Guardians of the Secret
copyright © 1998 by Cary Shulman
All Rights Reserved
18.
"Stop March, Stop Fascism" was how their signs read. A small group of protesters paraded in front of a hotel in Charleston, South Carolina as their leader was yelling the same message into a bullhorn. March supporters were carrying "Save America" signs, while police kept the two groups apart. Several news trucks were parked in front of the hotel.
Inside the hotel ballroom Allan March was at a rostrum giving a rousing speech to a packed house. Behind March were the South Carolina state flag and the American flag which was flying upside down.
"So now they're calling me a fascist. In the months to come you'll hear them call me everything, except wrong."
The crowd laughed.
"Their favorite is 'controversial'. Anybody who dares to talk about who really owns this country, they call controversial. I even hear it from my fellow Congressmen. Allan March, the only real independent in all of Congress, Allan March, the man who flies the American flag upside down to make a point, he's controversial."
The crowd groaned.
"But I never hear a solitary word from any of them about the fact that our whole country is upside down."
Michael was at the back of the hall, surveying the room.
"Corrupt people at the top, hard working people at the bottom, that's.. upside down."
The crowd roared as a contingent of March's security moved through it.
"Criminals can walk your streets, but you can't, that's..".
At March's prompting the crowd joined in.
"Upside down!"
Michael moved nervously among the crowd, but saw no sign of Everett.
"Foreign aid to dictators, while people here at home are starving. That's..."
"Upside down!"
March was working the room like a master.
"Since 1950 your taxes have gone up a thousand and forty one percent. Meanwhile big corporations get tax breaks, to take your jobs to foreign countries. That's..."
"Upside down!"
"When you need help, they talk about less government. Meanwhile they bail out Chrysler, they bail out the Savings and Loans, they bail out the Mexican Peso, the ruble, the yen or whatever currency they've invested in. They take care of their own and ignore you. That's..."
"Upside down!"
"Yesterday on the evening news, well it might have been evening, but it sure wasn't news. I saw a seven year old girl executed by gang members. Our inner cities are war zones, metal detectors in our schools, illegal immigrants flooding our borders, welfare lines, factories closing, drugs poisoning what's left of civilization. And where are our leaders? Busy stuffing their pockets with money from special interests. America is politically, economically, morally, and spiritually upside down. And you and I are going to turn it right side up!"
The crowd was on its feet in frenzied response as Michael left the hall, pushing past two security agents. He came out of the hotel and hurriedly walked around the corner where he met Tess waiting at a magazine stand. Even though he knew she was going to disguise herself, he was surprised at its effect. A wig, makeup and change of outfit seemed to make her a different person. She noticed that Michael didn't have great news.
"Let me guess. Everett still hasn't shown. Five hours we've been following this jerk. Is it always like this?"
"Always."
"Who the hell is this March anyway?"
"A right wing Congressman. He wants to take America away from the foreigners, bankers, big corporations and special interests and give it back to the people."
"Sounds pretty good."
"Yeah, unfortunately it'll turn out to be his people."
* * *
The President had called a meeting to discuss the upcoming election. Clement Pierce would never be accused of having delusions of grandeur. He believed in limits. Not just term limits, but limits period. He was a self proclaimed poll taker, current watcher. Nothing wrong in that, just the opposite, to keep ego in check is a strength, to ignore reality is a failing.
He hadn't started out as a politician. He was an engineer like Herbert Hoover and he saw everything as a structure, government, political parties, even as fluid a thing as history. You could get a little fancy in building them, but you were subject to the laws governing force and materials. If you were self indulgent you could throw something up and watch it collapse after a short time. Or you could design and plan and build it to last.
Asked to evaluate his presidency, he'd say he preferred to wait for the judgment of history. That would be all right his critics said except history has gone to sleep waiting for him. Wags with a historical bent said his height was between that of Harry Truman and Abraham Lincoln, but his stature was between Rutherford Hayes and Millord Fillmore.
