Gabriel's Stand (38 page)

Two days later, 7:33 Pacific Time

Dornan had gone north to the interior of British Columbia to procure equipment not only because John's Canadian connections were excellent, but mainly because there were no military grade items available in Washington State that the Commission and its allies hadn't tied down.

Bill was gambling that no one would expect something as crazy and audacious as this Forrest plan. The Professor was right. If he pulled this off, the plan would be taught in the War College.
And if we fail, it'll be taught as an object lesson in failure
.

The main load was in a single giant vehicle, two extra-wide tarp-covered loads on articulated double trailers, pulled by one immense blunt-shaped semi-truck. This was escorted and followed respectively by two pickup trucks.

They were making their way through a blizzard that cloaked an area of 250 miles on either side of the border. Dornan was in the rear of two borrowed RCMP patrol cars when the Gaia agents were first spotted approaching his convoy. The word went out on an encrypted radio call. “Mother Nature's angels are approaching from the rear.”

Dornan's convoy was a floating oasis of dark objects, taillights, and headlights moving through swirling darkness. The two pickups and the giant truck and trailers were unmarked but had Canadian government plates. The Dornan convoy had been droning south without incident, now a few hours from the American border. Half a mile behind the pickup and load truck, two vehicles, bearing the insignia of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, kept in touch by radio. All three pairs of truck headlamps had been swallowed in the snow-choked blackness.

“How many angels?” the semi-driver asked. He was squinting through the snow, hoping to spot the taillights of Dornan's lead pickup. There was nothing but swirling snow. A dashboard radar screen showed it thirty yards away.
It might as well be ten miles,
he thought.

“This is Bill. We see just one SUV coming up from behind you, so far. Play it cool. They can't know what they're getting into. They are probably stopping all large trucks to look for banned technology being smuggled into the U.S.”

“What do I do now?”

“Just let it play. Slow down, but keep driving until they light up on you. Pickup drivers—pull in tight so that you can be seen when everyone pulls over. Joe, blink your headlights when you decide to stop.”

“Got it,” said Joe.

“Copy,” said the trailing pickup driver.

“Copy,” said the lead driver, whose pickup had pulled within sight of the big rig.

“Heads-up everybody,” Dornan said. “We patrol cars are slowing down to let the Green Monster pass us.”

As the Commission van passed Dornan's RCMP patrol car, he confirmed. “Mother Nature has just passed both patrol cars.” The SUV was a black, boxy shape, its silver Commission insignia clearly visible on the side. When it pulled out, Dornan's patrol car and his follow-on faux RCMP car, slowed further, dropping back into the shadows. After a moment, both cut their headlights. “Patrol cars are now dark.”

“Copy that,” Joe said. A minute later, the semi driver could see a pair of headlights approaching from behind. “Mother Nature is in sight,” he said. A minute later, the SUV activated its red lights and siren. Seconds later, the semi-driver heard an amplified voice as the Commission SUV pulled alongside.

“This is the International Technology Licensing Commission. Pull over immediately.”

“Do it. Pull over,” Dornan said on the encrypted frequency. “But wait for us Mounties to arrive before you get out of the cab.”

On Dornan's command, his and the other RCMP marked patrol car activated their red lights, and slowly converged on the Commission SUV, the semi, the lead and trailing pickups, all of which had pulled over to the shoulder. “Okay, the Mounties are here,” Dornan said. Joe, the semi driver glanced at the rear view camera-screen; neither RCMP car was visible in the darkness. Seconds later he saw their flashing red lights. “Should I get out now?” he asked.

After a pause, Bill's voice said, “Yes, but take your time.”

Joe opened his door and dropped to the snow, keeping his identification at the ready, a semi-automatic pistol under his leather jacket.

Three Commission agents, all dressed in matching parkas, stepped out of their parked SUV, oblivious of Dornan's RCMP patrol car parked behind. The other RCMP marked patrol car, having killed its flashing red lights, quietly pulled in behind Dornan's vehicle.

Two men in RCMP parkas flanked Dornan, one pointing a low level red light into the snow. Dornan approached the scene, pausing just out of view, giving a signal for the backup commandos from the rear patrol car to fan out along shooting sightlines. Then Dornan strode toward the agents. “Hold it right there, gentlemen. This is our rig.”

Startled, all three agents squinted into Dornan's flashlight. They could just make out the shapes of three uniformed RCMP patrol officers. The lead agent strode to meet Dornan. “Where is the inspection stamp?” he asked.

