No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (21 page)

“Why don’t you just kill the Son of a Bitch? It’s not entirely unprecedented, you know,” said Effingham in measured tones that betrayed his Yale background.

“My esteemed colleague,” began Pryor, his voice rising to match his exasperation, “…surely you recall that Masterson received over eighty percent of the popular vote in the general election, and I am certain you remember what happened when Kennedy was dispatched on your father’s watch, and how his death elevated him to martyr status, and how…”

Effingham interrupted again, betraying his lack of respect for the former Director of Homeland Security. “You will not pawn your incompetence on me, my family, or the esteemed members of this assemblage.” Effingham’s cheeks reddened with anger. “We pay you an enormous amount to ensure that our interests are protected, and in my estimation, you are a blundering idiot. Did it occur to you to have someone on the ground to report to us what happened after you set off that device? Did you?” His anger had turned into fury, and murmurs spread throughout the room. The membership had begun voicing their concerns in hushed tones.

“That’s the problem with disruption of cell transmissions,” Pryor responded. They won’t have any way of transmitting a signal until they repair the cell towers. That should take days, and if the Secret Service is following established protocol, Masterson, Conroy, and a good portion of Congress are in a hidey hole under a mountain somewhere, cut off from the inaugural for days. I set out to illegitimatize the Masterson presidency. It’s Phase One.”

The assembled elite stood silent for a moment, watching the darkened screens, oblivious to the flurry of activity at the inaugural. The detonation had deprived the world of the delight of being electronic witnesses to history, but all unshielded electronics had been fused by gamma radiation, and that included all broadcasts from the National Mall that had been terminated when the electronics were fried.

Effingham strode purposely to the table that held the remote and activated the screens. Glenda Reasoner was the first to appear, with the footage of Max waving to the crowd from a candy apple red vintage Corvette, with the Washington Monument looming above a mass of humanity who were smiling and clapping. Masterson’s girlfriend was seated next to him in a flight suit. “Our new President, Max Masterson, makes a grand entrance to the inaugural celebration, not thwarted by…”

Effingham changed the channel, and Glen Aspect appeared, with footage of Max standing at the podium in front of the Jefferson Memorial, the Presidential Seal prominently displayed on the front. In a voiceover, Aspect commented on the “Inaugural Event”. “It may be an apt description, America, but Inaugural Disruption may be more accurate. Within an hour of the detonation of a device that we are only beginning to understand, Masterson had power restored and made a glorious return to his place on the podium.” The camera zoomed into Max’s confident face. The screens went dark again. Effingham threw the remote to the marble floor, where it shattered with dramatic effect. “He doesn’t look like he’s in a hidey hole to me. Your perfidy will not be rewarded. Fix it.” He turned briskly and walked out of the room.

u

CHAPTER 54

A

fter the festivities subsided, Max retreated to the Oval Office as Rachel slept in president’s quarters, exhausted. The Oval Office lacked Max’s brand, so he installed a plaque on the credenza behind his desk. It was a gold list, the Maxims. Created

by his father and followed to the letter, the rules by which he would govern were a reminder of how the office of the presidency would transcend politics:

The informed will of the people dictates what is right. Maintain what is right and right what is wrong. Educate the people before asking them to decide an issue. American interests must prevail over foreign interests. Make Americans aware that they are a part of the world. It is better to confess that you don’t know than to lie. Don’t quote a statistic unless you can back it up with facts. Persuade, don’t deceive.
Combine strength with compassion.
Measure each decision by what is best for America. Above all else, be a patriot.

Max sat alone, gazing at the gold plaque absent-mindedly. It was his first time in the Oval Office without the web of people that went with the job, and for once, he could relax. His time alone was brief, he knew, but it was his time, and he knew how he would spend it. He opened the concealed drawer and pulled out the gilded diary, turning to an early entry written in the familiar cursive of Thomas Jefferson. It seemed to glow, and in his mind’s eye, it spoke to him in a resonant voice, using a dialect that he was certain was Jefferson’s.

“
Thy mind is troubled with the concerns of state, I see
.”

Max closed the book quickly, and the image of Jefferson disappeared. He opened it to the same page, and Jefferson returned to his mind.

“
Thou art connected to the universal intelligence as was I, and those who legitimately came to this office before and after,”
said the genius of Monticello. Max was perplexed, and strained to understand what was happening. Without uttering an audible sound, he spoke to Jefferson.