Pierce had read history too. You lose connection with your backing and you're out there by yourself. And the people that did that were either unaware like Hoffa or Johnson, or they had a martyr complex and wanted to walk off the end of the world like King or Nixon. But they were finished. The art of the possible, that's what politics shared with engineering.
He listened as three of his aides discussed the upcoming election. Two hours of statistics covering contributors, economic forecasts, demographics for both Pierce and his possible opponents in all of the primaries as well as for the entire country. It wasn't that any of this was news to Pierce, but somewhere in the familiar litany he might be able to recognize a new pattern.
"All the indicators in the model we've been using still show you're well positioned for the election. Unless the interest rate goes up two points or there's war in Asia. I take it back. If the interest rate is steady, you can have your war in Asia."
Everybody laughed.
"That of course is based on the assumption of an eventual two person race," Pierce pointed out.
"It holds for the most likely outcomes even if March enters."
The President didn't look satisfied with most likely.
"What do we have on him and his wife?"
"So far she's clean unless we can get her on her spending habits. She travels to Europe on buying sprees. What Imelda Marcos was to shoes, Laura March is to hats. She's charming and good-looking and tends to leave politics to her husband. She's as hedonistic as he's spartan."
The President wasn't impressed.
"Great, we've got Marcus Aurelius married to Marie Antoinette. That's some trick. Any trouble they're having getting it to work?"
The Aide shook his head. "She came to this country to go to college. They met and fell in love and haven't stopped since."
"You don't suppose you could get Hilliard to at least dig up where she said 'Let them eat cake."
Pierce's aides smiled. They appreciated his occasional forays into humor. It made meetings more bearable and elections more winnable. As with most aspect of his public personality, it didn't come naturally, but he didn't regret the effort to acquire them. He had studied politicians and most qualities that came naturally were mixed blessings and this gave him the opportunity to get them right.
"Hilliard's busy working on the money backing March."
"If he's not busy working on his next mood."
"If they ever write his bio, it should begin he was born in a funk."
Everybody laughed. Pierce cut it short.
"He's a good man, just make him a little busier. I want to nail down this Mafia connection? If March's going to make a serious run he needs serious money. And this militia thing. He can't have it both ways. Let's get something on him. He's been in the mud for twenty years, he's got to have dirt under those fingernails."
* * *
Cassis was a French restaurant outside Charleston. It was started by gentlemen from Marseille who had liquidity, but didn't know Careme from cream sauce. A young inspired chef took it over. He didn't care for the decor, a ridiculous pastiche of French styles, but his patrons loved it so he left it alone and concentrated on turning it into a four star.
The mixture of Provencal and Normandine exterior was punctuated with trellised ivy. The Parisian interior came with a Muzak version of Edith Piaf songs. The restaurant was filled with diners. Allan March was sipping after dinner drinks with Hollings and political backers. He tried to ignore his differences with the people across from him as he listened to their banter.
"I told the reporter I hate political labels, they're meaningless. Democrat and Republican don't stand for anything but reelection. But he kept after me, so I told him I'm an ecologist. I'm out to save the most endangered species on earth, the individual."
"Speaking of individuals. What about the decision that judge just handed down? It's a travesty."
"It's happening more all the time."
"It is, because there's two Americas. The rich can buy their justice like their politicians."
"Not for long," Hollings responded buoyantly.
He raised his glass in toast.
"To Allan March, the next President of the United States."
March declined Hollings' boosterism.
"Forget Allan March, to one America."
As the Group raised their glasses in toast, Michael entered the restaurant. Pretending to study a menu, he studied the room instead. March and his group were seated at a large table near the back. Familiar faces, but he was disappointed there was no sign of Everett.
Tess was parked around the corner. She watched Michael emerge from the restaurant and walk toward her. He passed by a homeless woman who was selling roses. He didn't seem to pay much attention, but after a few steps he suddenly turned and went back to her. He bought her entire basket of roses.
He dodged traffic crossing the street and walked up to the car. He got in holding the roses. For a moment Tess' face reflected a flicker of joyful innocence as she thought they were for her. She knew better.
"I never guessed you're the romantic type," Tess said sarcastically.
"Ever sold flowers?"
"What?"
