Angels of Vengeance

him, but the Chief of Staff merely sighed and shook his head. Almost as if he was trying to shake off a wearisome thought or mood.

‘No, sir. That won’t be necessary. You said you wanted the FBI on this. They’re on it, in their own methodical, dilatory fashion. I’m sure they’ll do a thorough job. But I just want you to know it will take time. And there are alternatives that I could set in play before I have my first martini tonight.’

‘Only if you really want to go to jail, Jed,’ the President said, half in jest. But with a tone to his voice that, he hoped, implied he was serious also.

‘Fair enough,’ replied Culver, finally seeming to accept that he’d lost. ‘Tomorrow morning then. Barb.’ He dipped his head to say goodbye and left to locate his driver.

‘Not a happy customer,’ said Barb once he’d gone. ‘Can I help there?’

‘Sweet potato bake and trees are in the oven. They’ll be good to go by now,’ Kipper told her, trying to recover his good mood from earlier on. He was relieved that Jed hadn’t pressed the point about Blackstone and, he presumed, that damned Echelon woman, but he was still pissed off he’d even had to think about it this evening. That was the problem with living where you worked: there was no escaping the office.

Barbara busied herself with removing the two porcelain baking trays from the oven, one heavily burdened with a large sweet potato done au gratin, the smaller one holding the obligatory greens, namely broccoli baked with lemon wedges. ‘Trees’, as Kip still called them. A term from his childhood. Broccoli he wouldn’t eat, but ‘trees’ he would. Just like their daughter now. There were times it drove Barbara batshit, right up there with the fart jokes when Barney Tench was around.

He lifted down two white, square dinner plates from the crockery cupboard and wondered why they had to be square. What was wrong with round, normal-looking plates, for chrissakes? American dinner plates. Fucking Seattle, sometimes they just push things too far here. He definitely needed more beer.

Once he’d drained his beer and handed the glass to Barbara, he found he was too hungry to give a damn anyway, but that his mood had improved. The beer, of course. And the prospect of another one. Barb returned with a refill, giving him a kiss.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Good to know the President still has some supporters.’

He pulled down a tray, loaded the plates on top and followed his wife into the media room - a techie’s wet dream of entertainment equipment, most of it Korean or Japanese these days. A sixty-inch Samsung LCD came to life as Barb settled down on the leather couch that dominated the centre of the room.

She smiled. ‘Snuggle time, Mr President.’

James Kipper had never been much of a TV-dinner guy before falling ass backward into the presidential rumble seat. But he found nowadays that once he was free of the office, all he wanted to do at night was smash down a beer or two, have a nice dinner and put his feet up in front of the tube. It was a pity there was never anything on but reruns and imports, especially from Britain. Local Seattle television had started to offer a sitcom called Forever Wild that Barbara seemed drawn to. It followed a bunch of ‘econauts’ around various protests and coffee shops while they made lame jokes about the military-industrial complex. Econuts, more likely, thought Kip. He preferred his comedy delivered stand-up and low brow. Frankly, he missed Jeff Foxworthy.

And he really missed wall-to-wall sports broadcasting on ESPN, ESPN-2 and ESPN Classic. Granted, he had never had time to watch much, but it’d been nice to have the choice in theory. Now, with the economy only just grinding its way out of the subsistence years, there simply wasn’t the money for professional sport like before. The reconstituted National Football League and Major League Baseball were filled with wannabes and a few broken- down retirees who could-a been outplayed by any decent high school team. Paul McAuley assured him it would come back. Even New Zealand, with a population still many times smaller than America’s, managed to support a service-driven, consumption-based economy. But then they hadn’t had to rebuild themselves from the ruins of the Wave.

‘Damn, I forgot to kiss Suzie goodnight,’ said Kipper just after sitting down. ‘Is she still awake, reading?’

‘Worst. Father. Ever,’ said Barb. ‘She’s been down for about half an hour. Fell asleep reading Harry Potter.’

Neither of them wanted to watch the news. Or the woeful Christmas specials. Kipper couldn’t handle yet another dose of Jane Austen on PBS’s Masterpiece Theatre either. English costume dramas just didn’t do it for him at all. And the First Lady had banned any consideration of repeats of pre- Disappearance sports highlights shows. They couldn’t understand the accents on the Australian soap operas. It was too early for any of the cooking shows, so they settled on Grand Designs, an English program that followed couples - for some reason, it was always couples - as they built or renovated their dream homes. Every week it was the same thing: the couples always underestimated the budget; the dreams always ran ahead of their resources and the available time; and it was as if nobody had ever heard of employing a project manager. Barb enjoyed the aesthetics of some of the old houses being brought back to life, while Kip, who’d had to be ordered to keep his nose out of the Dearborn House restoration efforts, enjoyed shaking his head and muttering ‘assholes’ under his breath as these idiots made the same basic engineering errors and project management mistakes week after week.

At least it made him feel better about his own manifest inadequacies. He was the type who loved to crack wise about Dubya before the Wave. Now he imagined a pantheon of departed American presidents, looking down on him, smacking their foreheads in constant aggravation and cursing, ‘What a fucking moron!’

The commercial breaks had likewise changed greatly since ‘03. Many of the spots were taken by the Advertising Council. A particularly entertaining one tonight featured an African-American male doing pull-ups for the camera and stating that he didn’t need to take his heart medication because he was just fine. As he hoisted up into the camera for the last time, he could be seen twitching before dropping off the bars and out of view with a loud thud. It ended with a reminder to go see your doctor and take care of your heart.

The ads for private businesses tended to be hyper local. One shaky camcorder spot featured a large man in bib overalls rocking back and forth on his feet, trying to convince folks that they needed his lawn-tending services. Kip’s favourite place in Pike Place Market, Frellman’s Brats and Sausage Hut, was a little slicker. Home of the Thrown Brats, they gave you a fishing net to snare the bangers out of the air.

He was surprised to see a lengthy, much more professional-looking ad for Cesky Enterprises’ new prestige apartment project in the renovated Smith Tower. It reminded him of the days when television advertising wasn’t a cottage industry.

‘What did Jed want to talk about, honey?’ Barbara asked when they had finished eating.

‘Oh, I’ve had him and Sarah working on what we might do with all those people in the camps back east,’ Kipper declared, around licking his fingers. He knew he couldn’t tell her the real reason Culver had called in, to try to bully him into sending Agent Monroe to Fort Hood.

‘They’re mostly women and children, aren’t they?’ said his wife.

‘Mostly. There’s a couple of old geezers in there. And we’ve got another camp full of fighters who survived New York. They’re more of a problem. But most of them have ties to the women and children.’

Barb finished her wine and thought about pouring another one, before deciding against it. She placed the empty glass carefully on the coffee table, next to her plate.

‘Can’t send them home, then?’

‘Not all of them, no,’ Kip sighed. ‘A lot of places in Europe, if that’s where they hailed from, won’t have them back. And a lot of their original homelands still glow in the dark.’

The show was returning from another ad break, but Barb used the remote to mute it.

‘And I’ll bet Jed is worried about how you sell the idea of letting them stay,’ she ventured.

‘Hell, I’m worried about that myself. Honestly, they don’t deserve to stay. If he had his way, he’d stick them on a garbage barge, tow them out past the twelve-mile line and sink them if they tried to come back.’

‘Most people would.’

‘I know. And I totally get that. But these guys were just servants, followers. After every war we’ve ever fought, we’ve eventually forgiven the enemy. It’s what makes us better than them. Stronger, I believe, in the end.’

He wondered if there could ever be forgiveness between Blackstone and himself. Probably not, if the FBI