“This trailer contains criminal evidence. Let's see your ID, please.” The agent, looking very annoyed, reached inside his coat, exposing a gun in a shoulder holster.

The second of Dornan's team, pulled out a large service semi-automatic. “Just present your ID, sir. Now would be a good time,” he said. “All of you.” Two more of Dornan's commandos appeared, their guns drawn.

Outflanked, the three Commission agents looked confused and angry. “We have confiscation authority here, officers,” one said. “Now stand down and let us do our job.”

“You are interfering with our investigation,” Dornan barked. “Gentlemen, hands up, please.”

There was a stunned silence. The wind died. Snowflakes kept falling.

——

“Dictation. This is Max Cahoon, from Seattle, near the federal district court where Dr. John Owen will be tried in a few days. At noon today, in nationally televised memorial services held on the steps of Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, the Gaia Directorate was accused of the cold-blooded assassination of Bishop Allan Gardiner. The chilling crime was captured on a security video recording in the Bishop's offices there. The video shows several gunshots being fired by an unidentified female who is clearly heard on the recording to be acting on behalf of the Gaia Directorate. The brief services, the largest of several hundred across the country, were conducted by Snowfeather Lindstrom, daughter of former Senator Gabriel Standing Bear Lindstrom. Snowfeather, a former Gaia activist, now an opposition leader, drew a crowd estimated at nine thousand before she returned to New York.”

Max started coughing. “My God, I…”

The coughing grew more violent and Cahoon collapsed. “Damn. I'm not feeling that well. Shit. Are the rumors true? Gotta call—”

——

On the following morning, the telephone in Snowfeather's Manhattan room rang until the message machine kicked in. “This is Helen Hawke. Please leave me a message.” Her trembling hand reached for the bedside phone, then she allowed it to fall.

“Hi Princess, this is Dad. I'm calling from the Westin in DC. Same old room. Just like the old days. Snowfeather, I am so proud of you.” She struggled to sit up, but this touched off a paroxysm of wet coughing. “I hope everything is all right.”

“Dad, don't hang up,” she rasped, reaching again for the phone. “Someone got to me…”

“You know you can call me or Owen's people at any time for help. I'll check back soon. I love you.” Click.

Dear God, I'm so sick! They've infected me!
Shaking and weak from a raging fever that had overtaken her when she arrived at JFK airport, Snowfeather pulled the damp sheet around her.

A minute later, her bedroom opened a crack. Roberto's solemn face peered through. “I couldn't help hearing,” he said. “What can I do?”

“Don't come in,” she whispered. “I am afraid this may be very contagious. My symptoms feel like TB6. Please call Dr. John Owen's number—ask to talk to anyone who can help. And call my father at the Westin in DC. Maybe somebody can smuggle in more medicine.”

“I'll try,” he said. “But there are police and agents just outside the building. They followed me when I went out just now for coffee.”

“Then go out again for tea. Find a safe phone in a bank or something. Call soon, Roberto.” Snowfeather pulled the blanket around her chin and closed her eyes. “Please call.”

——

At about the same moment, Max Cahoon was lying in the fetal position in the bathroom of his Seattle hotel suite, his voice recorder hanging from his robe pocket. He stared at the bottom of his bed across the room, realizing with dread, finally, that he probably had been poisoned by the Gaia cult. But who had been close enough to him to pull it off? ….Karen Kanst? KANST.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid…
The missing pieces are coming together and now it is too damn late…

Cahoon awoke, convulsing in abdominal pain. With a final burst of energy, he clutched the old-fashioned bathroom telephone at the end of its cord. Through tears, he keyed the only number he knew might lead to help, a number his friend Jim Schlier had supplied after the jail interview with Snowfeather. He waited, listening to the repeated rings, until finally…

“This is Helen Hawke. Please leave me a message.”

Max pressed his mouth to the phone. “Snowfeather,” he whispered, “this is reporter Max…Cahoon in Seattle. I believe I have been poisoned by a woman who must have been working with the Gaia Directorate. She is posing as a photographer named Karen Kanst assigned by the
Times
to the Owen trial.” He paused, his breath coming in short gasps. “She will be carrying a mini-camera at the trial. If she has poisoned me, it can only mean that Dr. Owen is next. Thirties, five nine, attractive, slender, dark eyes, short blond hair. You've got to warn John Owen. I am at the Holiday Wharf. Please.” More breathing. “Hurry!” The phone slipped from his hand.

