The 4 Phase Man (32 page)

“My life,” he said with the vaguest crack in his voice, “has been proof of the American dream. Testimony to the greatness that is still available to any-and everybody living under the banner of liberty. That it has led to this moment—when our nation stands so sorely tested and requires so much more commitment from all of us—is the grandest fulfillment of my immigrant grandfather’s favorite phrase: ‘Only in America.’”

Grandfather
, he thought bitterly,
the old man that smelled of piss and couldn’t be left alone with little girls.

“My mother—God rest her soul—raised me in the midwestern traditions of loyalty to God, family, community,
and country. A schoolteacher, a cook for the poor and deserted, a shining example of what Americanism means, was
all
to me. It was at her feet that I first heard the stories of Washington and Lincoln, Jefferson and Teddy Roosevelt. Was taught that
country
was not just a word, but a faith and a dedication requiring sacrifice and hard work.

“From my father I learned discipline. Many thought he was not an easy man—and as a veteran of too many trips to the woodshed to smile about—I can attest to that. But he was a man, all in all, who asked nothing from anyone. Who believed that hard work
was
its own reward, and that dedication to something larger than one’s self is what defined a man.”

Mommy and Daddy. Oh what teachers they were.

He continued reading from the well-rehearsed statement as his mind journeyed back to years he would deny any existence to.

Mommy—the belle of Racine—seldom home with her causes and missions. A woman so disdainful of her blue-collar husband and albatross-around-the-neck son that she sought diversion in as many other places—with as many other men—as she could.

And Daddy.

He’d found his own… diversions. The private pleasures that he’d share with me at—oh, what was I? Eleven? Twelve? The booze and the hookers; the beatings… and the touchings.

“Mr. Attorney General?”

DeWitt pulled himself back from the memories. “My apologies, Mr. Chairman. But as I stand on the brink of this pinnacle of life, I’m overcome with emotion at those two giants of my life not being here to share it with me.”

To choke on it.

“If I may return to my statement,” he said after a long drink of cold water.

“Of course.”

“My friends,” he said, returning to the text that had undergone twenty-three drafts in the last two weeks. “It
was in college that I think I began to fully appreciate how best I might serve my country.”

And he smiled.

It was in England—in the late sixties—that the future vice presidential nominee felt alive for the first time in his life.

His father’s suicide had left the boy some money, his mother’s “social work” had gotten him some connections, and an affair with a high school counselor only five years older than himself had accomplished the rest.

The pain of the semirural existence, of his parents’ violations, was quickly forgotten among the green, the cool, and the foreignness. England was eye-opening: here were others his age—shouting in the streets, protesting a war he knew or cared little about—all of them seeking to prove their individuality by aping their fellow individualists.

He learned quickly.

Naturally bright, and taught from childhood the finest arts of manipulation, DeWitt found Oxford and environs a ripe hunting ground. There were the free-love American girls on adventure (for the summer); the English girls, who seemed inordinately turned on by the Huck Finn/Karl Marx/John Kennedy persona that he’d affected for his stay; the European girls, who just wanted to make an American boy to annoy their parents.

He’d attended enough classes to keep from being thrown out, made enough of an impression to attract girls and possibilities. The possibilities were almost more tantalizing than the girls.

He’d known from the start that he was smarter than the others around him, but a life academia sickened him. An Oxford diploma was merely a means to a higher social stratum, more connected friends, higher-class lays. But what he’d soon discovered was that there were many other—more exciting—possibilities in the air at Oxford, and later at Barnsdahl (where he’d transferred after “an outright lie by a girl who slept around with everyone” had forced the move).

The governments of the world viewed the volatile English campuses as a breeding ground of “radicals, communists, anarchists, and pinkos.” And they were anxious to identify which of the world’s future leaders were simply
unsuitable.

But DeWitt understood that a snitch—no matter how much patriotic fervor you wrapped around it—was still a snitch.

He’d also reasoned that there had to be a way—through charm, contacts, payoffs, or less traceable
favors
—to use the expensive education he was getting (inside and
outside
the colleges) to move up. Move out.

To win!

And midway through his junior year, he found it.

The camera pushed in tight on the attorney general’s face. “While my college education prevented me from enlisting in the armed forces, I did see much of Asia in my travels. And while I never saw communist Asia, I can tell you from its impact on the noncommunist nations that it is not universally viewed as a sleeping dragon or monster, waiting to devour the rest of the region. In fact, there are many in Asia who would welcome a larger, more community-of-nations role for the People’s Republic.”

The camera was tight now, his face filling the tiny screen on the mountainside.

“And my friends, we must always remember that it
is
the warlords who founded Taiwan.”

Valerie looked up as the television was switched off from behind.

“It’s time, Avidol said as he started for the door.”

Valerie sighed, ran her fingers through her hair, straightened the borrowed dress—she would not be allowed to appear in slacks—and slowly followed.

It was a stupid waste of time, she thought. For all the posturing (sincere or otherwise) of Franco’s act, power systems just don’t reverse themselves. Ever. It’s what
maintains their power, she knew, having been a part of one of the biggest power systems in the world.

A thing she no longer felt
any
part of.

So Franco would die tonight, and others who openly supported him—if there were any—would die alongside him. And Valerie would be given over to the Chinese.

Xenos, well, whatever moral outrage he’d mustered in the hours after the attack seemed to have calmed in him. Now he spoke quietly, in monosyllables of generalities. Not the man to put his life on the line to do a job that couldn’t be done, anyway.

