“Yes?”
“It’s Michael again ... he wants to know if she’s back yet.”
“No. Tell him I’ll let him know just as soon as she gets here, okay?”
“Right. . .’.”
She cut contact and looked up. The reporter was coming back across.
“Was that her?”
Jill hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. She said she’d be here in ten minutes.
Okay?”
He nodded, then turned and went back to where he’d been sitting. Getting out a handset he murmured something into it. Rehearsing, she thought, then turned, taking the latest printout from the tray behind her. Twenty-two million, and still they were rolling in. At this rate they would hit their first target by tomorrow lunchtime and could begin the second phase—a full week earlier than they’d anticipated. She sat back, smiling. All her life she’d been looking for something useful to do—something meaningful—and suddenly, out of the blue, it had been dumped in her lap. She laughed. Like a miracle. And Mary . . . her smile broadened . . . Mary . . . she was like Kuan Yin herself, the Goddess of Mercy, the Bestower of All Gifts. Mary . . . She looked down, sighing. Why, she was half in love with Mary Lever.
the guard put out his arm, barring her way.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t go down there.”
“But I’m Mary Lever. I—“
“I know who you are, ma’am, but there’s been an incident. We’ve got a squad in, sorting it out.”
“An incident?”
“I. . .” He hesitated, conscious of the press of people beyond her, then turned and called to the group of guards beyond him. “Lieutenant!” The young officer came across and, seeing who it was, bowed low, the light of deep respect in his eyes.
“Madam Lever . . . if you would come through to the office.” She followed him through, then sat on the other side of the desk from him, her hands clasped anxiously together.
“Okay. What’s been happening?”
“I’m afraid there’s been some trouble. Your campaign post was . . . hit, let’s say. It looks like the work of three or four men. We’re looking at the camera evidence right now. It—“ She stood.
“Please, Madam Lever. If you’d sit down again. There’s nothing you can do.
As I was saying—“
“I’ve got to go there,” she said. “Don’t you understand? I’ve got to see what’s happened.”
He swallowed. “There’s not much to see, I’m afraid they didn’t leave
much.”
“What do you mean?”
“I—I’ll see if the Captain will talk to you. Maybe he’ll...” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Look, you really don’t want to see it, okay? It’s—“ She leaned across the desk at him. “You don’t understand, Lieutenant. I have to see it. I have to know what my enemies are capable of— what they’ll do to stop me. No matter how bad it is, I have to see it.” “I. . .” He nodded, then stood, going to the door. “Give me a minute, Madam Lever. I’ll speak to the Captain.”
Mary waited, a cold, hard certainty at the pit of her stomach.
Kennedy. This was his work. No wonder he’d made no effort to persuade her. And that was just like him—just like his kind—to keep her out of it to spare Michael’s feelings.
She shuddered with indignation and a cold, hard rage. If it was him, she would have him. She would kill him with her own two hands. They were dead, she knew it. Jill and Anna, Eva and Bess, and all the others who’d stayed on the extra hour, waiting for her to get back. Dead, every one. She closed her eyes, trying to keep the anger uppermost, trying hard not to succumb to the great upswell of grief she felt at the thought of their deaths.
No, she told herself sternly. You have to be strong, Emily Ascher. Weep later. Right now you must be hard and unyielding, like iron. She took a long, deep breath, then went to the door and stood there, waiting for the officer to return.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Holograms
Kennedy knelt before the tiny altar, facing his great-great-grandfather. A scented spill burned in the pot between him and the figure, its smoke curling and drifting through the bright planes of the hologram. The old man was looking down at his progeny, concerned, one hand extended slightly, as if to comfort him.
“Your problems are grave ones, Joseph, yet you must look within yourself and find the inner strength to cope with them.” Kennedy looked down, his eyes tormented. “It is no use, Grandfather. I’ve tried, yet I can find no peace. Wherever my eyes look there are walls, inside and out. Sleep evades me, and when it comes it is tormented by dreams in which every man’s hand is raised against me.” The old man was silent a moment, as if this situation had taxed the limitations of his programming; then he sighed. “There is only one solution, Joseph. You must retire from public life for a time. Become a sleeping dragon. Yet even as I suggest this I can’t help but feel that you’re holding something back from me. A man . grows tired of the world, certainly, but you are young and at the height of your powers. I cannot understand—“ “We live in different times, Grandfather. There was more certainty in your age. A man knew what was expected of him. But now. . . well, the rules change daily.”
The old man shrugged. “If you say so, Joseph—yet I find it strange. If a man is truly himself he is like a rock, and though the waters rise, they will flow about him, and when they recede he will still be there, solid and unmoved, while all else has been swept away.” His eyes dwelt on his great-great-grandson a moment. “You must decide what kind of man you wish to be, Joseph. A leaf or a rock.” Kennedy bowed low, then took the spill from the pot. At once the misted figure vanished, leaving the room feeling cold and empty. He stood slowly, an ache of tiredness in his limbs, a heaviness in his chest. If he had thought to find answers here he had been wrong. Yet the old man was right in one respect—he had to make a choice, and not merely about his political future. Much more was at stake than that. As he came out of the room he stopped, surprised to find his wife, Jean, waiting there for him.
“What is it?”
Her voice was quiet, frightened. “There’s been an attack. On Mary Lever’s headquarters.”
“Aiya . . . When was this?”
“An hour back. Details are only just coming through. They’re not sure who carried it out—no one’s claimed it yet—but there are rumors it might have been the Black Hand.”
He shivered, then let her lead him through. An hour back. “I must phone Michael. ...”
“Don’t you think he’ll have enough to worry about—“
“No”—he shook his head—“you don’t understand. I was probably the last person to see her. I met her ... an hour and a half back. I... Oh shit! They were probably waiting for her. ...”
She stared at him. “You met her? Why?”
“Wu Shih. He wanted me to persuade her. I knew I couldn’t, but I met her anyway. I wanted to... well, to tell her she was right. To build bridges, I guess. I...” He sighed heavily, then went across to the vid-phone and tapped out Michael’s private contact number, turning to look back at Jean as he waited to be connected.
“Wu Shih asked you?”
He nodded. “He said it was my last chance.” He saw the movement in her face—the realization of what that meant. Like himself she and his sons were wired, small control strips inserted in their skulls. If Wu Shih had lost patience he might choose to use those devices to harm or maim them. Kennedy looked away, pained by the thought of it. That threat—that constant shadow—had been with him more than two years now, yet he had never grown used to it. Not for a single moment. Wherever they went—whatever they did—they were never free of it. It made hostages of them all.