poisoned sky.

‘I suppose the big pink calling card gives me away,’ he conceded, fingering the ID laminate for emphasis. Jed had wondered who’d picked the colours for the laminate cards when he’d received his a fortnight ago. It certainly wouldn’t have been his first choice, or Governor Lingle’s for that matter.

Culver stopped and turned to face McCutcheon directly. ‘But what gives you away, Major, is your non-regulation haircut, which is just a bit too close to the collar. Your whole hail-fellow-well-met routine, which is a little too practised at being a little too hip. And the small, almost unnoticeable hole in your left ear lobe, which tells me that at some point you had something stuck in there, possibly to fit in with an underground cell of Resistance nitwits or anarchist troublemakers. It was a nice save on the name, but I’ve been dealing with military people for weeks now, and none of them ever call me anything but “Mr Culver” or “sir”. So why don’t you stop trying to jam ten pounds of horseshit into a five-pound bag and tell me what it is you want.’

McCutcheon appeared to regard him with detached amusement. Staying in character then. Okay, thought Jed, one point for him.

‘You’re the guy that set this gig up, aren’t you, Jed?’ He smiled, with just a hint of steel in his voice.

‘The Constitutional Convention, you mean?’

‘Yeah. The clusterfuck down at the Municipal Tower of Babel.’

‘No, I’m not the one who set it up, Mac,’ Culver replied dryly. ‘I think you’ll find that the executive and legislative branches of the surviving states did that, in accordance with Article 5 of the Constitution. I’m just an observer for Governor Lingle’s office.’

‘Bullshit. Everyone knows what role you’re playing. It’s a dangerous game, Jed. Look at this place.’ McCutcheon waved a gloved hand at the dead city lying in state around them. ‘More’n half a million people bunkered down like rats, living on subsistence handouts. An active underground resistance, which is this close to flipping over into major violence, and the only goddamn thing keeping the lid on is martial law. And that’s just here. You know what it’s like back in Hawaii. You must have heard about the refugee camps down in Chile and Brazil. America isn’t a functioning nation anymore. It’s a fucking shambles, which is this close to going under. Do you honestly believe we can afford to indulge ourselves in partisan bullshit and self-seeking politics anymore – the whole fucking spin cycle, red state/blue state, inner/outer beltway psychosis? We are this close to going under.’ He held up two fingers, pinching them together.

‘No,’ sighed Jed. ‘You are this close to giving me a migraine. What are you, McCutcheon – Blackstone’s Lord Chief Assassin? His Witch Finder General? What is it exactly that you want from me?’

‘It’s not what I want from you, Jed. It’s what you can do for your -’

‘Oh please, don’t.’

Culver turned and resumed his steady stride down towards the convention. He half expected McCutcheon to grab him by the elbow and muscle him into a black van or down an alleyway. But the air force man – if that’s what he really was – didn’t even bother to follow. He simply called out after the lawyer, ‘Room 1209.’

It took half a second for the significance to sink in, but when it did, Culver froze, almost comically, nearly pitching forward under his own momentum.

‘That’s where your family can be found, can’t they? Room 1209 of the Embassy Suites.’

Jed had to summon all of his willpower not to spin around and fly back at McCutcheon. He was still a powerful man, in spite of years of fine living. His wrestler’s physique had not run too badly to fat, and at that moment every nerve in his body was singing a high sweet song of madness. He wanted to tear one of McCutcheon’s arms out of its socket and beat him down with it. Instead, he fixed a small vulpine smile on his face and walked back slowly.

‘I don’t know who you are, McCutcheon. Who you really are,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you really want. I’m going to do you the courtesy of presuming your intentions are honourable and that your means, like so much of what is happening in this city, are driven by the devils of necessity. But if you know about me, what I am and what I’ve done, you’ll know I neither make nor accept threats idly. Our business here today is done. But you and I, my friend – we are not.’

And with that Jed Culver turned and walked away, wondering if he should continue with his planned meeting. Could he be under surveillance?

He wondered about McCutcheon’s agenda. It seemed a hell of a risk, the major fronting him like that. What would happen if the lawyer walked up to a news crew at the convention now and started bleating about being monstered by a military officer, who had threatened his family?

And then he smiled. He knew what would happen. McCutcheon would produce a handful of impeccable witnesses, probably backed up with electronic evidence – say, date-stamped video coverage – ‘proving’ that he had been nowhere near the city at the time Culver alleged. Jed would be ridiculed as a fabulist and possibly as a fellow traveller with the subversives in the Resistance. His effectiveness as a backroom operator would be at an end.

He nodded in appreciation of the gambit, stopping and turning around. McCutcheon, of course, was gone.