Read The Multiple Man Online

Authors: Ben Bova

The Multiple Man (17 page)

"Blow the lid off."

"Exactly." Her face was dead serious now.

"I can't do that, Vickie . . . not just yet, anyway. I promised The Man that I'd keep things buttoned up—"

"He can't hold you to such a promise!"

"Maybe not. But I can. I gave The Man my word, kid. I can't go back on that, not yet."

"When, for God's sake? After you're smashed all across some Colorado mountainside?"

"Don't get emotional."

"Don't get chauvinistic," she snapped back. "I'm a damned sight more practical than you, Meric. I don't let Boy Scout oaths straitjacket my thinking. You swore secrecy to the President! Is that worth your life? Or his?"

I tried to stay calm. Vickie seemed more angry than anything else. And she had some accurate thinking on her side.

"Listen . . . Vickie . . . when we go to the press, I want to be able to give them the whole story. Who, what, where, when, how. Right now, all we know is that the President was cloned in infancy, and at least two of the clones are dead of unknown causes."

"And McMurtrie and Klienerman were murdered."

"Maybe."

"They're certainly dead."

"Okay." I found myself drumming my fingertips on the desk top. I pulled back my hands and drummed on my thighs instead. Quieter, at least.

"If we release what we know to the press," I went on, "it will ruin the President. Just blow him right out of office. He'll be totally unable to do his job."

"Is that bad?"

"Do we know for sure that it's not?" I demanded, my voice rising. "Has he done anything to deserve being tossed out like a crook or an incompetent? Has he tried to squash us? He could, you know, in about twelve microseconds."

"Well . . ."

"He's been doing a damned fine job, hasn't he?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"Vickie, listen to me. We have absolutely no evidence that the President is involved in anything nefarious. For a while there I thought he was—but now, I'm not so sure. For all we know, he was never told about this cloning. It's the General who's behind all this. And it's our job to find out what the General's doing, and why, without harming the President."

"But suppose the President
is
part of it? Whatever it is," Vickie asked, leaning forward in her chair, earnest, intent, afraid.

"If we find out he's part of it, we blow the whistle. Loud and clear. But not until then."

She shook her head unhappily.

"I'm going to Aspen," I said. "I've got to see Dr. Peña, one way or the other."

"It's a trap," Vickie said. "They've been watching every move we make, and they're setting you up for the same treatment that McMurtrie got."

"That's . . . melodramatic," I said. Limply.

"They're using Peña as bait. They
want
you to go there."

"Okay," I said, trying to sound tough, "they're going to get their wish."

Vickie sat up straighter and looked at me with calm, serious eyes. "So you're going to march into the lion's den, and I'm supposed to stay safely at home and keep your obituary notice handy, in case it comes to that."

I had to smile at her. "I think I hear a feminist tirade coming at me."

"You're not leaving me behind," she said. "I'm not some simpering
hausfrau . . .
"

"No. But you
are
the person who can call an international press conference if anything happens to me. There's no sense
both
of us walking into the lion's den."

"Then let me go, and you stay here."

"Not on your life!"

A quizzical look came over her face. "That's an interesting choice of words."

"All right," I said. "The argument is closed. I'm going to Aspen this afternoon. You hold the fort here."

She didn't answer. It was impossible for that elfin face to sulk, but she was damned close to it.

"And I want you to stay with friends while I'm away," I added. "You're not immune to an accident here in Washington, you know."

"I have some friends I could stay with," she said.

"Male or female?"

Vickie arched an eyebrow. "Does it make any difference?"

"Would I ask if it didn't?"

She smiled. But she didn't answer.

I took the United flight to Denver and the Rocky Mountain Airways bounce-along to Aspen. Deciding that boldness was my best protection, I rented a helicopter and told the pilot to land me at the pad alongside the General's house.

"I gotta have clearance first," he told me over the whine of the chopper's turbines. "Those guys don't think twice about shootin' at ya."

He was a grizzled, fiftyish, hulking bear of a man, the kind who didn't look as if he scared easily. On the other hand, a man doesn't earn a living flying in the tricky air currents of the Rockies if he's inclined to take chances and trust to luck.