"You're going to plant a bug at their table."
"Why are we fucking with this?"
"You're going to have to trust me."
"I thought you didn't believe in trust?"
"I don't."
"Neither do I."
"Everett ruined my life. I spent years in rehab. Every step reminded me how he was going to pay. If it was as easy as blowing his head off, I would have done it long ago."
With the help of a screwdriver, Michael wired a tiny listening device to one of the bunches of roses. Tess finished hearing Michael's instructions and then entered the restaurant with the basket of flowers. His instructions hadn't included carrying her gun concealed in the roses. She had deftly improved the arrangement as she left the car.
Tess began circulating among the tables, pretending to interest the diners in her flowers. She glanced toward the rear of the restaurant, looking for the group of people Michael had described. She was shocked when she saw Hollings. It unnerved her. The sight of her gun nestled among the roses was reassuring.
As Tess started making her way toward Hollings' table, Michael was sitting in the car. He was trying to eavesdrop on the melange of polite dinner conversation and faint French musical numbers broadcast through the bug. He was hoping Everett might show up for dinner and he could be the uninvited guest from across the street.
He heard dozens of voices, tinkling glasses and clattering silverware and talk about roses. John Cage would have been pleased, he wasn't. It was getting late. And then amongst some other conversation he heard March's voice in the background.
Tess was two tables away from March's. She was getting ready to approach them, when she noticed the maitre d' coming in her direction. She was relieved to see that his attention was focused on March. March whispered something to the maitre d' who nodded before walking toward the kitchen. Tess was wondering whether it was something more serious than a late dessert course, when a man dining with two women, called her over to buy flowers.
As she reluctantly carried out the transaction, she managed to see March get up and walk toward the kitchen. Tess hurriedly finished, almost forgetting the money. She watched as March disappeared into the kitchen. Tess whispered the news into the flowers.
Michael got out of the car and jogged around the side of the restaurant. He stopped running as he reached the corner of the building. The back entrance to the kitchen had several fluorescent lights above it which left the rear parking lot in shadow. Two chefs and their entire staff were standing some distance away from the kitchen taking a break.
A Mercedes sped into the back of the lot. Accompanied by a bodyguard Everett got out of the car. Michael pulled out his gun. As Everett and his bodyguard approached the kitchen, they emerged from the shadows into the glare of the fluorescent lights.
Michael watched as the abstract focus of his hatred that was nowhere to be found materialized as a perfect target. Michael found himself savoring the notion. He could see his bullets point of entry, the muscle and bone torn apart as his life had been. His hand tightened reflexively on the trigger. He was surprised how tightly, after all he was in control, not his rage. He was holding to that order of command. But why be difficult? This would be so easy and it would be over. He watched intently as Everett disappeared into the back of the restaurant.
He had been miles away from shooting him, he thought to himself. The tremor in his gun hand told him otherwise.
Tess had positioned herself so she had a direct line to the kitchen. She had already decided that if March didn't come out in a minute she was going in. Wait any longer, and if he went out the back he'd be gone. If he's in the kitchen sampling Vichyssoise, she'll just give her apologies. And if Everett's there she'll kill him.
Michael ran along the side of the restaurant, looking for some kind of access. There wasn't any, only an ivy covered trellis that went clear to the roof. Michael climbed it, boards snapping under his weight. Straining, he muscled himself on to the roof. He made his way toward the rear of the building. He stopped. A few feet in front of him the roof abruptly changed from concrete to glass. The dining room was visible twenty feet below.
The glass which was supported by steel struts spanned the building. There was no way around. He would have to go back and lose time, or cross it. He considered the risk. Forty feet ahead the roof was again concrete. The diners were in light, he was in darkness. Michael lowered himself gently on to the glass.
March sat beside a long work table that occupied the center of the kitchen. Everett started to move a chair next to him.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there to hear your speech in person. Excellent, especially the part about corrupt elites."
Everett sat down. "I assume of course that you'll be different."
"Definitely. I hold myself and all the people with me to the highest standards."
"Good. If it ever turned out differently, I'd also hold you accountable. By your neck I'm afraid."
