Palter nodded. “What about gay-boy Tolson?”
“I don’t know,” Bosco said. “He was last here two days ago. I think he might have left Washington; the bug on his car hasn’t re-entered my range.”
“Good thinking,” Palter said. “Get ready to move on my command.”
Ambassador King’s face was well known, too well known even in a region that had people who’d never seen a black man and believed them to be legends, or lies told to explain how evil people from down south were. He stayed back as the two former Marines headed up the driveway to the door, and neatly picked the lock, stepping inside with weapons drawn. Robinson, his face half-hidden by a hood, followed them.
“Come on inside,” he said, after a long moment. “The water’s fine.”
King snorted and followed him, stepping into a simple townhouse. It wasn’t very large, and it had tacky decorations on the walls, but it was comfortable. The smell of cigarettes hung in the air, one of the worst tobacco blends. He made a mental note to propose legislation against tobacco firms, before stepping into the cellar.
“Good evening, Mr Hoover,” he said, his voice firm. All of the experience in dealing with two Presidents and countless foreign ambassadors kept his voice calm. Hoover had been living in a dump, but he’d clearly been trying to clean up his act. An exercise machine – a modern exercise machine – sat against one wall; a computer was placed precariously on a table.
Hoover made an incoherent sound. “It’s over,” King said. “You betrayed your country in the worst way possible. What did the Nazi officer offer you?”
“I have friends and allies,” Hanover snapped. His voice was dull; he hadn’t used it properly for a long time. Just for a moment, King had an inkling of what his life must have been like, to have had his career ruined by whispers from the future. “You won’t get away with this.”
King’s flicker of sympathy faded grimly into cold anger. “You betrayed the entire country,” he said. “What’s your excuse?”
“I would have taken us back into isolation,” Hoover said. “We would have fixed the country while the Germans and the British battered one another into nothing. Your people would have been exterminated, Ambassador from a shadow world…”
King shook his head sadly. “You’re mad,” he said, almost gently. “You’ve been reduced to living in squalor, instead of that famous restaurant you used to enjoy. No wonder you’ve lost your mind, or do you think you could have run America from this room?”
“I would have saved America,” Hoover said. “Is it worth it, Ambassador?”
“You’re delusional,” King said coldly. He was riding a torrent of emotion. Pity. Shame. Anger. Amusement. How could he describe it to himself? “You fell, Hoover, you gambled and you lost. What right had you to seek to decide America’s future?”
“You do the same thing,” Hoover said. “What are you going to do with me?”
Robinson spoke, his voice cold and clear. “We’re going to take you somewhere safe,” he said. “Once you’re there, you will tell us all of your secrets.”
“No,” Hoover said. His smile might have been intended to be sly. “I know all of my secrets and I won’t tell you any of them.”
“Bring him,” Robinson said. “Ambassador, are you all right?”
“It’s always hard to gaze into the face of a defeated enemy,” King said. He stared around the room. “We’ll have to destroy this place, of course.”
Robinson nodded. He brought out his bag and started to unload thermal grenades. “We won, and it feels more as if we lost,” he said. “Does that happen a lot?”
“To lose is to win, and to win is to lose,” King quoted. It was then that the shooting started.
The man on the motorcycle was impressed with his new toys, impressed enough to perform a long-term job for his master. The instructions had been simple; wait in a building for the orders, watch the cameras carefully… and when a certain man leaves the house, kill him.
It hadn’t taken him long to realise that the raid on the house was the moment for action. Taking the mobile system with him and sealing the house for his later residence, he mounted his motorcycle and rode off, heading through Washington to the correct location, one specified by his master. It was the only place that he would be unobserved, the only place where there would be no record of him.
Now, he thought, and powered up the bike. A final check showed three men leaving the house, two of them escorting a third man who was very clearly Hoover. He rode onto the street, holding the special weapon in his hand, and lifted it as soon as he entered range. A quick burst of fire and Hoover fell backwards, four bullets blasting through his head. His escorts dived for cover – too stunned to think of shooting back – and the assassin rode on, taking shortcuts that few people would dare to take.
Success, he thought, and he picked up his mobile phone to make the call. “I got him,” he said.
“Well done,” said the voice on the end. Seconds later, the mobile phone exploded, along with the mobile receiver, utterly destroying the motorbike and all proof of the existence of the assassin. He died without ever knowing what had happened to him.
“Stay here,” Robinson snapped, lifting his weapon and running up the stairs. Leaving King behind, he moved as quickly as he could, but he was too late. Hoover and one of his people were lying there, dying.
“Clyde,” Hoover breathed, and died. Robinson checked his old friend, but it was clear that the bullets had killed him. They hadn’t worn body armour; they hadn’t thought that it would be needed.
“Who the hell was that?” He snapped. He picked up his phone. “Bosco? Talk to me!”
“I saw, sir,” Bosco said. “I didn’t get a good look at him. He was wearing a helmet, sir; there’s no point in trying to trace him.”
“Fuck,” Robinson swore. “Ambassador, Hoover’s dead.”
King stumbled up from the cellar. “Who could have wanted him dead and known that we were here?” He asked. “Who?”
“It could have been someone just looking out for Hoover,” Robinson suggested. “It might even have been Tolson, wanting to be rid of him.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”
The story on the Internet was stunning, but there were enough accurate details to prove that it was valid, particularly to Clyde Tolson. Hidden under the name of Clive Toadstool – a name that drew laughs, but no particular attention – he watched the television as the first camera crews reached the site, called by an anonymous phone call. Hoover’s body was taken to the city morgue, even as his house burnt to the ground. The police chief, a new appointee and one unused to interviews, spoke at length about the need to catch Tolson and unravel the rest of Hoover’s web.
“Bastard,” Tolson commented. He didn’t know how to feel; to be sad at the death of the man he had worshipped, or to be pleased at finally being free. They had argued – badly – during their time underground; how the mighty had fallen.
He studied the brochure again. Half an hour later, he presented himself at the South African Emigration Office, which had been doing good business lately. Far too many people who had been involved with the losing side of the Wet Firecracker Rebellion had gone though its doors, hoping to escape before the past caught up with them.
He smiled as the pretty assistant collected his papers and checked through them for any problems. After all the time he’d spent doing the bidding of Hoover, he was finally free.