Death Wave (38 page)

Otero blinked once, then immediately asked his staff people to leave his office.

“We'll continue this later,” he said, unable to suppress a smile at the good news they had brought him. Kell's show had been a smashing success.

Once the office was cleared, he instructed the phone to put through the connection to Anita Halleck.

Without even a nod of greeting, Halleck's first words were, “I can see that it's futile to try to keep Kell from speaking out.”

With a cautious smile, Otero said, “He has a right to speak his mind.”

“No matter what the consequences.”

“That was all decided almost five hundred years ago,” Otero reminded her. “First amendment to our Constitution.”

“The world has changed, Carlos.”

“But not the right to freedom of expression.”

For an instant Halleck looked as if she wanted to debate the idea, but then she composed a smile and said, “I suppose it's futile to restrict him and his wife to habitat
Gandhi
.”

Carefully, Otero replied, “It looks that way.”

“Especially with you helping him,” she snapped, almost angrily.

Otero spread his hands. “I'm just doing my job, Anita.”

“No matter what the consequences.”

Otero thought of a comeback, but buried it and simply smiled at her.

“Very well, then, Carlos. I'm going to allow Kell and his wife to return to Earth. If anything happens to them it will be on your head, not mine.”

Otero nodded acceptance. But he thought, If anything happens to them it will be your doing, bitch.

As soon as Halleck cut the connection, Otero put in a call to the Unicorn agency. He wanted Kell's security team strengthened.

 

HABITAT GANDHI

Chandra Natarajan's imposingly massive body seemed to fill the hotel room. He was beaming broadly at Jordan and Aditi, his strong white teeth contrasting sharply against his slate-dark skin.

Jordan gaped at the habitat's security chief. “You mean we're free to go?”

“You may leave whenever you wish,” said Natarajan. “I received the call from Anita Halleck's new security director, and decided to bring you the good news in person.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Aditi.

Natarajan's smile diminished by a few watts. “Of course, we will be sorry to have such distinguished guests leave us. But please accept my personal invitation to return to
Gandhi
whenever you wish, and stay as long as you please.”

“That's very gracious of you,” Jordan said, switching to Hindi. “Thank you so much.”

“It is my pleasure.”

As soon as Natarajan left their room, Jordan phoned Hamilton Cree.

“Good news,” he said to the security man's stolid holographic image. “We're leaving. We're going home.”

Cree nodded impassively. “I just got a call from Chicago. We're already packing.”

“Good.”

“One more thing,” Cree went on. “My boss tells me the Boston District Attorney's office wants you to testify at the trial of the kids who tried to shoot you.”

Surprised, Jordan asked, “Do I have to?”

“There's a subpoena waiting for you when you land in Boston.”

*   *   *

Vera Griffin sat disconsolately at her desk. Kell's latest broadcast had been a big success, but she had had practically nothing to do with it. The show was beamed to network headquarters and went out on the air while she merely sat in the control booth, watching it just like any other viewer.

It was good stuff, she realized, but Kell can produce shows like that without me. I'm sitting off to the sidelines, out in the cold. That's no way to get ahead. That's no way to impress Mr. Otero.

Her phone suddenly announced, “Mr. Otero calling.”

Thinking he was probably going to reassign her back to “Neighbors and Friends,” Griffin muttered, “Answer.”

Otero looked excited. “Vera, Jordan Kell and his wife are returning to Earth!”

“Really? When?”

“They'll be landing at Logan tomorrow morning. You get a team together to cover their arrival.”

“Right!”

Otero broke the connection, but Griffin sat there for several seconds, breathing hard. He's coming back! We can do shows from here in the studio.

I'm back in business!

*   *   *

Studying himself in his bathroom mirror, Rudolfo Castiglione decided that the stem cell therapy had indeed repaired his broken nose satisfactorily. I look as good as ever, he thought. Perhaps even a little bit better.

His phone announced, “Walter Edgerton, sir, returning your call.”

