The List (19 page)

Vlad paused before answering. Phil could imagine his teeth clenched in rage at the insult. Of the three, Vlad scared Phil the most.

Jack was a psycho, Attila was a thug, but Vlad was evil distilled.

That’s why he only messed with him over the phone—you can’t get burned if you play with fire long distance.

“It won’t happen again.”

“That’s what I want to hear. Attila, hold his hand if you need to.

We have a schedule here to keep, gentlemen. These loose ends should have been tied up days ago. How are things on your end, Jack?”

“
How are things on your end, Jack?
Fine. I should finish up later tonight. Albert is coming to Nebraska to visit Abe. I can get both at once.”

“I like to hear this. Enough with the fooling around. I know you guys love that torture shit, but save it for when we have more time.

The keyword here
is fast.
I’ll consider the topic closed, unless you want to add anything, Dad?”

“If it isn’t done by tonight, it waits until after Sunrise. That’s our main objective.”

Phil nodded along with his father’s words.

“Exactly. Are we all clear on that? Project Sunrise is the brass ring, here. I don’t care if you’ve got one of the clones in your sights and are squeezing the trigger. You drop what you’re doing and get on your planes by ten tonight. Have you all had a chance to practice with the equipment? You can handle the assembly? Yes?”

He’d tagged on the last word so Jack didn’t have to repeat the entire previous sentence, the dumb bastard. All responded positively.

“Good. It’s already been shipped to your destinations, along with your passes and make-up kits. I want your arrival confirmations tomorrow by eight AM. We’re going to show the whole world that the best of the best are made, not born. This is history, gentlemen. I’m proud that you’re all a part of it. Dad?”

“I do have something to add. We’re doing more than altering history. We’re creating a brave, new world. Immortality is within our grasp. We will not be denied!”

Phil grinned. While he shared so many of his father’s traits, he lacked his way with words. The old man was eloquent, that’s for sure.

“Get to it, gentlemen.”

Phil hit the disconnect button and leaned back in his leather chair.

He swiveled and checked out the view. It was raining, cloudy. The Washington Monument stood out, cutting through the weather like a giant exclamation point.

One day I’ll have my own monument,
Phil thought. And unlike all those other past suckers, this one would be built while I’m still alive.

Maybe an image on a coin as well. Why revere the dead, when they can’t reap the benefits?

“Mr. Speaker, your father on line one.”

Oh, shit. He’d hung up on the old man.

“Dad? Sorry. Got disconnected. If I wasn’t banging that useless secretary, her ass would be out.”

“I suppose vulgarity is inexorably intertwined with your generation, but you need to show me some respect.”

“Of course.”

“I just watched your speech to the Oversight Subcommittee on National Affairs, International Affairs, and Criminal Justice. Taped it off of C-SPAN.”

“And?”

“You looked fat. What have I told you about keeping that body fit?”

“My schedule has been killer, Dad. I haven’t had time to hit the gym.”

“Bullshit.” The irritation in his father’s voice was pronounced.

“Spare me the busy crap. Cut out the four course lunches and get into shape. We’re going to make the cover of Time Magazine. You’d have us look like a bullfrog.”

Phil took a deep breath before answering. “Government has changed since you’ve been in office, Dad. It’s all about lunches.”

“So eat a goddamn salad. This isn’t a game, Junior. This is my dream. Our dream. Almost forty years in the making.”

“Why don’t you give me a little credit, here? I’ve worked my ass off as much as you have. I’m the youngest Speaker ever elected to the House—”

“Don’t forget how that happened, dear Phillip. Millions of dollars.

My dollars. Sixty percent of Congress financed their campaigns on my money.”

“It was more than that, Dad. As Chairman of the Steering Committee on Bipartisan Relations, I’ve been able to unite Republicans and Democrats on key issues like tax reforms, education—”

His father snorted. “Spare me. That simpering, middle of the road attitude is about to change. This country doesn’t need a social lubricant in office. It needs a strong, determined leader. One who stands by his ideals, without bowing to special interests. Or to voters, for that matter.

The President spends so much time trying to be popular, he forgot how to run the country. Other nations laugh at us, Junior.”

