America Rising (28 page)

* * *

Frank Bernabe was furious. Mad at himself for his momentary weakness, mad at the world for upsetting his perfectly ordered plans. There was a lot of other people’s shit for him to clean up, and the thought made him madder still. But that was his responsibility, as the soft, deadly voice had made exceedingly clear. So he picked up the phone and dialed Nancy Elias. When she answered, he said brusquely, “It’s Frank, Nancy. We have some problems to discuss.”

“We do indeed,” Nancy Elias said. “I’ve been giving them a lot of thought, and I believe I have some solutions.”

That was one thing Frank Bernabe didn’t expect. “Oh?”

“First, this Rescue America business. Honestly, I had no idea it would get so much support, which makes it all the more important we do something to calm the public mood. Have you got your people to support my New Declaration proposal?”

“Reluctantly. Very reluctantly. It’s going to cost them a lot of money. I know, you think they can get it all back later. But that’s not the way they operate. Bigby has them wanting to take a hard line, stamp out these protests once and for all. I managed to convince them your approach would work, but if it doesn’t, if things get any worse, if these demonstrations go on much longer, you’re not going to get another chance.”

“Fair enough. Now, about these SayNo people and their rally and Bonus Army march. The attack on that Conté woman—not that I’m saying you had anything to do with it—really put us behind the eight-ball. No one will believe it if she has an ‘accident’ or a heart attack or is mugged or whatever. And the public mood is too volatile to risk it.

“But there are other ways to get to them. I’ve directed CIA to dig up everything they can on everyone in SayNo and all those other groups. Maybe they’ve got a drug problem or a porn habit, maybe they hit their wife or kids. Maybe they’ve got a second family stashed somewhere. Whatever secrets they have, we’ll find them and use them. I’m sure the IRS will find they have a lot of tax problems too.

“As for the rally and Bonus Army march, we let them happen. We need to let people blow off some steam. And we really can’t stop them. They’re going to come to Washington D.C. whether we like it or not; the last thing we need is a major public relations disaster on the country’s birthday. So we work with our friends in the media to manage the coverage, control the spin. How am I doing so far?”

Frank Bernabe didn’t like it. But he didn’t like his other options either. The president was right about the New Orleans op. Botching it had now made getting rid of Conté and her cohorts almost impossible. And one big demonstration would be easier to manage and spin than dozens of smaller ones.

He ran a hand over his freshly shaven head. Bigby and the others had no idea of the pressures of keeping their precious system together. They had no subtlety, no vision, no sense of the larger picture. Be too soft and the rabble would think they actually had a say in things. Come down too hard and they might rise up and burn the whole house down. He was balancing on the edge of a straight razor, trying to keep the great profit and power-generating machine of state running smoothly. Nancy Elias, for all her flaws, at least understood that.

“It will be a tough sell, Madam President,” he said. “But I can do it.”

“Excellent. Two more things, Frank. One, you’ve got to do something about Ed Bane. It’s not just that his attacks on me are destroying respect for this office and what it represents, it’s that he’s encouraging those cretins of his to attack Americans in the street. I had Bill Bigby sitting right across from me and he promised he would try to tone Bane down. Obviously he hasn’t done that. So I need you to talk to him, make him see reason.”

William Bigby was blind to reason, to everything but his own interests. But Bernabe knew he had to try.

“Agreed.”

“Thank you,” the president said. “Now, that brings me to the most important point: John Doe. You’ve seen the video of him in New Orleans, right? Do you have any idea how big it’s gotten? It is all over the Internet, all over the world. In less than twenty-four hours it’s gotten almost as many hits as the Josephson vid. The guy is already a national hero. People are selling ‘Who is John Doe?’ and ‘John Doe for President’ bumper stickers, t-shirts with the image of him standing there with that gun to his forehead. Next thing you know his face will be on coffee mugs at Walmart.

“You know me, Frank. I’ve been in this business a long time, and I don’t scare easy. But this guy scares the hell out of me. He is a very, very dangerous man.” Her voice turned reflective. “They hate us out there, Frank. They really do. They think we’re all a bunch of liars and thieves and con artists running a crooked game where they’re the suckers. For years—decades—we’ve managed to dance around it, find an outlet for their hatred, buy them off with trinkets, distract them with flashing lights, dog and pony shows.

“But now the wheels have come off. It’s bad out there, very bad. And it’s only going to get worse. You know it and I know it. And there are millions of people who would just as soon see every one of us hanging from the nearest tree. They already have the spark. All they need is someone to fan it into a flame.

“Then along comes this Doe character. We don’t know anything about him—who he is, where he’s from, what he wants. I have the Bureau on him now but the most they can tell me is that he seems to have spent the past several years going around the country organizing people in poor communities, homeless encampments, distressed towns. He fixes them up and moves on.

“You may think I’m worrying prematurely, Frank. But with that terrorist group attacking us below the surface and this John Doe coming on like some kind of modern-day messiah, we could be looking at—God help us—a real revolution.”

Frank Bernabe’s famous temper flared. “So Doe comes off the board,” he said curtly. “Find him and take him out. Now.”

“No!” the president brought her fist down hard on her desk. “Not like that! We’re not in the business of creating martyrs. You saw what happened in the Middle East a few years ago. The worst thing we can do in this current situation is create a martyr of our own. We have to be smart about this. If we’re not, the same thing that happened over there can and will happen here.”

Frank Bernabe wasn’t used to being admonished by anyone, even the President of the United States. But Nancy Elias stepped in before he could explode.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” she said, humbly. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. But I have an idea; I want you to tell me what you think of it. I’m not suggesting anything, mind you, just speaking hypothetically. But you know the Bane-iacs and those other crazies aren’t exactly stable. They’re easily influenced, prone to violence.