After several hours, a maid knocked on the door to Cahoon's room. “Cleaning!” she said. Then she entered, pushing her cart ahead.

“Sorry, sir,” she said.

Cahoon's head rested on a rolled up bathrobe, his body partly covered by a blanket that had been pulled from the bed. The carpet was covered with vomit. She stared at the man on the floor.

“Sir? Sir?”

At midnight, a hand-lettered sign was posted on the door of Cahoon's room:

QUARANTINE

——

Ken Wang had just finished the most recent of several briefings with Borah Wiggins. The topic was security and an unauthorized jail visit by a Times photographer. The lawyer agreed to speak again to an old friend in the U.S. Marshal's office about tightening up the restrictions on Dr. Owen's visitors. “Sorry I don't have better news on the legal front,” he said. “Can I give you a ride?” Wiggins asked.

“No thanks,” Ken said. “Is there another way out of the building?”

Wiggins nodded and pointed toward a door at the back of the office. “Turn right and go to the end of the hall. Take the stairs. It comes out next to the service entrance.”

“So the actual trial really does start this Tuesday?”

“Afraid so.”

“Can't you stall?”

“With Judge Wandright? Doubtful,” Wiggins said. “But I'll ask once again. Check in with me at noon tomorrow?”

“I will,” Ken said.

Three minutes later, Ken Wang emerged from a dark alcove and began walking briskly in the general direction of Pioneer Square, occasionally looking over his shoulder for signs of surveillance. Without realizing it, he walked past the storefront that had once housed the Earth Planet Bookstore. Two blocks beyond he found a rare old style phone booth. He slipped inside and was immediately overcome by the smell of urine. He keyed the memorized number Dornan had written below the bank account information. “Kona Carpets,” a female voice said.

“My name is Ken, I have a question.”

“One moment.” Ken waited.

“Hello.” It was not Dornan's voice.

“I need a carpet cleaned,” Ken said.

“We're closed tonight. This is our emergency line only.”

“Sorry. I was hoping to schedule an estimate.”

“We're not cheap. If you would like to see a sample of our work, you can check with the major financial institutions downtown. Did you see our ad?”

“I saw your ad.”

“If you like our work, perhaps you could call us again in a few days?”

“I'll do that.”

A few
days
? What the hell is Dornan up to?

“Where were you? It is so late!”

“I was with the Smith team, arranging meetings with key Senators. Sorry, my phone was off.” Alice's face was white with shock. She was shaking visibly. “My God, Alice, what is it?” Gabriel dropped his briefcase on the doorstep to their new Georgetown safe house, and held his wife gently by the shoulders, staring intently into her eyes.

“Tell me.”

“Roberto Kahn just called. Snowfeather is very sick. My God, Gabriel, they've done this to her!” She was gripping his lapel fiercely, her hands shaking with anger and fear.

“I'll call Owen's people. I'll get medicine, somehow,” he said. They released each other, and Gabriel fumbled for his cell phone. “Damn,” he said, “the battery died.”

“Agents are guarding her door,” Alice said, pulling him inside. “No physicians can go in!”

“They can't do that!” Gabriel looked around the living room wildly. “Our new phone is encrypted?”

“Yes,” she said, picking up Gabriel's fallen briefcase in the doorway, and closing the front door behind her. He reached for the phone on the couch table.

Gabriel's fingers shook as he dialed the Edge Medical Hotline. “This is Gabriel Standing… Okay, okay… Voice ID confirmed? Thanks. My daughter, Snowfeather is in Manhattan. She is gravely ill. We suspect she was deliberately infected. No. They won't let anyone in to see her… Yes.” Gabriel was rapidly taking notes on a pad by the phone. “How do I reach your contact?” More scribbling. “When will the parcels arrive? Can I have Roberto Kahn call you, too? Okay, okay. He can't get back in, but possibly he can set up a rendezvous. I will. Thirty minutes. Thank you.”

Gabriel put the phone down. He met Alice's anguished eyes; his stomach was in free-fall. “This is what we need to do,” he said. “You get to Roberto Kahn, meet him in Manhattan—coordinate the drug pickup there. Call this Edge Medical number as soon as you find him, and book a flight. I'm going to be getting to Wang next. Then Smith and I are going to the White House.” Gabriel's eyes were on fire.

“You have Kahn's number?”

“Yes.”

