The Distance Beacons Page 2

  "Pleased to meet you," I said. I smiled.

  The governor didn't smile back. "Did my bodyguards treat you well?" he asked.

  "They were perfect gentlemen. They both deserve promotions."

  He nodded, although I got the impression he hadn't heard my answer. "I talked to Charles Moseby about you," he went on. "Mr. Moseby recommends you quite highly."

  I nodded in turn. Mr. Moseby is my pal Stretch, and I would have killed him if he hadn't recommended me quite highly. "How did you get my name?" I asked.

  "From that article in the Globe a few weeks back. Interesting business over there in England. Although why anyone would want to be a private detective nowadays is beyond me."

  "Uh-huh." The article in the Globe had been written by another friend, named Gwen Phillips. I have a lot of friends. Gwen and Stretch are the ones I live with.

  "Still, there might be circumstances where a person with your skills and contacts might be useful." He was dithering, I could tell. A common problem with clients, my extensive reading of private eye novels had told me. It's tough to tell someone you've got a problem. Maybe his wife is cheating on him, I thought. But no—I'd heard he was a widower.

  "Perhaps you could tell me what your particular circumstances are," I said in that smooth professional tone I had mastered over the course of my single case, "and then we can decide if I'm the man for the job."

  Bolton gazed at me. "Tell me," he said, still dithering, "what's your position on the referendum?"

  My heart sank. He did want me to guard some damn voting booth. The referendum was the latest development in the Federal government's relationship with its fractious stepchild. It was a simple enough question that the Feds wanted us New Englanders to answer: "Do you support the government of the United States of America?" But the ramifications of their asking the question, and our answering it, had kept a lot of people in a tizzy all spring.

  I knew what Bolton wanted me to say: I'm proud to be an American. I'm going to VOTE YES, and I don't care who knows it. But I figured we would both be better off if I didn't try to mislead him. "I haven't given it a great deal of thought," I said. "I'm an apolitical kind of guy."

  "Now is no time to be apolitical!" Bolton thundered.

  It seemed to me to be as good a time as any to be apolitical. "Why not?" I asked.

  Bolton gave me a disgusted look. "At least you're not one of those sniveling isolationist types who prefer savagery to civilization—are you?"

  Well, when you put it like that... I shook my head. "No sir, I'm not one of those."

  "And you have no objection to working for the Federal government?"

  That was a little trickier. "Um, perhaps if you could give me a few more details..."

  Bolton tapped the fingers of his right hand on his desk. The dithering was about to come to an end, I figured. Either he'd give me the case, or he'd throw me out of the office. "Mr. Sands," he intoned, "the president of the United States of America is corning to Boston."

  He sounded as if he was expecting a round of applause from his audience. "That's great," I said.

  "It's the first time since before—" He waved his hand. I knew what the wave of the hand meant. People still had difficulty mentioning the War. Maybe if we were all very quiet about it, it would retroactively go away.

  "She's coming here to get us to vote for the referendum?" I guessed.

  "Precisely." Bolton stood up and stared out his window. He was shorter than I expected. Maybe that's why my chair was so low. All of a sudden he looked a little silly to me as he stood next to the American flag—as if he were playing at being governor. And I wondered just how tough he really was. Maybe he still thought of himself as a real estate agent, and couldn't really believe where life had brought him. I wondered if, in his heart of hearts, he thanked God for the War and the opportunity it had granted him. There had to be a few people around who thought like that.

  My mind was wandering. It returned when Bolton started to speak. "This referendum is important, Sands," he said. "New England is part of America. People have to understand this—they have to believe this. They complain about the emigration controls and the out-of-state troops and the privileges for government workers, but they forget about what the government saved them from—and they forget about their heritage. We can't just let our heritage slip away from us.

  "So that's why President Kramer proposed the referendum. She believes that, if people can be made to focus on the positives, they will understand what we're trying to do, and they will support us. And once she has New England's support, she can lead America back to the forefront of the world's nations once again. So she is coming to Boston to give a speech a few days before the voting—a speech that will make people realize just what is at stake here, that will convince them to give her the vote of confidence she needs."

  Bolton sounded as if he were giving a speech himself. But his delivery was curiously rushed, as if this was a speech he was rehearsing for a different audience. I didn't mind, but I was still trying to figure out what all this had to do with me. "You want me to protect the president while she's here?" I guessed.

  "Not quite." He returned to his desk. He took a piece of paper out of the top drawer and handed it to me. I read the message typed on it.

  We know Kramer plans to come.

  Boston is ours. If she comes, she faces our wrath.

  THE FEDS MUST GO!

  The Second American Revolution

  The Second American Revolution: TSAR. I didn't like the sound of that acronym. I studied the message, and then returned the sheet of paper to Bolton.

  "Have you heard of this group?" he asked.

  I shook my head.

  "Neither have I. This sheet appeared on the outer door to my office this morning. I need to know who's behind it."

  "And that's my job?"

  Bolton nodded. "We have to find The Second American Revolution and prevent them from doing anything to President Kramer."

  I thought about it. "Why me?" I asked finally. "You've got your troops, you've got the local police—and the president has her own security people, I imagine. Can't they take care of this?"