But at the door to the church hall, she straightened herself, put on a strong expression, and started in.

It would be good practice for when she faced the Chinese.

The “hall” turned out to be a large rock amphitheater with a constructed roof over the back half, giving the impression of a building. Over five hundred people lined the seats and rock ledges, sitting quietly looking down at the well of the theater where Franco stood… alone.

Each person in the place had a white card and a black card. Some kept them in their laps, others folded in pockets or laid carefully under their seats. But none were far from hand.

Franco wore tight leather pants and a loose, open-to-the-waist red silk shirt. His hair slicked back, his manner insolent, he looked confident, arrogant… almost noble.

A glass bell was rung from somewhere in the amphitheater’s depths and the crowd stood solemnly as the Council walked in.

After they were seated, a long table was carried out and placed in front of them. In front of each man was a six-inch-long stiletto.

Franco bowed to the Council, bowed insolently to the crowd, then sat down. A table with a stiletto was brought before him.

The bell rang again, and the crowd sat down.
Il tribunale
had begun.

For over an hour three survivors of the attack (all suitable to both the Council and Franco) gave gruesome, impartial accounts of the night that had become known as
the place of the bleeding children.
Members of the Council asked questions to bring out just how deep Franco’s involvement had been in bringing the fugitives to Toulon, in setting up the security, in opposing negotiations with the Chinese.

Franco asked no questions, just polished his fingernails on the side of his spectacular shirt, the picture of disinterest.

For another hour a Corsican investigator (again, acceptable to both sides) recounted the history of the Council meeting in
La Sortie
, where Franco had openly challenged the manhood of the respected elders, where he’d had to be physically restrained when they’d decided to submit—for the moment—to the Chinese.

Franco asked no questions but seemed deeply involved in peeling the skin from each of the grapes in a plate that had been handed him.

Finally a report was given on Canvas himself, his background—as was known—his connections with the Chinese, their plan as Valerie’d outlined it. With emphasis placed on the resources of the Chinese and the malignancy of Canvas himself.

Franco still asked no questions, just spit out some grape seeds as the investigator walked past him.

The audience was getting nervous now. The case against Franco had built step by step, with overwhelming evidence, with no rebuttal of the facts by the man facing the knife’s edge.

But there was something in the air, something from the man’s casual disregard, the disdainful shaking of his head, the contemptuous look he gave the witnesses and the Council.

Finally the old man in the center chair stood and addressed the groups in Corsican, a rarity since most of the audience spoke primarily Italian or French.

“My brothers,” he said in the ancient dialect, “the case
has been made clear. The Council’s orders were directly challenged and this has not been denied. The Council’s judgment was questioned and this has not been denied. The Council’s honor was most clearly savaged and this has not been denied. The evidence is clear.

“For centuries we have survived as a people by using our power judiciously, carefully. Doling it out in spoonfuls, not great promiscuous buckets. All who have come to this island have been defeated—in time—by our tradition of remembrance and slow retribution. Had we, had they (our sainted ancestors) attempted to attack in force, to overthrow in one night the might arrayed against them, most of us would not be here to meet in tribunal.

“This
was
the Council’s judgment, this remains the Council’s judgment—our life’s traditions—and it will remain ever so. We therefore ask you to raise the black and reclaim clan honor and dignity.”

He sat down.

The audience took a deep breath, then turned to Franco, anxious to hear him present his case.

After two long minutes, after a murmur of discomfort and unease went through the crowd, Franco looked up, confusion in his eyes.

“Oh,” he began in a genuinely surprised voice. “Is it my turn now?”

Some laughed, others were shocked because he was speaking in English, a language never used before in any tribunal.

“My apologies, my friends, brothers,” he said as he stood up and casually began wandering through the well of the theater. “But my ears were full of wind.” He exaggeratedly put a finger in his ear as if to clear out an obstruction. When he pulled it out, he carefully examined the fingertip.

“Dusty.” More laughter. “The wind was filled with the dust of the ages. The breaths of dusty old men who see distant history as not lessons, but
requirements
for the future.”

All laughter instantly stopped.

“These old fools”—he shook his head and chuckled—“well, what can I say?” He smiled at the Council. “Fools who have outlived their usefulness to us all.”

People leaned forward, moved to the edge of their seats. Something in the soon-to-be-dead man’s voice compelled them, forced them, invigorated them.

Franco turned back to the audience. “A young boy is entrusted with money of the Brotherhood to secure a valued service for the Brotherhood. He disappears and they do nothing.”

“The young boy is savagely murdered only because he becomes an inconvenience to a plot that he cares nothing about, and they do
nothing.
”

He seemed to suddenly remember something. “Oh yes,” they send three of their own to
talk.
His voice took on a deeply sarcastic tone. “They dearly
love to talk.
But then you’ve witnessed that yourself. Those of you who remained awake.”

“Finally…” His tone lowered and became a dangerous living thing that moved among them on a knife’s edge. “Finally, when eleven of our brothers and sisters are slaughtered defending children in a hospital under our protection—when twenty-one of those angels are torn apart by these savages—they stop talking and act.”

He was quiet for a full minute.

“They act
… and the ghosts of our brothers back to the beginning of time rise as one and spit on their soon-to-be graves!”
His voice echoed off the rocks, through the people, becoming a part of the air.