Amerika (38 page)

Mike Laird was on the other end of the phone, sitting in his office, a bright light from a desk lamp illuminating his drawn, tightened face. “He arrived at the hospital tonight. Denisov must have used the escort as a screen.”

Marion sat back against her headboard and closed her eyes for a moment. “My God, will this ever end?” She opened her eyes, resolute. “They’ve got to kill him—right away.”

Laird sat forward in his chair. “Ma’am, I told them that. They—Dr. Collins—said they were researchers, not executioners.”

“How dare she-—” Marion stammered, struggling for control. “Where is he now?”

“At the hospital,” Laird informed her. “Under sedation; the first stage of the program. Dr. Collins assures me he’s quite secure.”

Marion shook her head slowly, lost in thought. Laird’s voice brought her back to reality. “Marion, are you there?”

She sighed heavily. “I’m here.”

Laird stood up, pacing in front of his desk. “I’ll go myself, if necessary.”

“All right,” she answered resignedly. She hung up the phone and sat, lifeless, on the edge of her bed.

Peter and Amanda danced the first dance at the inaugural ball amid many cheers. After that, they retired to their table beside the dance floor, where a seemingly endless line of politicians stopped by to pay their respects. Peter was enjoying the attention, feeling very much like an overnight sensation, but Amanda felt as if she were under siege. In the background the band played sweet ballads from the forties and fifties, and yet all these men wanted to do was talk politics. In exasperation—even desperation—she called upon Scott to dance, and Peter turned to a reticent Jackie and did the same.

Jackie felt instantly at ease on the dance floor with her father, following his lead effortlessly.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Peter said, looking down into his daughter’s eyes. “The most beautiful girl in the room talking basketball with her brother.”

She smiled up at him. “You wouldn’t t
hink
a guy who just started his own country would have time for a mercy dance.”

“I’ll always have time for my baby girl. What I don’t understand is why she isn’t dancing with any one of the hundred very good-looking young men who would give almost anything imaginable to be where I am.” “Dorks.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Dorks?”

“Believe me, Daddy. Dorks.”

“Jackie, can I say something?”

“No.”

“Honey, you’ve got to forget Justin Milford. You can’t stop your life. You should be going out with people your own age.”

Jackie was silent. The music stopped and they started toward the side.

Peter smiled at her. “ ‘Shut up, Daddy.’ Right?” She smiled and nodded. An aide walked up to Peter. “Sir. Colonel Denisov would like to speak with you and Mrs. Bradford.”

“Thank you.” Peter turned to Jackie. “Go find a dork.” They walked over to the table where Amanda and Scott sat laughing.

“Dance with your sister,” Amanda told Scott as Jackie arrived.

“Jesus, Mom, that’s no fun.”

“Andrei is on the phone,” Peter said after the younger Bradfords had gone. “He wants to talk to both of us.”

“I haven’t had any better offers,” she said, and followed him back to the suite.

Andrei was calling from Petya’s Virginia mansion. The general’s body lay in state in the drawing room, and the top Soviet advisers in the United States had gathered to discuss what they must do next.

Andrei, for his part, contributed little to their deliberations. In his anger and grief he had already decided what he must do next, and it would be a one-man action, not a group effort. But first he had to make this phone call.

“Peter, how are you?”

“Fine, Colonel. It’s been a long day.”

“Your speech was a great success. I have heard only praise.”

“Good. People here seemed to like it.”

“Peter, there is some news I must give you. Is your wife there?”

“She stopped off at the ladies’ room. She’ll be here in a moment.”

“You may not want to share this news with her immediately. It will be announced to the public in the morning. You might want to spare her until then.” “My God, what is it?”

“This afternoon, a resistance group attacked the U.S. Congress. The Capitol building was bombed and severely damaged. Even worse, many members of Congress were killed or wounded.”

“My God!”

“And General Samanov, who was addressing the Congress, was himself slain. It was a great tragedy for all of us.”

Peter slumped on the edge of his bed, unable to comprehend this terrible news. Instinctively, he looked to Andrei for guidance. “What. . . what should I do?” “Peter, listen carefully. It is imperative that Heartland be perceived as a success and that the other regions quickly form independent nations. You must work for stability in these dangerous times.”

“Yes, of course,” Peter said numbly.

“One other thing, Peter. An attempt was made on Devin Milford’s life as he was being transported to Omaha. Several of my men were killed in saving him.”

“Who—” Peter started to ask.

“We suspect the party intelligence agency.” “Marion? We had a deal—” Peter protested.

“I think you should consider the advantage of releasing him. There is no purpose served by his death, and that is what will happen if he remains in custody.” Peter didn’t know what to say. Too much was happening too quickly. All he could think was that if he tried to save Devin he might have one hell of a fight with Marion, and he was too stunned to face that dilemma now.

“Of course, it’s up to you,” Andrei added smoothly. “Now, perhaps I should pay my respects to the first lady of Heartland.”

Amanda was standing across the room, studying her husband’s pale, pained face with concern. Peter handed her the phone, then stumbled into the bathroom, where he started to sob, hoping no one could hear him. It all suddenly seemed so hopeless; he felt as if he was a general, trying to fight a war without weapons, not even sure who the enemy was.

Behold the governor-general, he thought bitterly. Andrei was all charm when Amanda came on the line. “I saw you on television,” he told her. “You were lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“Please listen to me and try not to react. Devin Milford is in the hospital in Omaha. He is in great danger. I have warned Peter, but—you must find a way to influence him.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” she said, and it was the first time she had truly liked Denisov. Perhaps he was only playing games, but she thought he was genuinely kind.

