Sympathy for the Devil (42 page)

Maybe the solution to his problems was to kill Greene while he was still waiting for Leffingwell to keel over. The killer would lose his fee, but at least his reputation would remain stellar, and that was worth a lot more than a measly fifty grand in the long run.

He'd give it a couple more days. If Leffingwell was still breathing, then the killer would pay a call on Mr. Greene. After all - in business, a man's reputation is really all he has going for him.

"I was hoping we'd have the nomination locked by now, but I'm afraid this could go all the way to the convention," Fernando Garrett said to Stark, with Mary Margaret Doyle hovering in close attendance. "It's been a see-saw battle since February - you take First and Leffingwell takes Second, then Leffingwell comes in First, and you're right behind him. Neither one of you has been able to pull ahead."

"If we go into the convention more or less tied with Leffingwell, who has the edge?" Stark asked.

Garrett scratched his chin. "Hard to say. It could depend on who makes a deal with Martinez. He's running a distant third, and hasn't got a hope in hell of getting the nomination, but he could end up playing kingmaker."

"Which way is he leaning, do we know?" Mary Margaret Doyle said.

"More to the point," Stark said, "what does he
want
?"

"Regarding the first question, the short answer is 'we don't know.' He hasn't made any public statements indicating whether he favors you or Leffingwell, and if he's made them in private, I haven't heard about it - yet. I've got some people trying to work back-channel and find out what he's thinking." Garrett sat back in his chair. "As to the second question, that's easy: he wants to be Vice President."

Stark pursed his lips. "If it came to that, we could do worse."

Garrett nodded. "We could for sure do a
lot
worse. The Latino population keeps growing and growing, and so does its political clout. Historically, Latinos have tended to vote heavily Democratic" - Garrett grinned at them - "but maybe that's because nobody ever gave them a good reason to vote Republican. Martinez on the ticket? Yeah, I think that'd be a pretty good reason. It would allow the GOP to take a big bite out of one of the Democrats' core constituencies - and help us shake the image that we're the party of rich white guys."

Mary Margaret Doyle paced the room slowly. "We'd get the conservatives anyway, of course. Even if some of them don't like a Hispanic in the number two spot, what are they going to do? Vote for the Dems? That scenario works only if the other side nominates a conservative for their top spot, and that will likely happen" - she smiled, as if at a private joke - "a week after Hell freezes over."

"About two weeks, I estimate," Garrett said.

"They might just stay home on election day," Stark said, "out of disgust with the idea of this
non-white
person just a heartbeat away from the Presidency."

Garrett shook his head. "Some years, maybe they would. But the Democrats have been in the White House a long time. Lots of conservatives are so hungry to see one of their own guys in power again" - Garrett, who was half Salvadoran, grinned a second time, but now there was a nasty edge to it - "they'll hold their noses and vote for us, even with a
spic
on the ticket."

"It occurs to me," Stark said, "that Leffingwell is going to be having a similar conversation with his own people, if he hasn't already."

"Of course," Garret said. "Those boys can count as well as we can."

"If both camps offer Martinez the VP slot..." Mary Margaret Doyle looked a question at Garrett.

"He'll go with whoever he thinks has the best shot at winning in November," Garrett said. "And right now, a reasonable case can be made for either you, Senator, or for Bob Leffingwell."

Stark nodded slowly. "Well," he said musingly, "maybe Leffingwell will falter before we get to the finish line."

Garrett shook his head dubiously. "I don't know - he'd running pretty strong at the moment."

"Still," Mary Margaret Doyle said, "stranger things have happened."

The demon who called herself Ashley flopped down on the bed next to Peters and waited for his breathing to slow until it was something approaching normal.

After a bit, still looking at the ceiling, she asked, "And how did you like
that
?"

Peters raised a hand that was not quite steady. He held it before him, palm down, and waggled it in a
comme ci, comme ca
gesture. "Eh," he said, "not bad."