March considered it a moment and then laughed. Everett joined him and then they got down to business.
"I wouldn't have imposed if this weren't absolutely necessary," March said apologetically.
"I assumed that."
"Those papers could transform this country. But if I go public tomorrow, I'm risking my entire political future."
"For the record, Black Forest is absolutely executable."
"That's what I needed to hear."
"What I need to hear is you'll have the courage to do it. If not, it won't be a personal thing, but it'll be more pain for this country, and that I'll take personally."
Michael tightrope walked his way along the steel beams supporting the glass roof. He was moving as fast as he could, but his leg was effecting his balance more than he expected.
Tess knew her minute was almost up. She had her hand on the gun in her basket. She tensed it, preparing herself. She was used to tight situations, but this was killing.
She tried to stay focused as a rush of sensations started to fill her mind. Distant faces, potted plants, a slight chill, the feel of the gun, the Edith Piaf song playing on the Muzak. Of all things. It was her favorite. Wait till it ends. Longer than a minute, but maybe for good luck.
The maitre d' spotted Tess across the room. Annoyed, he hurried toward her. He thought about calling to her. How to be forceful and inconspicuous at the same time?
"Madame. Madame."
At a nearby table a child looked toward the ceiling and saw Michael's darkened silhouette halfway across the roof. The child motioned to his mother who was in the midst of conversation.
Tess gave a last glance behind her.
She saw the maitre d' coming toward her and the child behind him looking upward toward the ceiling. Tess' eyes followed his to a view of Michael on the glass roof. Tess stopped. She looked at the kitchen door and then at Michael, trying to decide what to do.
The maitre d' seeing her look up began to turn his glance toward Michael. Tess walked toward the maitre d'.
"Monsieur, monsieur..."
Her attempt to get his attention only partially diverted him. He was about to look upward again. Frantic to distract him she suddenly began singing along with the Piaf song on the Muzak. Her first tentative bars got the attention of people nearby including the maitre d'. He wasn't pleased and was about to interrupt her.
Tess gathered her courage and started singing in earnest. Everybody in the restaurant watched in amazement as the song built until she was passionately belting out Piaf's "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien".
Tess finished and the diners applauded. She glanced up. Michael was gone. He was hurrying along the concrete part of the roof toward the vents to the kitchen.
In the parking lot Everett's bodyguard scanned the rooftop with a nightscoped automatic. Michael caught sight of the bodyguard and dropped into a crouch. He reached a large vent. He connected a bug to a roll of electrical wire and lowered it down the vent. He heard faint conversation between Everett and March. Michael lowered the bug and the conversation became clearly audible.
"An attack? What kind of an attack?"
Everett, who was pacing inside the kitchen, turned toward March.
"For all we know it could be government disinformation, or happy hour bullshit by a couple of weekend warriors. It's supposed to take place the night of the 23rd."
"That's two days from now," March said genuinely shaken. "I've heard rumors, but nothing like this."
"Speaking of rumors, somebody said it was being called 'Operation Paul Revere'."
"Paul Revere? They think they're going to warn the country about the redcoats?"
"Maybe it's turncoats they're worried about, traitors."
Everett got up to leave.
"I'm sure it's nothing, but I thought you might appreciate advance notice."
"With our limited resources I appreciate all the help I can get."
"Some day maybe there won't be..."
March cut him off. "Let's leave some days to the politicians."
Everett smiled. He exited the kitchen, and flanked by his bodyguard walked quickly to the Mercedes. Michael watched them from the roof.
Inside the restaurant the maitre d' was lecturing Tess. She was half listening, keeping an eye on the kitchen door. Hollings walked in her direction.
"This is an outrage," the maitre d' energetically exclaimed.
"I'm sorry, it just came over me," Tess replied.
"No, I mean you have the feeling, the passion. Why don't you study, train the voice, no?"
"I'm too busy."
"Too busy for your own gifts. C'est dommage. Same for me. Is silly or tragic, I don't know."
Hollings, lit by several cognacs, stepped up.
"Excuse me."
Hollings smiled at Tess as he tried to place her. Tess readied her gun.