“Mrs. Bradford—I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said the other day—about the consequences of our actions. Even if we try to do the best thing, we can’t always control the outcome, can we? Something may come along and upset even the best of intentions.”

“Is that happening?”

“I’m afraid it’s always happening. Goodbye, Amanda. And good luck.”

“Goodbye,” she said softly. As she hung up the phone, Peter came back into the bedroom. She looked steadily at him, his face still pale and shaken. “He said that Devin is in danger,” she finally said.

Peter sighed. “Devin has always been there, hasn’t he?”

“I’ve always loved you for you—separately, not through Devin.”

Peter shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. He’s still with us.”

“He’s a part of us,” she said gently.

He threw himself into an armchair, staring at the floor. “You know, today in the stadium, in front of that crowd, I felt comfortable. I didn’t feel afraid, or in second place. I didn’t wonder what would Devin say, what am I doing here. I knew. And it felt right.” “Yes, I know.”

He stood up abruptly, smiling lightly. “If you don’t mind leaving this shindig, maybe we’d just better get back to Omaha.”

Amanda, relieved by Peter’s good qualities winning, went into his arms. “Thank you,” she said.

“For Devin?”

She stood back at arms distance. “For you.”

♦ * *

The Milfords were huddled together in the old root cellar, beneath the remains of their kitchen. Alethea could not sleep, so she climbed the ladder to the burned-out shell of their home. Ward was standing in the yard, smoking a cigarette, his thatch of white hair bright in the moonlight.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she announced.

He put his arm around her. “How you holding up?” “Not bad, I guess. Know what bothers me most?” “What’s that?”

“Not losing the house. Not even them having Dev again; I figure he did what he wanted to do. No, what gets to me is I haven’t
done
a damn thing. Devin did his thing. Even Peter Bradford is doing what he thinks is right. Jesus, if only I’d killed Helmut when I had the chance. That might at least have justified a misspent life.”

“You couldn’t kill anybody, Ali.”

They grew quiet, the sounds of night enveloping them. Finally Alethea spoke, thinking aloud. “I wonder what’s happening in town.”

“The report I got said the SSU locked up a lot of people, when they couldn’t find Billy. Herb Lister was out with Gurtman, fingering anybody he had a grudge against. The jail’s probably full by now. They’ve even got the sheriff’s office doing their dirty work for ’em.” Alethea stared at what remained of the house. “It’s not right, Ward,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“They push people and push people—don’t they know people will finally push back?”

They fell silent again. Ward followed her gaze to the house where they both had been born. Now it was just a charred memory.

“Before we went to bed,” Alethea stammered. “I probably shouldn’t have done it—but I was looking for blankets in the back of your patrol car. You know what I found?”

Ward was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “A riot gun that nobody thought to take away from me.”

She nodded and turned to her brother. “Why don’t we take a little ride into town?” she asked.

He extended his arm to her.

“Madam, your carriage awaits.”

Amanda decided not to return to the reception after her discussion with Colonel Denisov, but Peter had one more official appearance to make. One that he had said little about, but one that he looked forward to most of all. Peter thought back to the day when his father gave him his first shotgun, the pride that came when entrusted with an instrument that could kill. Tonight Peter would be trusted again, this time with far greater power.

The auditorium was packed with Area National Guard commanders—captains, majors, and colonels. General Sittman addressed the group, as Peter listened from his seat of honor on the stage.

“You have been selected from your Area National Guard units to become part of the new Heartland Defense Force. You will be responsible for selecting the best men from your units. They must be willing to follow any command against the enemies of Heartland, from within or without. The remainder of the national guard units will be disbanded.” Sittman paused, looking the assemblage over carefully, as though checking for flaws of character or courage.

“Are you with me?” he boomed. The officers roared in response. “Are you with me?” the general demanded again, provoking an even louder response.

Slowly, Sittman nodded his satisfaction.

“And now let me give you the man who is ending this occupation. The man who is liberating us from Soviet domination. The man who stands between us and the domination of our land by the Communist party. Your commander-in-chief, governor-general of Heartland, Peter Bradford.”

The men jumped to their feet in a roar of applause. Peter responded with a ceremonious salute.

“Governor-General Bradford, you have your army,” announced Sittman, with husky pride.

Earlier that evening, soon after Andrei reached the mansion in Virginia, he called Kimberly at his apartment in Chicago. In his despair over Petya Samanov’s death, he reached out to her, as an embodiment of life and sanity in a world gone mad.

Kimberly had made her decision. She was throwing some additional things into a suitcase when the phone rang. She was not going to answer it, but then realized it might be Cliff or one of the others calling with some last-minute change in their plans.

She lifted the receiver cautiously.

“I needed to talk to you,” Andrei implored.

He sounded lifeless. “Are you all right?”

The question amused him.
“No,”
he said.

“What’s wrong? Are'you in trouble?”

He did not answer. Kimberly became uncomfortable with the silence.

“Andrei ...”

Andrei took a deep breath. In that moment, he wanted to reach out for the simplest thing—love—the love he felt for Kimberly; that spirit and insolence she represented to him.

“What do you think of me, Kimberly?”

“What a funny question.”

“I need your love,” he said evenly.

“You’ve never needed me. Really.” She laughed suddenly, and it seemed inappropriate. “Bored with running the world already?”