Castiglione wrapped a bathrobe of royal blue about himself as he stepped into his sitting room. Through the windows of his condominium suite he could see row after row of Barcelona's high-rise office buildings and other condos. Off in the distance rose the fantastically sculptured towers of Gaudi's Cathedral of the Holy Family.

Edgerton was sitting relaxed in a recliner, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. He wore comfortable slacks and a velour pullover blouse. Even stretched out on the recliner he appeared very tall, long legs and arms, his dark face stubbled with two days' growth of beard.

“You called?” Walt asked, with a bemused half smile.

Castiglione wasted no words. “Jordan Kell is on his way back to Earth.”

“Is he?”

“He lands at Boston in three hours.”

“And?”

“And we must take steps.”

“To do what?”

Castiglione realized that Edgerton was toying with him. The man knows that my communications link is secure. No one is snooping on me. Yet he wants to hear me say specifically what he already knows I want of him.

“He is to be silenced.”

Edgerton's smile vanished. “That isn't something that can be arranged overnight. It takes time to recruit the appropriate, eh … volunteers.”

“You won't need any volunteers. You and I should be able to handle this assignment without outside help.”

Walt's face suddenly showed alarm, and Castiglione relished it.

“I don't do such things,” the black man said.

“It's time you learned,” said Castiglione.

 

LOVE YOUR ENEMIES

There was a mob of newspeople at Boston's Logan Aerospaceport. Jordan was momentarily taken aback as he and Aditi stepped into the terminal to find themselves facing the urgent, impatient throng of reporters and their semiautonomous cameras.

Cree's security team had been beefed up with extra Unicorn people flown in from Chicago. Together with the regular Boston police they kept the nearly rabid news crews from actually grabbing Jordan, but no one could keep them silenced.

“Mr. Kell! Mr. Kell!”

“How does it feel to be back on Earth?”

“How do you feel about being reunited with your wife?”

“What are your plans now?”

“Will you campaign actively for the World Council seat?”

Jordan stopped and held up his hands. “This is rather overwhelming, you know,” he said with a grin.

Another barrage of questions. Jordan rubbed his chin, then replied, “Aditi and I are delighted to be back on Earth. We intend to bend every effort toward getting the World Council to build and staff the starships we need to save the worlds that are endangered by the death wave.”

“You've been nominated for a seat on the World Council,” said a brittle-looking blond woman. “Do you expect to be elected?”

His smile widening, Jordan answered, “That's up to the people of North America and Europe. I won't be doing much campaigning. I intend to spend every available minute pushing to get those starships built.”

*   *   *

In Barcelona, Rudolfo Castiglione unconsciously ran a finger along his nose as he watched Jordan's impromptu press conference.

Not campaigning for the World Council seat, he thought contemptuously. Every word he speaks is part of his campaign to win election. Anita is right to be frightened of him.

*   *   *

In Oakland, Walter Edgerton was also watching Jordan Kell's performance.

He's clever, Walt realized. Highly intelligent and extremely clever.

The cameras concentrated on Kell and his lovely wife. But Walt was able to pick out the security team that separated them from the demanding, unrelenting news reporters. There's only a handful of security guards, he said to himself. Shouldn't be too difficult to get through them. Or around them.

*   *   *

Jordan said to the reporters, “Thank you very much. That's all I have to say right now.”

They grumbled and muttered but began to leave the terminal gate area, their cameras rolling along behind them.

Cree held out a cautionary hand as he watched them leave. At last he turned to Jordan and said, “Okay, let's go. There's a limo waiting for you outside. It'll take you to Mr. Otero's home. We'll be right behind you in a minivan.”

Jordan nodded and they all started toward the terminal's central corridor.

But a nondescript man in a dark suit stepped toward them. He was portly, with a silly-looking tiny wing-tipped mustache under his bulbous nose. Cree stepped in front of him.