"Where is the little boy's room?" Hollings asked the maitre d'.
The maitre d' pointed. As Hollings walked away there was the sound of footsteps. Tess and the maitre d' looked up and saw Michael crossing the roof. Tess started for the door. She had a clear path until Hollings angrily grabbed her arm.
"You were sexier as a redhead."
Tess saw the maitre d' coming toward her. She aimed her gun at Hollings.
"You going to shoot me?" Hollings challenged.
He drunkenly offered his chest as a target. "Kill him", a voice inside her said.
"You dumb bitch, I'm on your side."
Tess slugged the butt end of the gun into the side of Hollings face, knocking him out cold. She dropped the roses on his prone body and ran for the exit.
Everett's Mercedes pulled out of the parking lot and drove off. Michael tumbled down the ivy trellis as Tess sprinted out of the restaurant. They dashed to the car and sped off Catching her breath, Tess was still thinking about Hollings.
"I got recognized. The sharp dresser next to March was Everett's friend."
"Hollings?"
"It was Ted something or other to me."
Michael checked his rearview mirror.
"Nobody's following."
"I cracked him pretty good. Did you see Everett?"
"He was twenty feet away."
"And you didn't shoot him. What are you waiting for?"
"I'll know when I get there."
Michael turned a fast left at the first corner. He eased up when he saw the Mercedes up ahead in traffic. Tess got her gun out of the flower basket. Michael saw it.
"We're not going to get close enough. All you'll do is ruin his car and get us shot at."
"Everett was close enough in the kitchen. I should have killed him. Obviously you've got bigger ideas."
"You and I are not going down as a couple of losers trying to off a big war hero."
The Mercedes went south on 95 and Michael followed it. He watched the taillights of the car up ahead as he tried to filter out the static on a tape he was playing of Everett and March's conversation.
"So what are they up to?"
"It looks like Everett's involved in something called Operation Paul Revere. From the name it's obvious some militia group is planning a wake up call for America the night of the 23rd."
"They're probably not going to be satisfied with hanging a lantern in the Old North Church."
Michael looked surprised. Tess didn't appreciate it.
"What, I couldn't know American history?"
"I knew you were bright, I just didn't know you were bright like that."
"Great, you and Hollings should get together sometime. But Paul Revere you got from hearing the tape once. We've been over it ten times."
"I'm trying to get a read on Everett's voice, trying to figure out why he would tell March. March probably wouldn't distance himself from the militia and Everett probably knew that."
"Operation."
"What?"
"I just remembered Operation was in the title of Hollings' papers."
"What else?"
"I don't know, I saw them for a moment."
"Try."
"What do you want, it was just grief to me."
"Whose idea was it to steal the case?"
"Black... Forest!"
"What?!"
"It just came to me. Operation Black Forest."
Michael stared at her.
"Something about trees in South America."
"What would that have to do with Paul Revere? Are you sure?"
"That's all I know, you want it in writing?"
Frustrated, Michael knew they'd reached a dead end.
"That was some piece of work back there. Thanks for covering me."
"It's just part of the job description."
"Well thanks anyway. Where did you learn to sing like that?"
"Juilliard."
"I was trying to give you a compliment."
Tess didn't quite know what to do with Michael's sincerity. There was an awkward silence that seemed to grow and engulf her. Tess tried to ignore it as she had before. It was a familiar silence, but it kept pressing on her. She began self consciously.
"When I was a kid I pretended I was a French princess. I got records because I figured if you were a French princess you ought to speak French. I guess the songs stayed with me."
The moment was oddly vulnerable.
"So what's the song about?"
"This woman who's been through all of this heartbreak, but still says 'I regret nothing'. Can you imagine?"
"You're talking to a man who's lucky his bitterness doesn't eat through a major organ. I remember when I wanted to be like one of the saints with his hands outstretched embracing everything, and keep on even when they drive nails straight through them. I regret everything."
"So do I, that's why I love the song. Crazy, huh?"
"Not really. Not really at all."
copyright © 1998 by Cary Shulman
All Rights Reserved