Gabriel got out of Alice's way and fished his cell phone charger out of the briefcase, plugged it in, and speed dialed Thurston Smith. “It's me. Can you get your son right away? I can't explain but our meeting with Big Brother needs to take place today. I know it's late, damn it. Pick me up?”

As soon as Alice yielded the secure phone, Gabriel called Wang. “Ken? Good. This is Gabriel. My daughter is in her Manhattan apartment dying of something the G-A-N gave her. She's being isolated by Commission agents. I'm trying to get medical help to her. Please see what you can do? Thanks!”

When he looked up, Alice was already stuffing a change of clothes into a travel bag. She looked at him. “Taxi is on the way. I'm meeting Roberto at Temple Beth Sholom. We can't lose her
now
, Gabriel, we just can't…”

——

It was Sunday night and House of Representatives Speaker Thurston Smith, Jr., was in the White House, looking at the President of the United States.

Harry Chandler looked back like a man who still couldn't believe that fortune had dealt him this responsibility. The Speaker sat in a stuffed chair in the oval office. The two men were alone and President Chandler was acutely uncomfortable.

“Thurston, it is Sunday night. What is the emergency?”

“Senator Jacobs has been very busy. He now has sixty-two votes to curtail any filibuster,” the Speaker said, the words, flat, matter-of-fact. “And that will put you on the spot when voting starts on Tuesday. I want you to listen to Senators Smith and Standing Bear.”

President Chandler flinched. “Your dad and Gabriel? Holy crap,” he said.

“I see that your usual eloquence,” Smith, Jr. drawled, “has given way to the succinct.”

“They are fugitives,” Chandler said.

“Not during the trial…per your own amnesty agreement. And, Mr. President, unlike some people close to you, these men can't be bought.”

“Okay, I'll talk to them in private, as we are.”

“Good.”

“When?”

“Right now. They are waiting outside.”

“You are a pushy bastard.”

“I learned at your knee.”

Chandler smiled, and pressed a button on a small intercom. His personal aide picked up. “James, go bring the gentlemen in.”

The Speaker of the House shook his head sadly, as he and the president stood. “You can't count on anyone outside a very narrow circle right now, Mr. President.”

“I hope you're wrong about that,” Chandler said as they made their way to the President's secure visitor's area.

“These men will go to the mat for you, if you are willing to take a stand.” Chandler nodded absently.

A few minutes later, Gabriel and Smith Sr., entered the president's private quarters accompanied by James. The president's aide was a narrow man with a mustache and nervous manner. The President caught his aide's eye and the man disappeared. A Secret Service agent peered in the doorway; then stepped into the hall, just out of earshot.

“Sit down with me, gentlemen,” Chandler said, offering his hand. “Let's talk.” Chandler glanced at the Speaker as the two self-invited visitors took their seats. He was beginning to suspect that his political nemesis, Smith Junior, was enjoying this moment far too much.

Smith Senior began. “I'll be blunt, Mr. President. John Owen and my friend Gabriel have become folk heroes. Worse for you, Commissioner Rex Longworthy is perceived as an evil puppeteer who controls this administration.” Chandler's face suddenly became red. “And we both know who controls him.”

“You know how much I hate that little bastard.”

“That's a good start, Mr. President,” Gabriel said. “But the perception in the Beltway remains that you report to Rex Longworthy. The entire country is watching Dr. John Owen's trial. This is a good man whose crime is saving lives. He is being prosecuted for repairing damage done by his kidnappers. Do you have any idea how this is playing?”

“Does it matter?”

“Are you the still President of this country, or a puppet?” Gabriel snapped. “It matters how this is playing only if you haven't sold out.”

Chandler flushed crimson. “Gabriel, you are being unreasonable,” he said.

Gabriel fished out a worn photograph with thick callused hands, and solemnly handed it to the President.

“What's this?”

“You in the Rose Garden.”

“I can see that. The Treaty ceremony?”

“Yes. Look behind you in the picture.”

Chandler's face softened. “Oh. I remember. Snowfeather. Your daughter. How is she?”

“At this moment, she is dying.”

Chandler seemed genuinely shocked. “I'm sorry…”

“We believe she was poisoned by the G-A-N. But just before this meeting a courier from Edge Medical, carrying illegal drugs, gave me her cure. Mr. President, I have the medicine, IN MY BRIEFCASE, to save my daughter's life. And your agents, your damned federal agents, are surrounding her apartment, barring access to modern medical attention.” Gabriel rose, leaning toward over the President. “I repeat, Sir. Are you the President or a puppet?”