“I have to deliver this to Mr. Kell,” the man said, pulling an envelope from his jacket. “I'm from the clerk of courts office.”

Jordan asked, “Is that the subpoena?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

Jordan reached for the envelope. As he took it, the portly man said, in a mechanical tone that he must have used thousands of times before, “You are hereby served with this subpoena, commanding your presence at the trial of one Nicholas Motrenko and his accomplices, to be held—”

“I understand,” Jordan interrupted, opening the envelope and swiftly scanning the legal document.

“Thank you,” said the process server. His puffy face blossoming into a cherubic smile, he added, “I intend to vote for you next year, sir.”

“Why, thank
you,
” said Jordan.

Several minutes later, as he and Aditi sat in the rear of the limousine that was taking them to Concord, she asked, “Are you really going to appear at his trial?”

“I'm ordered to.”

“Can't you get out of it? Millions of people saw him try to kill you. They don't really need your testimony.”

“Perhaps not,” Jordan said. “But I suspect that young Mr. Motrenko could use all the help he can get.”

“Help? You're going to help him?”

Jordan patted her knee. “Aditi, dearest, there's another quote from the Bible: ‘Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you.'”

“‘If someone strikes you on one cheek,'” Aditi recited, “‘turn to him the other also.'”

“Yes,” said Jordan. “That's what I'm going to try to do.”

Aditi shook her head. “I think you're crazy.”

 

THE TRIAL

Small though it was, the courtroom was almost empty. Hardly any onlookers at all, Jordan saw, and the news media's table was also nearly empty, although he recognized Vera Griffin sitting there, looking well dressed, as usual. Jordan nodded to her and she fluttered a hand in recognition.

A pair of uniformed court guards were checking the credentials of everyone trying to enter the courtroom. Jordan had shown them his subpoena as he noticed a half-dozen Massachusetts state troopers standing a few paces down the hall, heavy black pistols on their hips.

Is the state of Massachusetts deliberately downplaying this trial, he asked himself, or is its outcome such a foregone conclusion that not even the news media are much interested?

Sitting beside him on the hard wooden bench, Aditi nodded toward the three accused. “They look worried.”

“They have good reason to be,” Jordan muttered.

The judge entered the courtroom, a small, flinty-looking woman in a black robe. The bailiff cried, “All rise,” and everyone stood up. Then the trial began.

The prosecutor spent his first few minutes confirming the identities and backgrounds of the three defendants. Then the judge—her face stern, with permanent frown marks between her eyebrows—asked for their plea.

The public defender rose with the trio and announced, “Not guilty, Your Honor, by reason of temporary insanity.”

The judge's expression twitched with distaste, but she turned to the prosecutor and told him to proceed.

He showed the broadcast of Jordan's news conference. There was Motrenko, suddenly jumping to his feet and firing at Jordan.

The meager audience stirred as the prosecutor said, “What need do we have for further witnesses? Millions of people saw them try to assassinate Mr. Kell. The prosecution rests.”

Jordan felt a twinge of surprise. Why did they subpoena me if he didn't plan to have me testify?

The judge nodded curtly, then turned to the defense attorney. “Your case, sir?”

Before the public defender could open his mouth, Jordan sprang to his feet. “May I speak, Your Honor?”

“Certainly, Mr. Kell. But the prosecution has already concluded its case against these three.”

“I wish to speak on their behalf,” Jordan said.

He could feel the courtroom stir. Voices muttered behind him. The handful of news reporters gaped. Motrenko and the two young women with him turned to stare at him.

“On their behalf?” the judge asked.

“Yes. It's my understanding that none of these three young persons has ever been involved in a crime before their attempt on my life. I ask the court to release them into my custody.”

Out of the corner of his eye Jordan saw Aditi's questioning expression. The judge seemed stunned.

“Release the accused into your custody?” the judge asked, incredulous.

“Yes, if Your Honor pleases. I don't believe their lives should be ruined because of one mistake.”