Without changing position, she knuckle-punched him in the thigh, quite painfully. "I'll give you 'Not bad,' Evespawn," she said with a grin. "That was the best sex of your life - this one or the old one - and you know it."

"It's always the best sex of my life," Peters said. "One of these days, my heart's just going to give out, or you'll give me a stroke."

"They'll find you on the bed, stone cold dead, with the biggest, widest grin any corpse has ever had."

"I'll take my chances," he said. "At least until the job's done - which has taken a quantum jump in difficulty."

The bed they lay on was in a hotel room, and the hotel was in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The 'Stark for President' campaign had rolled through town yesterday, with Stark giving three speeches before moving on to the next primary state.

Peters and Ashley had looked for opportunity, and found it sorely lacking. For Stark's outdoor events, the Secret Service had even placed teams on surrounding rooftops - each team consisting of an agent with field glasses and another agent with a high-powered rifle.

"They didn't have counter-snipers on the roofs in Virginia," she said.

"Because they didn't think anybody was going to be sniping at Stark in Virginia. If Chastain hadn't done her little voice trick with '
Gun!'
this would all be over with by now."

"I think she's kinda cute. Do you think she's cute?"

"You weren't acting like you found her cute the first time," Peters said.

"Obviously, we're separated by denominational differences."

"It looked more like the cats of Kilkenny to me."

"Sorry?"

"The Irish legend about the cats of Kilkenny - they fight wherever and whenever they meet."

"I didn't say I wasn't willing to fight her," Ashley said. "It may come to that, eventually. But I wouldn't mind fucking her, either."

"Well, you might still get the chance - to do one or the other. Since we can't get to Stark, looks like we'll have to play it her way - hers and Morris's. Which means we better go to that meeting in Newark, day after tomorrow."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Ashley said, not sounding happy about it.

"Since you've got the magic touch, not only in bed but with the computer, would you be so good as to get us airline reservations?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely..." She got up and walked naked to the desk where they had set up Peters' laptop. She sat down and started pointing and clicking.

"I suppose we'll have to fly into New York, rent wheels, then drive across the river," she said. "Ugh."

Peters was on his way to the shower, but he turned back for a moment. "Come on, baby, we've both been in Hell - I think we can probably handle New Jersey."

Chapter 39

The suite on the fourth floor of the Best Western in Newark, New Jersey was rented in the name of something called QM Reclamations, Inc., which described itself to the IRS every year as a 'consulting firm.' QM Reclamations could have rented a conference room for the planned meeting (the Best Western offered several), but the CEO and founder of the company decided that such an arrangement might draw undue attention to what was, after all, a very private meeting.

The suite's living room was already furnished with a sofa and two easy chairs, along with a straight-backed chair that went with the room's desk. In addition, the straight-backed desk chairs from each of the suite's two bedrooms had been brought into service. All of this furniture was arranged in a rough oval.

The meeting, which was due to begin at 10:00, actually started at 10:06. No minutes were kept.

Quincey Morris had been sitting in one of the straight chairs. Now he stood and said, "Everybody's here, so we might as well get started. To say 'Thank you all for coming' sounds trite, and doesn't begin to convey the gratitude I feel to each of you for the trouble you went to, as well as the risk you're assuming. But - thanks for coming."

This raised a laugh. A small one.

"Before we go any further," Morris said, "There's something I need to say out loud, even though you're probably well aware of it. Speaking of saying stuff out loud, by the way, I want to assure you that there's no surveillance, electronic or otherwise, directed at this room. It was checked, just an hour ago" - he nodded toward Libby Chastain - "by an expert, and it's now protected by some magic that, I'm told, will make sure whatever we say in here stays private."

Morris paused, as if choosing carefully the next words he was about to say.

"If you stay in this room for the discussion we're about to have, you will almost certainly be engaging in a criminal conspiracy, even if you never do anything about it after you leave. It's also very likely, if we carry out the operation I'm going to propose, that we will be breaking a number of laws, federal and local. We run the very real risk of losing our liberty - even our lives."

