Dream of a Falling Eagle

this thing now.'

'You can't expect me to-'

'Your invisible handlers are a government unto themselves, Mr. Kranes. They rule a country where there are no maps or boundaries to begin with, but where they're constantly trying to project and expand their power. Their loyalty isn't to the United States, it's only to themselves. You dream of some pastel, mythical country called the United States as you imagine it was forty or fifty years ago, a place that never really existed, and you pander to the prejudices of millions of people who share the same fantasy. The people who are trying to manipulate you dream of a falling eagle, a kind of fascist America where they're free to do just about any damn thing they please without fear of any embarrassing questions being asked by bothersome elected officials who suspect some of the pranks they pull may not really be in the best interests of national or global security. It's a game to them, Kranes, a Great Game, and the only thing they're interested in is being able to continue playing it without interference. The game is an end in itself. Over the course of the past six months, because they now perceive a very serious threat to their power, they've murdered six Haitians, one American poet, and two Supreme Court justices. Now they're poised to murder the president and vice president-all so that you'll be president long enough to guarantee their survival, and maybe beyond that. They may have promised their flunkies an all-out effort in the November election to keep you in office, and then maybe a repeal of the Twenty-sixth Amendment. All this just to wreck the commission and quash its report. They don't give a damn about the wreckage they'll leave behind.'

Kranes shook his head stubbornly. Although it was not warm in the air-conditioned building, tiny beads of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. 'Just for the sake of argument, let's say everything you're telling me is true.'

'It is. Believe it.'

'And you think I can stop it all simply by going to the FBI and Secret Service and telling them Thomas Dickens was killed because I was caught copying some of his poems?'

'No. You stop it by resigning.'

'What. .?'

'You heard him, shithead,' Garth said. 'If you really want to do something for your country, get the hell out of office. The CIA wants you at the altar because you're every fascist's sweetheart. Break up the engagement, and maybe they won't burn down the church.'

We'd really hit him where he lived. Kranes wiped at the sweat on his upper lip, but it didn't do any good; even larger droplets had appeared on his forehead, and were rolling down over his pudgy cheeks. He didn't react at all to my diplomat brother's words. We had painted him a nightmare scenario, but that didn't seem to upset him as much as the word 'resign.'

'You don't have to resign from Congress, Mr. Kranes,' I said quietly. 'You can go right on representing the people of Huntsville, Alabama, and you can keep on saying whatever you want to say. But you have to resign from your Speaker's post. And you should call a press conference and do it this afternoon, right after we leave. You have to take yourself out of the line of succession. Announce that you're backing a moderate-any moderate, if there's one left in your party-to replace you in the post. Then the CIA will abort. The consequences of failure are too great for them to risk carrying out the assassinations with no guarantee they'll be able to cover their tracks and control whoever winds up being president. Without you as a quick and easy solution to their problems, these people will back off their plan, hunker down, and leave it to the rest of the agency to concentrate on trying to find a way to defend themselves against the charges in the commission's report. Your party, and your ideas, won't suffer; someone to your liking will almost certainly win the November election. And you may even get to keep your little secret.'

Kranes did not reply. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, then stared down at his shoes.

It was Garth who broke the silence. 'He's not going to do it, Mongo,' my brother said evenly. 'Fuck him. Let's stop wasting our time and get out of here.'

'Is my brother right, Mr. Kranes?' I asked, stepping closer so that I could look up into his face. 'Are you going to give these murderers what they want?'

His reaction was to quickly step around me and away from both of us, shuffling a few steps further down the corridor. When he looked up, his face was flushed, his eyes wide. 'There's too much at stake for me to resign from the Speaker's post.'

Garth said, 'Oy.'

I said, 'What?'

'We're on the verge of making this country right again, and I'm the man who brought us here. My party needs my continued leadership. You come to me with this completely wild story, without any solid proof of any of it, and you expect me to immediately step down from my position of leadership. Even if you're not consciously part of any scheme to bring me down, the two of you may still be pawns of people who are trying to do just that. All of this could be part of some elaborate liberal plot to derail me and our plans for this country. At the very least, I have to have time to think about it. I will not-'

Somewhat to my surprise, he abruptly stopped speaking when I raised my hand. I said quietly, 'While you're mulling it over, here's something you can do on your own to check into this wild speculation and the possibility of some liberal plot against you. Loosen up with some of your buddies in the Twilight Zone who you've been avoiding lately for fear they'll embarrass you. Take, say, Taylor Mackintosh out for a few drinks. He may wind up telling you a few things you don't want to hear.'

Garth raised his right hand and cocked his thumb and index finger like a gun, which he aimed at the man standing down the hallway. Then he smiled thinly, winked, and said, 'You've been warned. Don't come crying to us if you end up having to be president.'

Chapter 11

We arrived back in New York at 4:45, were at the brownstone by 5:30. There was a long, black limousine with smoked windows parked at the curb. A bored-looking chauffeur in a uniform that was too tight for him leaned on the hood, smoking a cigarette. The occupant of the limousine, wearing a tan summer suit, two-tone brown cowboy boots, and his muskrat top was waiting for us in Francisco's office.

'It's about time you got here!' Taylor Mackintosh snapped, leaping off the chair he'd been sitting in as we entered. 'My agent said there was a message that you wanted to see me right away! I'm not used to waiting on people, especially people I figure are looking to get some money from me!'

'Mr. Mackintosh,' I said sweetly, 'you can't imagine how happy I am to see you. Hang on just a couple of seconds and I'll be right with you.'

As Garth leaned on the reception desk, I went to the back of the office and peered through the Venetian blinds at the scene in my office, which was already littered with pizza cartons, sandwich wrappers, and empty soda bottles. The air in there, I knew, would be foul. The source of all this putrescence, the best hacker in New York City or any place else, as far as I knew, was a three-hundred-pound, red-haired man in his mid-twenties who was sitting at my computer console smacking his lips and mumbling to himself as his stubby fingers fluttered over my keyboard. The ripped T-shirt he wore was thoroughly sweat-soaked and covered with food stains. Francisco, looking thoroughly dejected but resolute, sat next to the man, pad and ballpoint pen in his hands, dutifully recording the Slurper's mumblings. I tapped on the window. The Slurper just kept working away, but when Francisco looked up and saw me he beamed as if I was the Second Coming. He motioned toward the closed door of the office, as if asking permission to escape for a few moments to talk to me, but I smiled and shook my head. His smile vanished. I motioned for him to come over and close the blinds, then turned away from his plaintive, pitiful gaze as he did so.

'Now, Mr. Mackintosh,' I continued in the same sweet tone as I turned to face the indignant-looking actor. 'I don't believe you've met my brother. Garth Frederickson, this is the famous Taylor Mackintosh.'

Garth grunted as he reached out and rested his hand on the telephone.

'Skip the formalities, Frederickson,' Mackintosh said curtly, reaching inside his suit jacket. 'How much money