  "Maybe. They'll be on the case too. But I thought a local might bring something to it that they can't. You know what I'm talking about, Sands. Contacts. Sources of information. No one around here talks to the Feds; that's part of our problem. But they'll talk to someone like you."

  Quite true. But... Bolton studied me as I tried to think it through. People weren't standing in line to obtain my services. Maybe they never would be. But I didn't like this case. Didn't like the way I got it, didn't like what I'd have to do to solve it. "I'm sorry," I said finally. "I don't think I'm right for this."

  "Why not?" Bolton demanded. "We'll pay you your usual rate. Moseby told me you're not working on anything else at the moment."

  Thanks, Stretch. I tried to explain. "If I work for you, I become just like the troops and the police." And just like you, I managed to avoid saying. "People may talk to me now because I'm a local, but then they won't be sure in the future whether or not I'm one of you. And then they'll stop talking."

  "Doesn't the safety of the president of the United States matter to you, Sands?"

  I wasn't sure it mattered to me more than the safety of any other poor soul in this godforsaken world, but I guessed that wasn't worth getting into. "Of course," I replied. "But I've got my career to think of."

  Bolton gave me a look that told me what he thought of my career.

  "Why not just have her stay in Atlanta?" I suggested. "That's the best way to keep her safe. And I doubt her speech is going to make much difference to the referendum, one way or the other."

  "And give in to the terrorists' demands? That's precisely what we can't do. So are you with us, Sands?"

  I took a deep breath and shook my head.

  Bolton picked up his phone. "Lisa, get me General Cowens," he said, and he replaced the receiver.

  Lisa, I thought. The b
lond secretary, presumably. Nice name. And then I thought: I'm not sure I like having General Cowens in on this.

  The phone rang almost immediately, and Bolton picked it up again. "Bob, this is Frank," he said. "That private detective I was telling you about is here. He needs some persuasion. Can you come? Thanks."

  The governor hung up and glared at me some more. "This is serious business, Sands," he said, "and you are a part of it, whether you want to be or not."

  The governor's scar seemed to throb. He looked much more impressive sitting down; he looked like the kind of man who could make threats and carry them out. I decided it was time to start worrying.

  Chapter 2

  There was an uncomfortable silence while we waited for General Cowens to arrive. Bolton started scribbling again. I started thinking about General Cowens.

  He was the commander of all Federal troops in New England. That was impressive enough, I suppose, but there was more—stories about him that had transformed him into a legend, at least among the veteran soldiers I had talked to while serving my time in the army. Cowens, they said, had been there at the beginning—in Atlanta during the days after the War, with Washington obliterated and the nation stumbling toward extinction. He was the one who rounded up all the civilian leaders he could find and brought them to Atlanta; he was the one who used the forces under his command to protect the leaders while they thrashed out the terrible issues that had to be faced in the new world; he was the one who, more than anybody else, was responsible for the continued existence of the United States of America. The rules of government had been changed, of course—how could they not have been? But we were still a nation, and many people would say we had Cowens to thank for that.

  Of course, there were many others who would say that resentment or outrage were more appropriate responses than gratitude. Those were the people who were not going to VOTE YES.

  So why had Cowens ended up in New England? That wasn't clear to me. But I think it was for the same reason that President Kramer was foisting the referendum on us. Because New England mattered. The rest of the country was either uninhabitable or more or less meekly back in the fold. But we New Englanders seemed to be a problem; we just didn't want to make it easy on the Feds. Our stubborn Yankee heritage perhaps: we have revolution in our genes. So maybe this was the last great challenge for Cowens: to whip us into shape and make the Union whole once again.

  I found it interesting that Cowens, for all his status as a living legend, was deferring to the ex-real estate salesman. It was the general who returned Bolton's phone call; it was the general who was making his way to the governor's office. I found this refreshing in a world where having the weapons could so easily translate into having the power. Maybe the Feds weren't as bad as a lot of people thought.

  There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Bolton called out.

  The door opened, and General Cowens entered the room.

  He had the presence of a legend; there was no doubt about it. I instinctively found myself standing as he approached (although at least I managed to keep from coming to attention). He projected an intense aura of authority that seemed dissociated from his rather fragile physical appearance, and even from the gray-green uniform he wore. He had a lined face topped by a sparse fringe of white hair. His blue eyes were watery and tired. His posture was stiff-backed and military, but he walked with care, as if, having made it this far through the minefield of life, he didn't want to make any missteps.

  Governor Bolton stayed seated. Maybe he didn't feel what I felt in the general's presence because he dealt with the man every day; or maybe he consciously repressed his reactions in order to maintain the dignity of his office. "Thanks for corning up, Bob," Bolton said. "This is Walter Sands."

  Cowens looked at me, and once again I was a private instead of a private eye, and I was quaking before an officer's cold-eyed stare. He sat down without shaking hands or speaking to me. I sat down too. "I don't see why we need an outsider," Cowens said. His voice was soft—far softer than Bolton's—but you paid attention to it, precisely because of its softness. "We can protect the president, if we're allowed to do our job."