“Can you hear me?”
“Yes, and thee can hear me.”
“But how is it that I am talking to you, after being dead for hundreds

of years,
” Max questioned.
“Are you a ghost?”
“Where does one go after death? The mortal flesh may depart, but the
spirit remains in those who wish it so. The diary channels the thoughts
of the spirit to those who are fit to receive. Thus it has been and will
be until the last word is written,”
he responded with a clarity that
resounded in Max’s heart.
Jefferson continued his advice with an urgency that Max could
feel inside of his mind, prompting him to focus with an intensity
that he had not felt before. “You can see those who came before
you, who occupied this oval office and who wrote these words.” He
pointed at the diary, which glowed with increased intensity.
“You
need only to be alone in this room and in need of wisdom. We can hear
the words that trouble your mind.”
“There are many issues I would like to discuss, but time is short. You
know my concerns, so I will listen to what you have to say,”
Max spoke
tentatively.
“
Thou must speak thy mind
,” Jefferson responded. “
Thou art fearful
of enemies in the mist, who may strike from places hidden from your
sight. Your concerns are not for yourself, but for our nation. The enemies
have different names and occupy a different time, but they have always
been lurking, regardless. Thou must resist their attempts to remove thee
from favour with thy countrymen.”
In their internal discourse, Max
noticed that Jefferson’s manner of speaking was becoming more
contemporary as he spoke.
“What should I do about my enemies?”
Max’s mind was preoccupied by Pryor, who had disappeared from office the day before the
election, and prior to his briefing by Roger Sinclair.
“You have but one enemy, but he wears many disguises. Your single
enemy is composed of many parts. When you cut off but one part, your
enemy lives on, manifesting in others. There is no single person to defeat.
Focus on defeating ideas that threaten your presidency, and the rest
will follow.”
Jefferson stood, examining his shoes. His appearance
was evolving in Max’s mind’s eye. There was no powdered wig, and
no leggings. It was the visage of Jefferson, but he sported modern
clothes.
“I know not what animal gave its skin to make these, nor what color
its hide, but my aching feet are pleased.”
He bounced around the
room in his plastic soled shoes, transformed from the high riding
boots he wore in his time. Once he had reveled in his comfort to his
satisfaction, he sat again. “
The enemy is an idea, and in that idea there
are many linked common beliefs. The key to defeating this gargantuan
beast is in numbers of like-minded warriors of your own enlistment, but
remember,”
Jefferson shifted in the chair and leaned forward.
“It is
as useless to argue with those who have renounced the use and authority
of reason as to administer medication to the dead.”

Having imparted as much wisdom as he chose for the moment, Jefferson sat back and marveled at his appearance. “
These trappings are light and airy. Wool can be so scratchy
,” he commented on his new appearance. “
Why is my hair not like yours?”
Jefferson inquired. He touched his red hair, still long and tied at the back.