“I know, Dad.” He’d heard the speech, many times. Hopefully, he wouldn’t get started on the Chinese.

“That’s the whole point. To make being an American a source of pride once again. We’re the protector of the free world. During the Cold War, we were feared. Now, every little camel jockey with an oil rig thinks they can flip us the bird without repercussion. Not to mention the biggest threat to humanity ever to exist, the Communist Chinese—”

“Dad, you’re preaching to the converted, here.”

“We can never lose sight of it, Junior. Even with an unlimited supply of kidneys, neither of us will live forever. But our legacy can.”

“
I
said that.
We cannot live forever, but our legacy as
Americans
—”

“Kudos to your speech writer, Junior. Speaking of which, have you got the speech for Thursday?”

“I have it right in front of me.” Phil picked up the packet and flipped back to the first page. “
It is in the times of greatest tragedy that
we ourselves must also be great...
”

“I’d prefer to hear it live.”

“It’s a good speech. Nice mix of outrage and strength.”

“For what we’ve paid, it should be.”

“There’s even a spot in it where I get a little choked up.”

“What? Cut that.”

“Why? It’s a great line.
I stand here humbled at our loss. But no
matter the blows this country takes, we will not be reduced to a nation
in mourning...”

“You’re not going to be humbled. Cut the line.”

“But the people love—”

“This isn’t about the people. The popularity contest is over. We’re not out for approval ratings, Junior. Cut out any line that even hints at weakness. I also want you to lose the double chin in the next two days.”

“That’s impossible. Even if I starved myself...”

“Good idea.”

Phil bit back his reply. He didn’t kowtow to the old man, but he knew to pick his battles.

“Consider the double chin gone.”

“Excellent. I’m tired now, but we’ll talk soon.”

“Get some rest, Dad.”

Phil hung up and hit the intercom button.

“Trixie, who am I having dinner with tonight?”

“Those execs from Phillip Morris.”

“Send them a rain check. Then see if the commissary is still open and find me a chef’s salad. Chicken, no dressing.”

“Yes, Mr. Speaker.”

Phil picked up a pencil and began to go through the speech, trimming any signs of weakness.

America had been asleep too long,
he thought.
It was about to get
a serious wake-up call.

Los Angeles

“And then I followed you to your assistant’s place, and you know the rest.”

Joan couldn’t get her mind completely around it. Tom had told the story in a truthful, straightforward manner. He obviously believed it, and it did sort of explain their current situation.

But Thomas Jefferson and Joan of Arc?

“This is a lot to swallow.”

The evening had gotten cooler, so Joan rolled up her window. She cursed herself for not grabbing a jacket when they’d stopped at her house—she’d assumed jeans and a sweater were enough. Santa Monica was built on the coast, and the cool ocean breeze could get downright bitter.

“I’m not doubting your sincerity, but the story is so
out there
. I was cloned from the jawbone of a woman born six hundred years ago?”

“Well, technically, you’re an exact genetic copy rather than a clone.”

“Oh. That makes it a lot easier to buy.”

Tom sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Joan could sense his frustration, but there wasn’t much she could do. Even after hearing the long explanation, she couldn’t fully believe she was Joan of Arc. Tom was sincere as pie, but all delusional people were sincere.

“The writing thing did it for me—having my writing be identical to Jefferson’s. I read somewhere that even if you try to disguise your handwriting, such as write with your opposite hand, the experts can still tell it’s you. It’s a mental thing. I wish there was some way to prove it to you.”

“Well, sometimes I do hear the voice of St. Michael.”

Tom gave her a sideways glance, and then smiled.

“That’s a start. Do you like the French?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“How do you like your steak? Burned?”

“Ouch. A
burned at the stake
pun. You just lost points.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “Really? I had points?”

It was creeping up on dusk, the road becoming harder to see. Tom flipped on the headlights, then passed the car ahead of him even though it was a no passing zone. He was even more aggressive behind the wheel than she was. Joan didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

“You know what’s funny? That Joan of Arc movie came out a few years ago, and I turned down the script. I didn’t like the character.”

Tom laughed. “If it makes a difference, I like the character.”