  "We've been through this, Bob," Bolton replied.

  "Surely there can't be anything wrong with using every resource available to us?"

  The general flicked his gaze toward me. Some resource, his blue eyes seemed to say. "Outsiders are disruptive," he said. "They don't follow the lines of authority."

  "But Sands can find things out precisely because he won't follow the lines of authority."

  Cowens gave a hint of a shrug. "If you insist," he said.

  Bolton nodded. He insisted. "But as I mentioned, he needs to be convinced."

  Cowens turned slowly in his seat to face me. His hands were folded in his lap, I noticed. I found it difficult to meet his gaze. "Mr. Sands," he murmured, "you were recently in the armed forces of the United States of America?"

  "Yes, sir," I replied.

  "Do you recall signing anything upon your discharge?"

  Oh, shit. "Uh-huh."

  Cowens glared at me. He hadn't liked that uh-huh. "The paper you signed provided for your re-induction into the armed forces in the event of certain contingencies," he explained unnecessarily. "One of those contingencies was an emergency declared by the president or by the military commander of the region in which you reside. I am the military commander of this region. You have two choices, Mr. Sands. You can take on this assignment as a civilian, or you can take it on as a private in the United States Army, pursuant to a military emergency that I will be happy to declare right now. Which do you choose, Mr. Sands?"

  My momentary admiration for the Feds had disappeared. This was what people didn't like about them, after all: the arbitrary imposition of their will on the hapless guy just trying to make it through life. What was I supposed to do? Take them to court? That might have worked in the old days, but not anymore. You don't win cases against the Feds anymore. No, you basically have to do what they tell you to do, and hope that their incompetence will keep them from bothering you too much. Right now, unfortunately, they were being pretty competent.

  "I get two new dollars a day, plus expenses," I said. "Ten dollars in advance."

  General Cowens turned away. Bolton smiled and picked up the phone. "Lisa, would you bring me ten dollars from petty cash?"

  Ten dollars was not petty cash to me. Lisa hurried in with the money. I didn't feel like smiling at her. She wouldn't have noticed anyway; she was too busy being efficient in front of her boss and the general. I signed a receipt and put the money in my pocket. Back in business again.

  "Well, I'm glad that was settled so amicably," Bolton said when Lisa had left. "Now, how can we assist your investigation?"

  I tried to think like a private eye. "When is the president arriving?" I asked.

  "Soon," Bolton replied.

  "I don't recall seeing anything about this in the paper. Has it been made public yet?"

  "Government employees were told this morning. The public announcement will be made later this afternoon."

  I thought. Bolton waited. Cowens looked bored. "Have you considered the possibility that this is an inside job?" I asked.

  "What do you mean, 'an inside job'?" Bolton replied.

  "Someone from the government trying to stop the president's visit." I summarized the theory I had just come up with. "None of us have heard of this Second American Revolution, right? Doesn't prove anything, but it's suggestive. And the president's visit isn't common knowledge, but obviously people within the government had to know. Also, there's the message itself. On white bond paper, and typed—looks like with an electric typewriter. How many radical groups have access to that kind of paper and that kind of typewriter? And there's the way the message was delivered. I don't imagine it's that easy to get into this building and up to your office—your guard looked pretty alert out there."

  Bolton shook his head. "I don't think so, Sands. First of all, you might not ha
ve known about the president's visit, but I'm well aware that there have been rumors about it for some time now. As for the paper and the typing—well, there's nothing particularly conclusive about that. Not all the typewriters in existence are owned by the government. And the outer door to my office is guarded only when I'm here. I don't see much of a problem for someone to come up in the early morning or after work without being noticed. And anyway, why would someone from the government want to stop President Kramer's visit?"

  "All you need is one secret radical sympathizer," I suggested.

  Bolton didn't look convinced. I wasn't especially convinced myself.

  General Cowens broke the awkward silence. "All of this," he murmured, "ignores the fact that TSAR does in fact exist."

  Swell, I thought. Five minutes on the case and already I'm making a fool of myself.

  "Have you learned something, Bob?" Bolton asked. "When we talked earlier you said you hadn't heard of them."

  "I can't personally keep track of every anti-government group that comes and goes around here," Cowens replied. "That's why we maintain files. I went and checked the files we keep in the basement on these sorts of organizations, and there they were."

  "But wait a minute, I checked those files too—right after I received the message. I didn't see anything for The Second American Revolution."

  "Where did you look?" Cowens asked.

  Bolton considered. "Well, I looked under 'Second.' And also under 'TS,' for 'TSAR.'"

  Cowens nodded. "It was filed under 'The.'" He didn't look especially impressed by Bolton's investigative prowess. Bolton's scar throbbed again.

  "What was in the file?" I asked.

  Cowens stared at me as if I were being impertinent. Finally he deigned to answer. "It was empty," he said.

  "Empty? Did someone remove whatever was in there? Who has access to these files?"

  The general's stare turned colder, if that was possible. "You insist on assuming that someone in the government is involved in threatening the president," he said. "This seems to me to be utterly absurd. In fact, there is no reason to assume that anything was ever in there in the first place."