“There are a lot of men still wearing your style in my time,”
Max replied.
There was a knock at the door to the Oval Office, and the image of Thomas Jefferson vanished.
Max recovered from his dream state and quickly deposited the diary in its secret drawer. Luke Postlewaite shuffled into the room, looking rumpled and exasperated. Without bothering to sit down, Luke approached the ornate desk and placed both hands on the edge. Peering at his life-long student with the grayed eyes of age, he wasted no time with formalities.
“You’re fucking up,” he said without the slightest hint of reverence for the office.
“How?”
“You need to get your ass out from behind that desk, get out of this political museum, and go out there and do your job.” He paused to catch his breath, and continued. “I have been sitting awake, watching the major news programs, three at a time, Max, three at a time, and they are starting to turn on you.” He was agitated, that was definite. “Somovich and Aspect, and Glenda, who is an old friend of mine, to boot, even she has been sniping at you. Your popularity will never be higher than now, Max, and I’m not going to sit back and watch you squander your only opportunity to accomplish your destiny in the way you have been taught.” He sat hard in the leather chair and scowled, gasping for breath.
“What are they saying about me?”
“You’ll see, you’ll see,” he muttered, fumbling his communicator to produce each video clip in succession. “You aren’t making any news, and they have to report something, so they have turned on you already.”
The holographic image appeared above the desk in 4-D. The Willie B. Somovich program, “Willie B Right” came on first, his lacquered helmet hair shining in the studio lights. Music heavy with percussion instruments preceded the appearance of the host, followed by a close-up of Willie’s reddened shining face. He was in his element, and gauging from his smile, he had his distorted version of news to tell.
“Max Masterson is in his first weeks of the four-year term in office, and I gotta tell ya, America, he sucks.” Canned cheers and applause followed his opening statement as intended. “I want you to know, America, that Max has let us down, and he hasn’t made it a month. Our nation’s capitol has yet to recover from the Inauguration Day Event, and the rest of the nation, me included, want to know; “ Max, are you going to be just like the rest? When you address the nation in two weeks, I want to hear, Hell, all of us want to hear, how are you going to lead this once-great nation? I will open the lines to our callers, but first, a message from our sponsors.”
Glen Aspect was the next to chime in, pompously injecting his opinions in a sixty second monologue at the start of The Glen Aspect Show : “Max Masterson is refusing to provide his official birth certificate once more, my fellow Americans. The Freedom of Information Act, the Constitution of the United States, and the American people demand justice. He hides inside the White House, the official residence of legitimate holders of the office of president, and we don’t even know if he is one of us.” Aspect walked over to a large photo of the White House at night, using his trademark pointer for effect. “Yes, there it is, you see that light on in the Oval Office? That’s where he sits, plotting and planning with our enemies to overthrow our way of life.”
Aspect had no basis in fact for his allegations, and the sensational charges had been created by his staff of writers less than two hours before the show aired. When he walked into the studio that morning, he had no idea what he was going to say, but the slick and polished monologue had carried the air of truth: Max was adopted, and despite the desperate search for his original birth certificate, all that his campaign staff could provide to the press was a copy ordered from the State of North Carolina where he had been born.
His natural parents were killed in a fiery car wreck on a road near Senator John Masterson’s Fairlane estate, and since his rescue as an infant and adoption by the Senator, Max had been his son. There were no surviving blood relatives. His true date of birth had been a mystery to him until the names of his parents had been tracked back to the hospital where he was born. All Aspect needed for conjuring up suspicion was to question whether the newly-elected president was natural-born. It made no difference that his natural parents were American citizens.
It was a miracle that his opponent, William Blythe, and his spin doctors hadn’t stumbled upon that strategy to question his background in the mud-slinging late days of the campaign, but they had focused on digging up dirt on Max in an area that they assumed would be fertile; his love life. In the end, they came up with no scandal. No jilted old girlfriends, no perversions and no lapses in discretion. In the end, they only succeeded in elevating Max’s electability.
The last commentator had been one of Max’s few supporters in the press during his campaign. Glenda Reasoner appeared, dressed in her trademark Caribbean blue power suit, which comprised the bulk of her on-air wardrobe. It existed in many variations, all of the same color. Highly respected in the broadcast world, her image appeared six days each week to millions of devoted viewers in the United States and throughout the world.
“Our new president, Max Masterson, has been a disappointment on this, the first report card of his administration. Our nation is in tatters.” The music rose, and the producer broke for a commercial break, a 30 second spot touting the latest male erection drug, Maximo, which showed a dark-haired man with a hairy chest hovered over the reclined nude body of an obviously inspired woman, who pursed her lips in an “O” . The scene flashed to the afterglow, with the woman smiling and winking at the camera, as a baritone voice boomed, “Maximo, for your mutual pleasure.” Glenda returned to the image, apparently unaware that her serious intro had been followed by a pharmaceutical commercial for “male enhancements”.
“Max Masterson has become soft on terrorism,” she began.
Luke turned off the hologram projector, and Glenda vanished. “What happened to all of your training, your Maxims? You need to speak the truth, do what’s right for this country, quit worrying about what your critics think. You don’t silence your critics, Max. You listen to what they have to say, but you sure as hell don’t change your ways because of them. Remember, if you travel with the herd, you are no different from the ass in front of you.”
The last comment by his elderly mentor made Max smile. He had heard that phrase almost daily since he had begun his training by Luke and his father. It was a mantra, and it was meant to set him apart. Great presidents were clear in their purpose, and their strongly-held beliefs were woven into history. Challenges were meant to be conquered, and problems were meant to be solved.
“You need to find out who is messing with you, and put them out of your misery,” Luke said in a whisper.
That’s pretty much like Jefferson just told me a few minutes ago
,” Max thought to himself.
“It’s not that easy,” replied Max. I have my people working on it, but they have me on lockdown. I can’t go anywhere without a formal itinerary, and advance teams. Then they alert the press to where I’m going to be. It’s crazy.”
“Sneak out. You’re good at it. We can get together with someone at CIA to whip you up a disguise, and…”
“No government involvement. You are going to have to do this yourself, and find someone good. Maybe one of your Hollywood friends. I can’t trust anyone affiliated with a government agency until I know more. And Luke? This has to be as confidential as our little secret about the tunnel. Nobody, and there are no exceptions, is to know that I am going to go out without security, or the disguise I will be using. ”