We were already airborne and in five minutes we'd be over the General's estate.

"Okay," I said to the pilot. "You raise them on the radio, but let me talk to them."

He gave me a wary glance but did it anyway. I took a headset from his chunky hand as the valley slid below us. The chopper was riding fast and low; the air was smooth enough to make the ride almost pleasant. The snow was still heavy on the ground, broken only by plowed roads and the dark green of big fir trees reaching up toward us. The town was behind us, out of sight. The only signs of habitation I could see were occasional houses or ski lodges sitting low and stony against the snowy fields.

As I clamped the headset on, a tinny voice grated in my ear: "Who's asking for landing clearance? Repeat, who is requesting landing clearance?" The voice already sounded annoyed.

"This is Meric Albano, press secretary to the President of the United States." The title always impressed the hell out of me; maybe it would buffalo them a little. "We'll be landing in a red and white Snowbird Lines helicopter in about three or four minutes. I'm here to see General Halliday and Dr. Peña."

"I'll have to check with—"

"Check with whoever you want to, after I've landed. We're coming down and we don't want any interference. If there is any trouble, the President will hear about it immediately."

We landed without trouble. But it seemed to me that my pilot could've waited until I was clear of his rotor downwash before he took off again. He jerked that whirly-bird off the General's property like a spatter of grease jumping off a hot skillet.

I coughed the dust and grit out of my face and followed an escort of three very large men—the kind who go from careers in the state police to careers in private goon squads. They led me up to the house, but apparently they were strictly outside men. I was picked up at the door by a very polite Oriental, dressed more or less as a butler. Probably could crack bank vaults with a single chop of his hand.

The butler was extremely polite. He showed me into a very comfortable sitting room with a view of the valley through the ceiling-high windows. He spoke in a very soft voice, with an accent that was more UCLA than the other side of the Pacific. He asked me if I cared for anything to drink. I said no. He bowed slightly, just a slight inclination of his head.

"General Halliday was not expecting visitors this afternoon. He begs your indulgence for a few moments."

"I'll wait," I said.

"Is there anything I could do to make you more comfortable?"

"You could tell Dr. Peña that I'm here and want to talk with him."

He blinked. For a moment I got the impression that he was a cleverly built transistorized robot, run by a computer that had to search through its entire instruction program to find the correct response to the mention of Dr. Peña's name.

At last he said, "I don't believe Dr. Peña is receiving any visitors at all."

"But he is here."

"So I have been told. I have not seen him myself."

I nodded. "Thanks."

He bowed, a little deeper this time, and withdrew from the room.

It was a large room, very pleasantly decorated. Rustic style. Knotty pine paneling. Big gnarled beams across the ceiling. Stone fireplace with a grizzly bear rug in front of it. Balcony outside the windows. I walked across a scattering of Navaho carpets and admired the view: the mountains were still glittering with snow, forests of pine and spruce marching up their flanks. I couldn't see the valley or the town from here. Maybe from the balcony. I tried the sliding glass doors. They were locked.

I spun around and saw that the room had only one other door, the one I had come in through. It was closed. I hurried across to try the handle. It was locked, too. I wasn't getting out of this room until the General wanted me out.

So I sat around and waited, trying not to get the shakes. There were no books to read. The fireplace was cold and dark. A few magazines were scattered on the coffee table in front of the room's only couch—old issues of
Camping Guide
and
Investor's Weekly.
I gave the phone a try and got that oh-so-polite Oriental butler, who informed me that General Halliday had requested that I refrain from making any outside calls until he had spoken with me.

In disgust, and to keep my mind from winding itself up into a terrified little knot, I turned on the television set and watched an idiotic children's show about a park ranger and his teenaged kids who somehow had gotten themselves mixed up with dinosaurs.

During the fourteenth breakfast food commercial, the General came in. I didn't hear the door open behind me, but the TV picture winked off. I turned and there he was, leaning over stiffly, one hand still on the control keyboard set into the little table next to the door.