“So what if one of them were to stalk this John Doe, track him down and brutally murder him just before a special team of anti-terrorist agents could stop it. What if this hypothetical killer was arrested and tried—a very public trial at that—then convicted, given the death penalty and executed. Wouldn’t that solve three problems at once? John Doe is no longer a threat. We get to look like heroes to the public for bringing a killer to justice. And Bane and the crazies get thoroughly discredited. It’s a win-win-win.”

The heat that had been building in Frank Bernabe’s head suddenly dissipated. Nancy Elias’s idea was positively genius, a stunning combination of ruthless, devious and deniable. He didn’t think she had it in her. That she did was something he would have to think on later. But for now he had to admit he was greatly and unexpectedly impressed. Only one flaw he could see.

“Extraordinary, Nancy,” he said. “Absolutely extraordinary. I must commend you on a brilliantly conceived plan. I have one issue, though. I agree that these Bane-iacs and the whole miserable lot of them are mentally unstable, easily influenced and prone to violence. But they’re also incompetent fools. I wouldn’t send any one of them to the grocery store for a quart of milk. How could they pull off something like this? Speaking hypothetically, of course?”

“C’mon, Frank,” Nancy Elias chided. “You’re smarter than that. ‘They’ don’t have to pull it off. All they have to do is take the blame.”

Frank Bernabe felt like a parent whose child had just won an Olympic gold medal.

“Of course, Madam President,” he said. “I should never have doubted you. And may I just say that moments such as these make me proud to be an American. I will leave you now, as I know you have a very busy schedule. And I have much work to do too.”

F
rank Bernabe had two more calls to make.

One was to Leland Elliott. The head of Tutis International would require a bit of stroking, upset as he was at being outed by some chickenshit reporter and forced to flee his posh Miami offices for a crappy low-rise in godforsaken Kendall.

But “Mr. Flowers” had a proposition. It would require Elliott’s best men, not amateur leg-breakers like Armando Gutierrez. The proposition was simple. One target. Time is of the essence. Money is no object. Eliminate the target and you will be a very rich man. Fail to eliminate the target and you will be a very dead one. Leland Elliott’s stomach clenched but his eyes glittered as he accepted.

The final call was the most distasteful. William Bigby had a knack for getting under Frank Bernabe’s skin. The media mogul’s faux aristocratic pretensions combined with his ideological single-mindedness and smug self-righteousness were infuriating. That he didn’t bother to hide his disdain for Frank Bernabe didn’t help either. But the stakes were too high to let personal feelings get in the way of good decision-making, so Bernabe put his emotions aside and called.

The phone rang a dozen times before Bill Bigby picked up. That was just one of the many ways Bigby used to annoy him, but he put his annoyance aside and said, “William, it’s Frank. We need to talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Damn him anyway! Can’t he ever give it a rest?

“Apparently,” Bernabe said. “Is this line secure?”

“What do you think?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ I was speaking to the president earlier today, William, and we have a problem. His name is Ed Bane. The president is asking you—I am asking you—to dial the volume down. This Rescue America business was an absolute disaster; it’s playing right into the hands of our enemies. Especially this John Doe character.

“Who I’m sure you’ll take care of.”

“Goddam right I’ll take care of him.” Frank Bernabe could feel his neck getting hot. “But Ed Bane trying to start a civil war in the streets isn’t making it any easier. The country’s in a goddam precarious state right now and there’s no sense tipping it over the edge.”

“What do you expect me to do, Frank?” Bill Bigby said scornfully. “Take the biggest moneymaker in media history off the air because you and Nancy Elias haven’t got the gonads to stamp out this petty rebellion. Come down and come down hard, I say. Declare martial law, suspend the Constitution, shut down the Internet. Anyone who doesn’t obey, doesn’t pay their bills goes to jail. Show the people who’s boss.”

“And how long do you think you can do that before they march on Washington with pitchforks and ropes?”

“Until long after we’re gone,” William Bigby said. “That’s all that matters.”

Frank Bernabe’s neck grew warmer. The man had the intelligence of a mushroom and the mentality of a storm trooper. “This is a very interesting philosophical discussion,” he said. “But it still doesn’t solve the Ed Bane problem.”

“There is no ‘Ed Bane problem,’” Bigby said mockingly. “These people want to talk about fear? Well, we just gave them something to be fearful about. I don’t suppose you’re any closer to catching that terrorist cell now, are you?”

Now Frank Bernabe’s neck was hot.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Dammit, Bill! I’m trying to keep the rabble from taking over the country and you’re giving me this crap about fear and martial law.” He made one last effort. “All I’m asking is that you have Ed dial it back a little, just until the crisis is past.”

“Well, Frank,” William Bigby said blandly, “I did ask Russ Millar to talk to him. Apparently, he wasn’t too receptive.”

Frank Bernabe laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

“Don’t give me that crap. Ed Bane eats Russ Millars for breakfast and shits them out at lunch. If you wanted him to put a cork in it you would have told him so yourself.”

William Bigby was getting a little heated now too.

“And I told you that’s not going to happen. The problem here isn’t Ed. It’s you, Frank. You and that wimp in the White House. And if you can’t handle your responsibilities then one of us is going to have to step in and handle them for you.”

That would be you, Sir William, Frank Bernabe thought bitterly. “I’ll handle my end,” he said sharply. “You just make sure to handle yours.” He hung without waiting for a reply.

* * *

For Leland Elliott, it was personal. “Mr. Flowers’” proposition, he felt, had given him a free ticket,
carte blanche
to address a matter that had been sticking in his throat like a chicken bone. He called in two of his most skilled operatives and gave them an assignment.