“So?”
“So whoever hired the Gild must have the means of traveling from the continental U.S. to Europe,” Blade deduced. “And we know the Soviets lack the capability. The Russians possess a lot of functional helicopters, but no jets, so far as we know. And the Technics don’t have an Air Force or any craft able to make a transatlantic voyage. But the Androxians do. So I could be wrong. The Androxians might have hired the Gild.”
“Unless, of course,” President Toland observed, “the Gild has a North American office or headquarters or some means of being contacted here.”
“That’s another possibility,” Blade admitted.
“Which brings us to the spy,” Toland stated. “I must make a confession.” His mouth curled downward. “I expected the summit to become the target of some form of attack.”
“You did? Why didn’t you inform us?” Blade demanded.
“Put yourself in my shoes,” President Toland said defensively. “The more people I told about the summit, specifically about the summit’s location, the greater the likelihood of the information falling into hostile hands. By the same token, the more people I told about expecting an attack increased the probability of our unknown enemies refraining from mounting an attempt if they knew we were anticipating one. Do you follow me so far?”
“I think so,” Blade responded.
“My strategy was simple,” Toland explained. “I knew the spy would consider the summit information crucial. I believed the spy would pass on the location of the summit to the Russians. And I knew full well the Russians wouldn’t hit the summit if they knew we were prepared for them.”
“I’m beginning to see what you’re driving at,” Blade commented.
“So while I told no one about expecting an attack,” Toland elaborated, “I did confide in a few close advisors about the summit’s location. That way, if an attack was made, I’d know one of the people I confided in must be responsible for relaying the information to the Russians, must be the spy.”
“Pretty clever,” Blade admitted. “But what if whoever is behind the assassination attempts received the news through another source?”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” Toland conceded.
“How many on your staff knew the exact location of the summit site?”
Blade asked.
“The two envoys I initially sent to California were aware of the selected site,” Toland detailed. “But both of them are completely reliable. I’ve known them since we were children in Wyoming.”
“Who else?” Blade probed.
“General Reese, whom you know,” Toland said.
“And I can’t see Reese being the spy,” Blade declared.
“Me neither,” President Toland agreed. “Which leaves just two other people I told.”
“Which ones?” Blade inquired.
President Toland turned and nodded toward Plato, Parmalee, and Ebert. “Guess.”
“Parmalee and Ebert?”
“Exactly,” Toland confirmed. He looked at Blade. “One of them is the Russian spy. I’m certain of it.”
“And you want me to find out which one,” Blade deduced.
“Can you?” President Toland asked.
“I’ll give it my best shot,” Blade promised. “But the job won’t be easy.
I’m going to have to be rough with them. I can’t use kid gloves. And if they’re innocent, they might resent the treatment and blame you.”
President Toland stared at the floor. “It can’t be helped. We know there’s a spy in our midst and we must discover the agent’s identity before irreparable harm is done to the Freedom Federation.”
“Since I have your permission, I can get started right away,” Blade said.
“Is there anything I can do?” Toland queried.
“Yes,” Blade stated. “In about fifteen minutes send one of them up to Room 212, the room I interrogated Emery in.”
“Which one do you want first?” Toland questioned.
Blade scrutinized the two bureaucrats. “Send up Ebert first.”
“He’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” President Toland assured the Warrior.
Blade glanced at the Civilized Zone’s leader. “I hope you’re right. If you’re not, there are two people who might wind up hating you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Toland responded. “But preserving the Federation must take precedence.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Blade offered, “I agree with your decision.”
President Toland stared at his two advisers, then at Blade. “It’s not.”
“You know the old saying,” Blade remarked.
“Which one?” Toland wanted to know.
“It’s lonely at the top.”
Chapter Fourteen
This was another fine mess he’d gotten himself into!
Hickok was trussed up like a wild animal ready for slaughter. His shoulders ached from the strain of bearing all of his weight. The wind was increasing in intensity, the gusts causing him to spin. He faced north, then east, then south, then back to the north again, and he frowned as he surveyed the preparations for the feast at which he was going to be the main course.
Lousy cannibals!
The gunman had encountered cannibals before, during his two runs to the Twin Cities. And there were stories about other human maneaters, bands of them roving the countryside and pouncing on hapless wayfarers, and isolated colonies where unwary travelers were lured in, slain, and consumed. Despite the prevalance of such tales, Hickok had never gave them much credence.
Until now.
One of the Family Elders had once discoursed on the subject. The Elder had chronicled the history of cannibalism and emphasized several salient points. Cannibalism had been part of the religious and social mores in primitive society, and at one time had been almost universal among the early races. And in periods of supreme stress, during war or drought or any other calamity, to avert starvation some people reverted to the primeval practice of eating their fellows. The aftermath of World War Three had been a case in point. Millions suddenly found themselves without food as the distribution network collapsed. Where formerly they could waltz into the nearest supermarket or restaurant and glut themselves on their favorite foods, they abruptly discovered the realities of life without a fast-food outlet. Relatively few prewar citizens had bothered to stockpile provisions in case of an emergency. Consequently, they were compelled to roam the land seeking whatever sustenance they could find.
Even those skilled at hunting and fishing were hard pressed to keep food on the table when the environment was so drastically polluted by the radiation and the chemicals, thereby contributing to a massive kill-off of game.
Hickok stared at his captors. Their ancestors must have sought refuge in the amusement park during the war and stayed, isolating themselves from the world outside, eating anything and everything they could scrounge up. Perhaps there hadn’t been many animals in the park right after the war. Perhaps, unable to grow their own food in sufficient quantities to assuage their constant hunger, they had turned to another food source: picking off anyone who ventured into the park. Once started, the practice must have passed from generation to generation and been accepted as normal behavior. Ironically, when one of them had finally opted to break with tradition and make peaceful overtures to others in the park, the dummy had picked the Gild. And not wanting witnesses to their operation, the assassins had killed poor Chester and three others and driven the rest into hiding on the island. So much for brotherhood.
Hickok felt the rope chafing his wrists. His captors had led him north across the island until they had reached an astonishing structure. Hickok had gaped at it in stark wonder. He’d seen the like before, in photographs and paintings in books in the vast Family library. Among the hundreds of thousands of volumes personally selected by the Founder, Kurt Carpenter, were dozens dealing with life in the Old West. A number of them dealt with Western history, detailing the spread of the white man as he drove the Indians from the Plains. And during the course of his reading, Hickok had seen photos and reproductions of the typical forts utilized by the U.S.