“So why aren’t you making it happen?”
“Clay isn’t President Walker. It’s going to take some time.”
“Time,” Mitchum said. The man said little, and yet those words were always carefully chosen, spoken softly and yet always heard.
“Yes, sir. President Walker was one of us from the beginning. He understood that protecting America would require unconventional means. Clay . . . he’s a professor. His experience is theoretical. He’s uncomfortable with this kind of reality.”
“So, what,” the senator asked, “he’s going to put the MOI in a drawer?”
“That would be his preference. He knows he doesn’t have the votes to repeal it, but he can stall it indefinitely.”
“So how do we jump-start it?”
“We’ll have our moment.” Leahy turned to Mitchum. “Sir, can I ask you something?”
The director raised an eyebrow.
“The Children of Darwin. Are they by any chance a false flag operation?”
Before the director could respond, the senator interrupted. “False flag? What’s that?”
Leahy fought a sigh. Richard, you are going to find that the heights you’ve attained make for a long fall if you don’t understand the mountain. “A covert operation designed to look like its instigated by someone else in order to provide grounds for action.”
“You mean like the bombing in the exch—”
“Senator.” Mitchum spoke softly, but the word was a lash. Richard looked away. The director turned back to Leahy. “No.”
“We’re certain?”
“Yes. The COD are exactly what they appear to be, a group of abnorm terrorists.”
“Good.”
“Good?” The senator bristled. “Good? Terrorists have taken three of our cities, people are starving, and it’s good?”
“Yes,” Leahy said. “These terrorists may be brilliants, but I’m not sure how smart they are. They’ve got tunnel vision. They don’t realize that every move they make is serving our ends.”
“How?”
Leahy ignored the senator. Mitchum said, “Do we know what their next action will be?”
“The leading theory is a biological attack. But it doesn’t matter. Even if they don’t have anything else planned, what they’ve set in motion is enough. With every passing day, the public is howling for action. The president’s hand is being forced.”
“That doesn’t mean it will play our way.”
“Even an intellectual like Clay is going to have to make a decision at some point.” Leahy shrugged. “When he does, it will be through me.”
The senator cut in. “And you’ll make the MOI a cornerstone of that response. I see the method in your madness, but there’s too much madness in your method. We ought to go through channels. Bring it up on the Senate floor, hold Clay accountable in the media.”
You mean make more headlines for yourself. “Too risky. It leaves the door open for people to claim that the MOI justifies the Children of Darwin’s actions.”
“Who would claim that?”
Jesus. Really? “The COD.”
Richard scoffed. “You think they’re going to issue a press release?”
“If they say they’ll return everything to normal if we scrap the bill, do you think people in Cleveland or Tulsa or Fresno will say, ‘No, thanks, we’ll starve for our principles’?” He turned to Mitchum. “Sir, if we open the MOI up for discussion, that’s the ball game. We’re negotiating with terrorists, and from an inferior position.”
Mitchum tapped two fingers on his desk. After a moment, he said, “You’re certain of this, Owen?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got this under control.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he regretted them. Under control? You’re banking on a group of abnorm terrorists and a president with the fortitude of a noodle.
The same thought seemed to be playing in Mitchum’s mind. “All right, Owen,” he said with the look of a lion eyeing a gazelle straying from the herd. “So long as you’re sure.”
Leahy nodded, forced a smile. Mitchum made you, and he can break you.
You better control this—or you’re going to be dinner.
CHAPTER 11
There had been a time when Ethan could go on a two-week trip with a single carry-on bag. At twenty-two, he’d spent three months crisscrossing Europe with nothing but a backpack.
Now they couldn’t leave town without jamming the Honda to the roof.
Their own luggage was the smallest part of it. The baby’s suitcase was larger than theirs, and it was packed so full he’d had to sit on the thing to zip it: daytime diapers, nighttime diapers, wipes, onesies, pajamas, evaporated milk, burp cloths, swaddling blankets, a musical seahorse, picture books, baby monitor, on and on. Add to that the pack-and-play, the travel swing, the bright pink bathtub, and the play mat. Then a box of stuff in case the stay at Amy’s mom’s turned out to be longer than he hoped: d-pads and chargers, Amy’s chef’s knife and favorite pan, workout gear, medication and toiletries, winter coats. Ethan clenched the flashlight between his teeth to free both hands and cleared space for the cat cage. Inside, Gregor Mendel mewled pitifully, his eyes reflecting green.
“It’s okay, buddy.”
Atop the cage went a box of litter and a bag of Iams. Alongside it, a lockbox containing their passports, some jewelry that had belonged to Amy’s grandmother, and a bundle of US Treasury bonds.
Ethan shook his head, then closed the rear hatch and threw his hip to slam it. He was glad they were going. Things were getting a mite too real in Cleveland. And besides, someone kidnapped Abe. There’s no way of knowing whether they’re after you too, but if they are, better to be somewhere else for now.
The house was already cold. Their furnace burned natural gas, but it took electricity to power the blower that moved the air. A pillar candle on the kitchen counter cast a soft circle of light on the empty cans that had served as dinner. No stove, no microwave, so Amy had ripped off the labels and heated the cans over the candle.
Clever woman. Lukewarm bean soup is nothing to shout about, but it trumps cold bean soup.
Amy came down the stairs, Violet in her arms. “I’m going to do a quick dummy check. Can you change her?”
“Sure.”
The changing table was in the living room, and barely visible, but he could manage diaper duty with his eyes closed. Violet had recently started sort-of smiling, scrunching up her cheeks and sticking her tongue out. Once he had her clean, he spent a minute biting at her belly until she gave him that goofy grin.
“I think that’s everything,” Amy said.
“You sure? Grab me a wrench, I could disconnect the stove, strap that on top of the truck.”
“Funny man.”
At the front door, Amy turned to the alarm panel, started punching buttons. She made it halfway through the code before she laughed and shook her head. “Right. Never mind.”
“It’ll be fine.” He tugged the door closed, then locked the deadbolt. Their block was eerie. No streetlights or porch lights, no glow of tri-ds in family rooms, no music on the edge of hearing. The flickering hints of candles and flashlights seemed tiny against the weight of blackness. Far away, he heard a siren wail.
Ethan strapped in his daughter, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the car.
“It looks so lonely,” Amy said.
“The house?”
“The city.” She leaned her head up against the side window. “Holy crap.”
“What?”
“I can see stars.” Her voice was bemused. “Lots of them. When was the last time you saw stars?”
Ethan had made the short drive to the freeway a thousand times, at every hour. But he’d never seen it like this. Every building was shadowed, the windows empty sockets. The trees, leafless and November-tossed, loomed ominously. The city wasn’t just middle-of-the-night dark; it was Middle Ages dark. No porch lights, no streetlights, no floodlights on the billboards, no glow reflecting off clouds. The only signs of life were other cars, their headlights watery and weak in the darkness. It was a relief to merge onto I-90; the highway seemed almost normal, the westbound traffic moving well.