Into the Fire(98)
When the switchboard operator picked up, he said, “Dark Road.”
Then he punched in the extension.
He waited, the old-fashioned ring loud in his ear.
A moment later the president of the United States picked up.
Silence crackled over the line. A tarantula lumbered by, brushing the toe of Evan’s boot.
At last she said, “X?”
Victoria Donahue-Carr had ascended to the throne after Evan had removed her predecessor in creative fashion. He’d always thought that she seemed principled, or at least as principled as a politician might be.
He waited. The RoamZone’s sound filters would drown out the cicadas along with any background noise. He fed her the silence some more.
She said, “I’m interested in a face-to-face.”
He said, “No.”
“At a minimum I require a live video feed. Audio can be replicated, synthesized. How am I supposed to know you’re you?”
He said, “You’re not.”
“We’d need to discuss terms, of course, but I’m confident we can reach an arrangement.”
“I don’t respond to euphemisms.”
“An informal pardon,” she said quickly. “I assume you don’t want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.”
Her words caught him completely by surprise. Here he was on the verge of walking away from the demands of being the Nowhere Man, and the offer had materialized out of the thin desert air, his deepest wish made manifest. How surreal that hours ago he’d been locked inside 121 B-Pod of the Twin Towers Correctional Facility, and now here he was conversing with the leader of the free world about his future. He took a moment to gather himself. He had to get to Max and close out the mission. Then he’d be ready to walk away.
“I’m not looking over my shoulder,” he said. “Are you?”
The silence lasted a bit longer this time.
“Think about it,” she said. “You know how to reach me.”
He cut the connection. Broke down the gear and nestled it back into the black foam of the Pelican case. Removed the chip from his RoamZone, crushed it under his heel, and slid in a new one.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, he fired up his laptop once more and moved the phone-number hosting service from Maracay to an outfit in Pakistan’s Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province.
Paranoia was an Orphan’s best friend.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to take in the turn of events that had for once proved fortuitous.
An informal pardon from the president of the United States. A quiet life tending his living wall, sipping chilled vodka, and meditating. Maybe at some point, he could even see about rehabilitating his relationship with Mia. And Peter.
He was all clear. Nothing ahead but the unbroken horizon, the faintest outline of shapes to be colored in. Nothing between him and freedom but wrapping up the mission with Max and bringing his old life to a close.
The truck bounced across the cracked earth of the desert for a time before rumbling onto a paved road. Several kilometers later he merged onto the freeway and blended into the river of lights flowing toward Los Angeles, just another guy in another truck beneath the endless night sky.
50
Contingency Plans to Our Contingency Plans
Even though the meeting took place in the dead center of the night, the Steel Woman had prepared juice and bagels. They were closer to breakfast than dinner, and besides, there were scant etiquette guidelines on what to offer at this hour.
She waited for the small talk of golf handicaps and country-club gossip to die down. “Tea?” she asked. “Coffee?”
The public-works director and the city administrative officer indicated their preferences, and a few others followed suit. She served them, as always enjoying the confusion elicited by her mixed role—hostess and iron-fisted leader. Men preferred their women to be more readily categorized. But she’d learned that power lay in contradiction.
She gave her best smile to those who had demurred. “Water? Sparkling or flat?”
“Flat,” the city comptroller said. “No garnish.” And then, quickly, “Please. Thank you, Stella.”
She obliged him and then proffered the silver plate of bagels.
“Oh, God, no, Stella,” Councilman Edwards said, patting his belly. “I’m off carbs again.”
This sparked a volley of workout talk.
She sat quietly and watched them. The boys rimmed the table, hands resting on the walnut slab, gamblers tucked into a high-stakes poker game.
Which—in a manner—this was.
Now they were at it with the usual banter.
“I can pull three hundo out of Child-Protective Services,” one of them said. “Bury it in the overhead assessment.”
“I’ll see your three hundred,” the man across from him said, “and raise you a cool mil from Veterans’ Affairs.”
They were frustratingly myopic, yes, but that was why she had selected them. They kept their heads down, squirreling away in their little domains. She alone was able to stand back and assess the whole playing board.
The trick was to target line items so vast and shapeless that they verged on being unknowable. One hundred and forty-five million for a building and safety-enterprise fund. Twenty-three and change for a sidewalk-repair allocation. Six for a neighborhood-empowerment reserve. If you put Aging and Animal Services together, you had nearly thirty million. Street lighting came in a tick higher at thirty-one. Police Services tipped the scales at nearly one and a half billion.