He paused to let this sink in. "So if that risk is more than you're willing to take, get out now. I won't insult your intelligence by saying that nobody will think any less of you for leaving. Personally, I'll hate you" - more laughter, a little louder this time - "but it's your life, and your freedom. Nobody should decide to risk them but you. So, anybody feels like walkin', now's the time."

He waited through a slow count to ten in his head.
No point in dragging it out
.

"Okay, then. To save this from looking like a damn encounter group, I'll go around the room and perform the introductions. I've talked with each of you individually about what's okay to say, and what isn't, so nobody should be getting mad about the way you're introduced."

He gestured to his left, toward the woman sitting closest to him on the couch. "This is Libby Chastain. She's a member of the Sisterhood of Wicca, which means she's a white witch. She's also a business associate of mine, and a very good friend.

"Next to her is Eleanor Robb, known as Ellie." He indicated a thin, intense-looking woman in her fifties, with black hair going gray. "She heads the North American circle of the Sisterhood of Wicca. That makes her a white witch, too."

Morris nodded toward one of the chairs. "This gentleman is Special Agent Jerry Arkasian, of the U.S. Secret Service. He's assigned to Senator Howard Stark's security detail. Next to him is Father Martin Finlay, a priest of the Dominican Order - and an exorcist."

Finlay was not dressed in the robes of his order today. Instead, he wore a blue chambray shirt, jeans, and a grim expression.

"Over there," Morris said, "is Mal Peters. He used to kill people for the CIA - until he was himself killed in 1983, whereupon he was consigned to Hell. He has been sent back for an indefinite time, with the job of assassinating Senator Stark."

Peters seemed aware that several people were looking at him with curiosity. He shrugged his big shoulders and nodded a general greeting.

Morris cleared his throat before continuing. "Next to him is a lady who goes by the name of Ashley. She normally resides in Hell, as a demon of the fourth rank. She was temporarily given human form and sent here to work with Mr. Peters on the assassination of Howard Stark."

Ashley gave the room a brittle smile and said, "I'll be pivoting my head around and barfing pea soup later, if anyone's interested." Nobody laughed.

"I don't mean to be difficult," Finlay said, looking at Morris, "but is this young lady's claim to be an incarnated demon supported by anything other than her own word, and maybe that of her companion?"

"I can attest that -" Libby began.

"No, no, the man asks an intelligent question," Ashley said, a tiny smile on her face. "I'll tell you what," she said to Finlay, "I will reveal my true form to you, right here and now. Will you trust the evidence of your own eyes?"

"I would, yes," Finlay said.

"I'm only going to do it for a second," Ashley said. "That's about as much as most humans can stand without suffering permanent mental damage."

She looked around the room. "The rest of you, if you're smart, will look away and spare yourself some bad dreams. But I imagine your own curiosity will get the better of some of you. So be it - don't say you weren't warned."

She looked at Finlay again. "Before we proceed,
Father
, I want to be sure there's no quibbling about it later. Do you have any reason to believe you've been hypnotized?"

Finlay shook his head. "No reason at all."

"Is it possible that someone may have slipped you a dose of some hallucinogenic drug once you got here?"

"Not possible. I haven't consumed anything since arriving."

"So you trust your perceptions, at the present time?"

"Yes. I trust them completely."

"Very well," Ashley said, and then she did it.

It is not possible to describe in any human language what an actual demon looks like. The image is, literally, unspeakable - which is another way of saying that it is horrible beyond words.

Several of those present did not look; they knew more or less what they would see, and had no desire to see it again, if they didn't have to.

Quincey Morris, Libby Chastain, Ellie Robb, and Malachi Peters all averted their eyes. Finlay looked, since that was the point of the exercise. Arkasian looked, too, because part of his mind did not believe it was really possible.

One second is not a long time. But there are circumstances in which it can seem a very long period, indeed. Try pressing your fingertip against a hot stove for a full second; when you're done, you'll probably wish you hadn't, but you will have had a good lesson in the flexibility of time.