Shadow Knight's Mate

Other books by Jay Brandon:

Deadbolt
(1985)

Tripwire
(1987)

Predator's Waltz
(1989)

Fade The Heat
(1990)

Rules Of Evidence
(1992)

Loose Among The Lambs
(1993)

Local Rules
(1995)

Defiance County
(1996)

Angel of Death
(1998)

After-Image
(2000)

Executive Privilege
(2001)

Sliver Moon
(2004)

Grudge Match
(2004)

Running with the Dead
(2005)

Milagro Lane
(2009)

Shadow Knight's Mate ©
2014

by Jay Brandon

ISBN: 978-1-60940-391-1 (paperback original)

E-books:

ePub: 978-1-60940-392-8

Mobipocket/Kindle: 978-1-60940-393-5

Library PDF: 978-1-60940-394-2

Wings Press

627 E. Guenther

San Antonio, Texas 78210

Phone/fax: (210) 271-7805

On-line catalogue and ordering:

www.wingspress.com

Wings Press books are distributed to the trade by
Independent Publishers Group

www.ipgbook.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brandon, Jay.

Shadow Knight's Mate : a novel / Jay Brandon.

      pages cm

ISBN 978-1-60940-391-1 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-60940-392-8 (epub ebook) -- ISBN 978-1-60940-393-5 (Mobipocket ebook) -ISBN 978-1-60940-394-2 (pdf ebook)

1. United States—History—Fiction. 2. Conspiracies—United States—History --Fiction. 2. Terrorism—United States—History --21st Century—Fiction. 3. Secret Societies--International--Fiction. 4. United States--Politics--Fiction.

I. Title.

PS3552.R315R43 2014

813'.54--dc23

2013046754

For Robert Morrow and Jan Morrow,
great friends of long standing.

Exit Interview

Some historians subscribe to the Great Man theory of history. That occasionally an oversized personality comes along who changes world events from what they would have been without that person. George Washington, Napoleon, Alexander the Great. My little group believes in the person-just-outside-the-frame-of-the-picture theory of history. The unrecorded person who makes some small adjustment that makes all the difference.

Can you give me an example?

One of our greatest intrusions into American history was making sure Franklin Roosevelt ran for and got elected to a third term. 1940. A key point. We knew it. He was guided into forsaking the traditional boundaries of the presidency.

Because he was considered essential? Because he was the only person who could guide America through one of its greatest crises? Because someone else might not—?

No. Because of a man named Roger Billings.

I've never heard of him.

Exactly. Roger Billings was on the president's staff, but you haven't seen him or heard his name. If you did you didn't notice.

A key aide? A Congressional—

A dog trainer.

A what?

Roger Billings was the caretaker and trainer of Fala. Have you heard of him? The President's dog. A little scottie. You
have
seen his picture. The most famous one is of FDR down on the floor in the Oval Office, playing with Fala, coaxing him to take a biscuit. You haven't seen the whole picture, which included Roger Billings standing a few feet away. A very slender black man of average
height, waiting patiently to take the dog away after the President finished playing with him. So unobtrusive you could look at him and not see him. But the president was a very sociable man. While he played with Fala, he and Roger would talk. Idle conversation. Little nothings. And occasionally, very rarely, a little something. Roger Billings would make a hint of an observation. An offhand remark. And they hit home. The Japanese in the Pacific. The cliffs of France. Who seemed trustworthy, who didn't.

FDR had to remain in office because we had him. He was a great man, but that wasn't the most important thing. We were right there with him. Never has a president of the United States been so devoted to an animal. Or so susceptible to suggestion. Roger Billings ended the Depression and won World War II. With help, of course.

The interviewer was skeptical. Who wouldn't be?
Can you give me another example? Something more recent, perhaps.

Okay. I'll tell you one of our failures. Tom Hanks.

Tom Hanks. You somehow failed to get Tom Hanks to—

No. Tom is one of us. Unfortunately, not a very important one of us. He was supposed to be. He was being groomed for great things. He was recruited in his teens. I wasn't involved, of course, I wasn't born yet, but I understand great things were expected of Tom. He was supposed to achieve a very minor celebrity. People would vaguely remember his name as one of the stars of a short-lived TV show and a couple of silly movies. “Bachelor Party.” “Turner and Hooch.” But then came “Splash.” We have some pretty smart people on staff, but who could have predicted this? I mean, I love Tom, but honestly, would you pick him out of a lineup as a major movie star? That wasn't supposed to be his destiny. He was supposed to go from minor actor to major behind-the-scenes player in the entertainment industry. Producer, recruiter, eventually perhaps right-hand man to a studio head. From which position he could influence what pictures got greenlighted, which ones didn't. In case you don't realize, that's how world culture is formed. Tom, and we through him, were going to guide the world into certain realizations,
certain beliefs. A golden age of world enlightenment. That was the theory. If we'd had our way, “The Terminator” would never have gotten made. But damn, he became a movie star. And now that he can't move in public without attracting a crowd, what use is he to us? Oh, he does what he can, but he's not in much position to influence events subtly.

