hours of dropping us off, we would have had more than enough time. By lunch that next day, both William Grace, chief member of the Linear Committee, and Gordon Hughes, chairman of C.A.T.O., had already agreed to meet with Yamashiro.
“Next week?” Grace asked, when I explained that I would not be able to signal the
Hughes politely expressed his disappointment. “That’s Yoshi,” he said. “He’s always so darn cautious.”
I did not mind waiting. I had a good idea how I wanted to use those few free days.
At one point during their conversation, William Grace asked me if I had any questions about the alliance between the Confederate Arms and the Unified Authority. I could not pass on the opportunity. “What about war criminals?” I asked.
“Criminals?” Grace asked. “What do you mean by ‘war criminals’?”
Gordon Hughes sat silent, curious to hear what Grace might say.
“The Confederate Arms sent terrorists into Unified Authority territory to attack civilian targets,” I said. “What about William ‘The Butcher’ Patel? What about…”
“Ah, William Patel,” Grace said, a smile coming to his face. “If I am not mistaken, you were in Safe Harbor when he set off a bomb.”
“It wasn’t just a bomb. He destroyed an entire city block,” I said.
“Those were desperate times,” Grace said. “We were at war, Harris. I don’t suppose we shall ever invite Patel to the Capitol for tea; but in light of our new arrangement with the Confederate Arms, I think that a pardon is in order.”
“I see,” I said. “What about Tom Halverson? Are you going to pardon him for sinking the entire Earth Fleet?” Halverson was a U.A. admiral who had defected to the Confederate Arms. He’d led and commanded the fleet that attacked Earth.
Grace and Hughes huddled together and spoke in whispers. “I suppose we will extend full amnesty to Tom,” Grace said. “We can’t very well arrest the man commanding our combined fleet.”
“Commanding the fleet?” I felt staggered.
“Certainly,” Grace said. “Halverson is the commander of the Confederate Arms Navy. Chairman Hughes has made it very clear that he will not trust anyone but Halverson to command his self-broadcasting fleet.”
Freeman distanced himself more and more as the meeting continued. He let me do all of the speaking. When the politicians asked us questions, he sat mute. He did not ask questions himself. Freeman’s face remained as implacable as ever, but something in his posture showed a certain restlessness on his part.
We broke for lunch. Freeman and I ate downstairs in a cafeteria with our driver and some guards, while the politicians and officers ate upstairs. Freeman only said one thing during the entire meal. He mumbled, “I’m going to walk,” as he ate his sandwich. He said the words so quietly that no one else in the room could possibly have heard him.
Freeman did not want to leave his life in Grace’s hands, and maybe he had the right idea. Now that we had delivered Yamashiro’s message, neither William Grace nor Gordon Hughes showed interest in Freeman or me. We returned to the same conference room and sat ignored as all of the big shots discussed the benefits of adding Shin Nippon’s four battleships to their navy.
As the conversation shot back and forth, I noticed Freeman sneak a furtive glance at the door. He climbed out of his chair. The conversation froze, and everyone turned to look at him. Having delivered our message, we might not have mattered to anyone, but when a seven-foot giant stands, people instinctively stop to watch him. It was an instinct of self-preservation, I suppose.
Looking profoundly nervous, a guard approached Freeman, his hand on the grip of his pistol. Freeman spoke quietly, his rumbling voice so hard to hear from a distance. He said, “I need to go to the restroom.”
Grace nodded to the guards, and said, “Perhaps you could show Mr. Freeman the way.”
Freeman left with the guard. As they left, I already knew that I would not see Ray Freeman again for some time to come.
The meeting broke up a few minutes after that. “Wild Bill” Grace shook my hand and left with his entourage. Gordon Hughes repeated that it was a pleasure to meet me and left with his entourage. My driver came to the room and suggested that we wait for Freeman. I told him, “That might take a while.”
“Is he sick or something?” the driver asked.
“No,” I said.
I had a pretty good idea about what was next on the agenda for me. In the next day or two, the Marines would recall me to active duty. As far as “Wild Bill” and his U.A. generals were concerned, they owned me. I was a clone, created by the state. They had just as much right to recall me as they would to recommission a tank or an old battleship.
A few minutes passed, and the driver looked at me, and said, “Should we go check on your friend?”
“Sure,” I said. “Where shall we look?”
“He went to the can,” the driver said.
I laughed. “You think so?”
“No?” the driver asked.
“He isn’t there,” I said.
With catlike speed, the man jumped to his feet and sprinted from the room. He knew that he did not have to worry about me, I was military. I would be here when he got back. I had no place to go.
I sat at the table and waited. About three minutes later the driver returned, an angry look on his face. He pulled off his shades and placed them on the table, then walked over to me. He stood over me like an interrogation officer. The man was Intelligence, and he wanted me to know it. Gone was the pretense that he was just a chauffeur. “Okay, smart guy, so where did your pal go?”
“How should I know that?” I asked. “You’ve seen him. You think he asked me for permission?”
The driver thought about this for a moment, then said, “No, I guess not.”
“You’ve had us under surveillance,” I said. “Where do you think he went?”
“Who says we had you under surveillance?” the driver asked, holding the door for me to leave.
“Don’t be an ass,” I said. “You’re from Intelligence, right?”
“Let’s just say that I’ll have some buddies looking for your friend,” the driver said, sounding downright cocky. We headed down the hall. The armed guards were gone, replaced by men in business suits. A man in a black suit—probably another agent—held the elevator for us.
“You better call them off,” I said.
“You think we’re scared of Freeman?” the driver asked. He sounded a bit too confident, like a dog with its hackles up even though it is not sure of itself.
“If you’re smart, Freeman scares you. What happened to the guy who walked him to the bathroom?” I asked.
“We found him on the stairs.” The elevator doors closed behind us.
“Dead?” I asked.
“Unconscious,” the driver said. “He’s got a concussion and a broken wrist.”
“So Ray took it easy on the guy,” I said. “Let’s see, he was unarmed, and he took out an armed agent. Now you have an agent with a concussion, and Freeman has a gun.
“Yes, I’d be scared of Freeman if I were you.”
“We’ll find him.” The driver stretched out the word “we’ll” so that it sounded like “Weeee’ll find him.” It sounded too comfortable. “He’s a seven-foot black man, how hard can he be to locate?”
I could not help but laugh. The man did not have Freeman’s measure. The military police would not have taken Freeman so lightly; but these cocky Intelligence types, they thought they had the world under control.
“So are you with Central Intelligence?” I asked.
“Naval Intelligence,” the driver said.
The elevator doors opened to the cool cement of the parking garage. Freeman might have been down here, or at least passed by. The dim lighting would have appealed to him. He would have had no trouble taking out guards and hot-wiring a car.
“You should have a file on Freeman,” I said.
“We do.”