The Secret Service agent in the hallway began to move into the room. “Sit down, Gabriel!” Thurston Sr. whispered loudly. Chandler glanced around the room. To Standing Bear he looked like a cornered jackrabbit. Gabriel sank back into his chair, and Chandler waved the agent away. Gabriel's dark eyes continued to bore in.

“Gabriel, goddamn it, those Commission goons are not my agents. I asked them to leave her alone.” Several seconds dragged by. “The Commission enforcement agents are ham-handed idiots.” More seconds passed. He pressed the intercom button. “James,” President Chandler finally bit out, “I need you here.” The aide scurried into the room.

“Sir?”

“Call the Bureau. Call the Service. Call my personal physician. We are going to deliver some medical attention to Senator Standing Bear's daughter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gabriel, you have my apologies. We may have our disagreements but not on this sort of thing. Will you let my people take care of it?” The President held his hand out.

Gabriel paused, momentarily taken back. Then, fighting tears, he pulled a packet from his brief case. “Your doctor will know what to do with this.”

Chandler took it, handing the bulging envelope to his aide. “James, get our best Secret Service Detachment to move on this yesterday.” The aide hovered, while Chandler looked at Gabriel. “Your daughter is still in mid-Manhattan? Is that her address?” He pointed to the envelope.

Gabriel nodded. “My wife is flying there now. Her cell number is included in the packet.”

“We still have some trusted people in Manhattan. James, get on this immediately. You know who to use. Go. Now!” James left.

Gabriel and Chandler sat facing each other. Smith the elder and Smith the son sat across, four men around a coffee table in a living room. Suddenly Chandler seemed to wilt. “Don't get any ideas from this, gentlemen. There are limits. These people push and push and this time, they went too far.” He closed his eyes. “You had more to say to me? Continue, please.”

“It's not complicated,” Smith Senior said. “We need your support.”

Chandler's eyes opened wide. “Support? On the Treaty? Out of the question.”

“Private support,” Senior continued. “You just need to signal to the Senate leaders by telephone tomorrow morning that you would honor a de-ratification vote. And we need the Senate President Pro-tem to suspend the rules, so that Gabriel can address the entire Senate before the vote.”

“That's all? You have no idea what you're asking. Even hints about de-ratification of the Treaty sends these Directorate people into orbit. My support is out of the question. If these G-O-D people even think I have might have back-stabbed them…” Chandler sank back in his chair, a truly frightened man.

“A combination of speed and decisiveness is your best weapon, Mr. President,” The Speaker said.

“And your best protection,” Gabriel said.

Chandler sighed.

“They cannot be trusted,” Smith Senior pressed.

“These G-O-D types are not normal people,” Gabriel said.

“I give you that,” Chandler said. “They are truly ruthless. But this kind of talk can get you killed. Hell, this could get
me
killed.”

“Ruthless doesn't begin to cover it,” Gabriel said. “They don't care about human life at all. Mr. President, they think they are the cleansing antibodies of some earth goddess.”

“That's bull—”

“They mean to keep going until the virus of the human race as been wiped out,” Gabriel pressed. “They call us Homo ecophagus.”

“My old Committee had the hard evidence,” Smith Senior added.

“You can't delay on this,” Gabriel said, leaning forward in his seat. “They will kill me and Thurston, and you, and our children and everybody else's children,” Gabriel added emphatically. “Even if you cooperate with them now, Mr. President, you are a dead man at a time and place of their choosing.” He paused, staring at the President. Chandler seemed to pale slightly as the reality of the situation began to sink in. “So let's stop this now while there is still hope. There is no alternative to courage.”

President Chandler was silent for a long time. “Where is this headed?” he asked.

“Into history, Mr. President,” Smith, the Speaker said. “The people will be with you on de-ratification.”

“I won't take any public position. I can't.”

“You don't necessarily have to go public. But we need your help with the Senate leadership,” the Speaker said. “And we need it in time to matter. That would be tomorrow morning.”

“Well, as President Pro-tem, Senator Castorini controls several key people in the Senate. I suppose he can keep a secret. Maybe I'll talk to Taft Castorini first.”

“When will that be?” Gabriel said.

A long, awkward moment ensued. “Tonight is unreasonable,” Chandler said. “Okay? I'll call him first thing tomorrow.” Chandler stood.

The meeting was over.