That was a lie, wasn't it?

Absolutely. Damn, how did you catch me? No, Tom—Mr. Hanks—isn't one of us. How did you know?

So you screwed up?

Happens all the time, unfortunately. We're fallible. We're not all geniuses. Far from it. And we aren't this monolithic army moving as one. For the most part the group encourages individual initiative. Each of us acts on his own, or in small groups. And we make mistakes. Sometimes minor ones. Sometimes big time.

Tell me about one of the times when you screwed up.

That one's pretty obvious, isn't it? The one that got me here.

Tell me…

It started with her. Arden. Even in that extraordinary group, she was something special. And she ruined everything.

Are you exaggerating again?

Not this time. I'll tell you….

The little inn thirty miles outside of Paris wasn't a place to expect a chance meeting. In fact, the American ambassador had come there explicitly to avoid seeing people he knew. He had a knotty problem to work out, one that was diplomatic, strategic, and even social, and didn't want to be interrupted. He was a well-known man in the French capital—in fact, in many places around the world, but those little encounters wore on him, even though social encounters were a large part of his job. Now he sat having his third cup of coffee, looking up at the worn beams of the ceiling, beams that had been set there before the French Revolution, wondering how to keep Qatar out of the upcoming World Leaders Summit.

It was a problem that had occupied him for days, and the decision had to be made today. Qatar had a new young prince who wanted to show his independence by standing up to the Saudis and of course the United States. It was a sort of national adolescent stage, challenging the last superpower. The ambassador didn't want the summit turning into that kind of theater. So he sat and brooded and tried to soak up the old wisdom of this place.

But the old atmosphere was abruptly disturbed by a passing American who nearly stepped on the ambassador's toes as he carried his own coffee from the bar. The American, a thin young man of nondescript apperance, glanced down, muttered something apologetic, then looked more sharply at the ambassador.

“Mr. Nicholas?”

The ambassador sighed, but the gracious smile was already shaping his lips, the smile that had eased millions of dollars in donations out of rich men, charmed influential women visiting from the States, and in fact had probably helped him acquire his position. Certainly the gracious smile was a necessity of his job. Sometimes Paul Nicholas hated feeling that smile on his face.

“Yes?”

“Jack Driscoll. Hi. This is weird. Do you remember me? I was your son's roommate one semester at Yale. We met at parents' weekend. I was the one who did the, you know, the little magic act at the talent show.”

“Oh yes. Jack. How are you? Are you here on business, or—?”

Obviously not. The young man wore jeans, tennis shoes, a striped shirt covered by a gray hooded jacket. No way he was in business. Of course, he could have been some computer or Internet genius with a fortune already in the bank, which was why it paid to be nice to everyone, in spite of appearances. But Jack had the sort of slightly lost look of a man who would flash a lot of bills and remain unaware of the looks his wallet drew. His coffee cup clattered a little in the saucer he carried.

“No, just touristing. There's supposed to be some church around here—in fact, this is probably where people come to get away from other tourists. Sorry. Don't let me interrupt. I'll just go out on the—”

“No, that's all right. Sit down, Jack. I remember your magic act. Did the goldfish ever turn up again?” For a moment the ambassador welcomed the interruption. His thoughts were going nowhere but in circles anyway. There was something ingratiating about the young man, the way he stood already turned away, as if not expecting welcome anywhere, coffee cup sloshing a little, alone in a foreign country. Wasn't it part of the ambassador's job to help such people?

The young man did sit at the round wooden table. He had a thin face with still a few childhood freckles, dark blonde hair, pale blue eyes. Looked very young but might have been in his mid-twenties. The ambassador gave him a short study then looked off across the room, his problem still occupying his mind.

“You're a diplomat, aren't you, sir? I remember. Career Foreign Service, right? You know, you might be able to help me with something. I've got kind of a diplomatic assignment myself. Another Yalie friend of ours, Steve Reynolds—you probably didn't
meet him—anyway, he's getting married this summer, and he's asked me to help with the guest list. Well, specifically he wants me to figure out how to uninvite another guy from New Haven, a guy he was roommates with for one year and is still kind of friends with, but he's one of those guys who's, you know, not a jerk or anything, really, but kind of a trouble magnet—says the wrong thing to the wrong person, still drinks like we did in college, always—well, anyway, Steve is marrying this very nice girl, old New England family, Puritans only a couple of generations back, ha ha, or as good as, you know what I mean, and he just feels like Eddie carries too much disaster potential.”