"I'm glad to see that you found something to occupy your mind while you were waiting," he said as I got up from my chair. He was far from smiling.

"I'm glad to see you didn't keep me waiting all that long. Time passes slowly in jail." I decided as the words were coming out that I'd better not let him think he could cow me. Old reporter's habit: mouth first, then brain. Instinct followed by rationalization.

"Just what in hell are you trying to do, Albano?" The General normally looked annoyed at lesser creatures. Now he looked blazingly angry.

"I'm trying to save your son's life . . . and his Presidency. Or doesn't that matter to you?"

He hadn't budged an inch from where I'd first seen him. "Get out of here," he said, his voice low and slightly trembling. "You wise-mouthed son of a bitch . . . get out of my house!"

"Sure," I said, taking a couple of steps toward him and the door. "But once I'm outside I'm going to call a press conference and blast this story wide open."

"Like hell you will."

"If you're thinking I won't make it back to Washington, guess again. An assistant of mine knows all about this, and she'll take over if anything happens to me."

He didn't bat an eye. "If you mean Ms. Clark, forget it. She can be bought off very easily. Or silenced."

Jesus!
"Maybe so," I bluffed. "But I've also spilled the story to a reporter who'll break it as soon as anything happens to either one of us."

"And who might that be?"

"You'll find out if you try to hurt Vickie . . . or me."

"Ryan? That young pup from Boston?"

"It doesn't make any difference. We've got this thing fail-safed. You can't hurt us."

He stamped into the room, right past me and over to the windows. I could see the cords in his scrawny old neck popping out. His fists clenched.

"Why?" He whirled around to face me again. "Who's backing you, Albano? Who's behind you?"

I should have tried eloquence and said,
The people of the United States of America.
Instead I answered, "Nobody. Except the President."

"Cut the crap."

"I mean it! Somebody's out to get the President—your son. Either to kill him or discredit him so completely that he'll be forced to resign."

The General shook his head.

"And whoever's doing this, he's operating from right here. I think it's you, or somebody working for you." |

"You're dead wrong," he said quietly, without fire.

"We know about the cloning," I said.

His face went white.

"We know that Dr. Peña did it. And we know that he's here. That's who I came to see. I want to find out what he knows about all this. And I want to hear what you've got to say. You've got at least two murders on your doorstep . . ."

"Murders?"

"McMurtrie and Dr. Klienerman."

"That was an accident!"

"The hell it was!"

"It was, dammit!" he shouted. But standing there by the windows, with the fading afternoon sun at his back, he somehow looked weaker, less certain of himself, starting to bend.

I pushed harder. "McMurtrie and Klienerman were killed after they talked with Peña and he sent them here. Two cloned duplicates of the President were killed . . ."

"No . . ."

"Goddammit, stop lying to me!" I exploded. "Stop this motherfucking phony shit or I'll go right out of here and tear your son's Presidency apart! Is that what you want? Is that what you're after?"

For a long moment he didn't answer. Didn't move. Just stood there with his hands hanging loosely at his sides, looking old and uncertain. He shook his head and mumbled something too low for me to hear. Then he walked slowly to the phone, pressed the ON stud, and said softly:

"Ask Dr. Peña if he feels up to joining us here in the first floor sitting room."

I let my breath out in a long, slow sigh.

The General looked up from the phone, his face more sad than angry. "Don't think you've won anything, wise mouth. And don't think you
know
anything."

"And don't think I can be conned," I replied.

He seemed to regain a little of his strength. "Sit down. I'll order some drinks. You've got a lot to learn, Mr. Press Secretary. A hell of a lot."

The Oriental brought a tray of decanters and glasses and bowed his way out of the room again, all without making a discernible sound. When I hesitated at accepting anything, the General laughed at me, not without some bitterness.

"Stop playing cloak and dagger. I'm not going to poison you, for Christ's sake."

Other books

Moonspun Magic by Catherine Coulter
Sacred Country by Rose Tremain
Retro Demonology by Jana Oliver
A Time For Ryda by Stern, Phil
PsyCop 3: Body and Soul by Jordan Castillo Price