“The plucky Hollywood producer, drawn into a web of conspiracy that tops her own movies?”

“I think I’d call you spunky rather than plucky.”

“Great. I’ll pitch it to Reese Witherspoon. Go east on Wilshire.

We’re looking for 12th Street.”

Tom hung a left, and they were confronted by a stop light. The streets were filled with people—walking, biking, blading, jogging, touristing. The affluence of the surrounding shops and buildings was reflected by the populace in their clothing, their attitude. Tom and Joan stared at a mime on the street corner, dressed in a hip tuxedo.

“Is that mime wearing Armani?”

Joan snorted. “Last year’s.”

The light changed and Tom hit the gas.

“I’m beginning to think California is one big resort.”

“People come to LA for two reasons—to be a part of it or to get away from it.”

“Why did you come?”

“To get away.”

“From?”

“Hiko, Nevada. I had a real apple pie upbringing. Nice neighborhood, caring parents, perfect childhood.”

“It sounds terrible.”

Joan laughed. “It was nice. But without challenge. A little conflict can be a good thing. So I moved out of Mayberry and came to Hollywood.”

“So you didn’t arrive with dreams of making it big?”

“Hell no. I arrived with dreams of poverty, struggle, and heartache. I wanted to test myself, see if I could survive. I was twenty-one. Got a job waiting tables, had a roommate who sold pot, spent a year throwing up in trendy clubs.”

“Living your dream.”

“Exactly.”

“When did you go from outsider to insider?”

“No one in this town does what they want. The businessmen want to write, the strippers want to act, writers and actors want to direct, the shop owners want to produce and the waiters want to be Kevin Smith.

I worked with a few of those waiters. They needed money to make an independent film, I was pretty good with people, so I was able to get the money together. That’s all a producer does, basically.”

“The movie was a hit?”

“Hell no. Garbage. Didn’t even get festival play. But it sold well on video, we made some money, brought in better talent. Next thing I knew, I was a hotshot producer, making big bank, hobnobbing with Tom Cruise.”

“How is Tom Cruise in real life?”

“Short. He comes up to here.” Joan put her hand next to her neck.

Tom laughed. He had a good laugh, deep and genuine. Without doing it intentionally, Joan went through her dating rules. Tom wasn’t in the business, and though he was attractive in a rough sort of way, he certainly wasn’t a pretty boy. Fair skinned meant no back hair, and she could tell he wasn’t the Speedo type. Joan would bet her business he wore boxers, and the only tight fitting thing in his wardrobe were his socks.

“Here’s 12th street. Which way?”

“North, I think.”

“These are some nice houses. The copy writing business must be paying well.”

No kidding.
Joan had priced the area before buying in Beverly Hills. Some parts of the neighborhood were out of her range.

As they drove, the homes became less impressive, and soon enough they were in the half a million dollar area.

“It should be the next one on this side.”

Tom pulled into a short driveway and parked next to a small, freestanding garage. A gas lamp illuminated the front lawn, and a porch light was on.

“Should I bring the gun?” Joan went to open the glove compartment.

“I’ve got mine. That should be enough.”

They got out of the car and rang the bell.

The first thing that struck Joan about the man who answered the door was his hair. It had receded back to the crown of his head, a classic example of male pattern baldness. But sprouting out of his scalp, lined up like rows of black corn, were the worst hair plugs she’d ever seen. It looked like someone had punched yak hair into his forehead with a fork.

The second thing she noticed was that he bore an uncanny resemblance to Shakespeare—too much to have been coincidence. All he needed was one of those silly puffy collars.

“What?” The man had a squeaky voice, and his expression was a picture of extreme irritation.

“Bill Masterton?”

“It’s my house. Who did you expect?”

“I’m Detective Tom Mankowski, this is Joan DeVilliers. We need to talk to you.”

Bill’s eyes got big. “The police?”

“May we come in?”

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

Bill tried to slam the door but was unsuccessful. Tom’s foot had gotten in the way. Joan looked down and saw that there was still a tag on the shoes. After stopping at her house they’d hit a K-Mart, as Tom didn’t have a second pair with him.