The 4 Phase Man Part 46

Seventeen.

"Mr. Chairman, members of the committee, a.s.sembled media, ladies and gentlemen of the nation and the world. My name is Michael Culbertson, formerly chief of staff to the late attorney general, Jefferson DeWitt. I would like it on the record that I appear before this investigating committee of my own volition, without subpoena or pressure from any quarter. I do this because it is my duty-however difficult-as an American citizen, dedicated to those most important principles of truth, justice, and fairness.

"Over the past seven months I began to grow suspicious of some of Attorney General DeWitt's actions. There were large unexplained absences in his schedule. He began to hold a series of secret meetings without myself or other staff present. There was the installation of an unlogged secure phone line in his home, and other occurrences which I found odd, inappropriate, and deeply troubling.

"Then, when he began to hint about his runaway ambitions, his quote visions for the country unquote, I began to realize the form of his madness. Unfortunately, not in time to prevent his plot to kill the vice president of the United States, insinuate himself into his place, foment a war with good and true allies, and eventually to seize control of the country itself.

"When I felt I had gathered sufficient evidence-primarily from video and audio recordings that the man himself had made, that I discovered-I contacted the office of Attorney General Designate Buckley, and, together, we set in motion the machinery that led to Mr. DeWitt's arrest.

"Unfortunately, those members of organized crime with whom he conspired learned of his imminent exposure and sought to obliterate all evidence of their connection with him. This led to the ma.s.sacre at Heisenberg House, and eventually to DeWitt's own death at their hands, moments after he had been taken into custody."

The president clicked off the television, shaking his head. "I can already see someone running the little s.h.i.t for Congress."

Valerie shook her head. "He can have my seat." She began to read off the t.i.tles of the papers she was signing. "Act accepting terms of presidential amnesty... Copy of terms of amnesty... Letter of resignation from the House of Representatives of the United States of America ... Act renouncing citizenship in the United States of America."

She slammed the folder shut and dropped it in the president's lap. "Satisfied?"

The president sighed. "Valerie, bottom line, your acts of treason caused the death of that Chinese defector, Pei, the men guarding him, and probably more beside. Important military and intelligence secrets were given to the Chinese. Innocent lives were put at risk and the security of the country was compromised." He shook his head sadly. "That, my dear, is treason. Sorry."

Valerie collapsed in a chair across from him. "But you're protecting the citizenship and pension rights of my kids, right?" She sounded exhausted.

"It's in writing and over my signature. Your lawyers already have it."

She nodded. "Fine." Finishing off her drink, she stood and took a deep breath. "What are you going to do now?"

The president looked older than his eighty-plus years. "I've asked President Carter to come out of retirement to serve as vice president until the next election." The people need someone they can trust.

"Don't we all." Valerie began to gather her things.

"What are you going to do now?" the president asked with genuine curiosity.

"Not watch the news for a few thousand years, she said while holding back the tears that she knew would burst forth later that night."

"Actually, I've been asked to take on international fund-raising for a war orphans hospital in Toulon, France."

The president stood up, extending his hand. "You have friends there? Any people?"

"I think ... no." She didn't sound sad or beaten, more like-resigned. "No, I don t, she said as she shook his hand." But I think I at least know some people there.

The president refused to let go of her. "Your nation and I owe you an unpayable debt of grat.i.tude, he said seriously." I hope you realize that.

"That why I'm getting the b.u.m's rush?

The president shrugged." It was treason.

"And what would you have done?"

The old man was quiet for a long time. "Probably ended up raising money for war orphans."

And, for Valerie, it was finally over.

It was a place of warrior grace and poetic ugliness. A monument to greed, an achievement in futility. It had-in its distant past-been a critical piece of the puzzle that was London's docks, its gateway to the world.

But that had all been decades ago, a storied history of the tough men who hauled the freight that kept the great city alive.

Now the docks were gone, replaced by a glittering gla.s.s and steel construct, crowned by the tallest building in Europe. The largest single office development in the world, they said. A throne for the "new London" to sit comfortably on and look out at the world that must flock to it.

But they were wrong.

Recessions, Euro-unions, unrealistic and unrealized ambitions, had all left the place an empty sh.e.l.l; a place abandoned-that the tourists flocked to on the weekend to ooh and ahh at the magnificently polished gold statue in the courtyard that made as little sense as the development itself.

Whole floors of the grand tower had been left unfinished. The Docklands Light Railway station-capable of holding more people than Heathrow Airport-echoed with the few footsteps of photographers and a skeletal crew of maintenance.

Canary Wharf's dreams, ambitions, grand plans, and grandiose predictions gone.

But the tough men concerned with the life of the city remained.

They would come in the late evening, when midnight was a memory and dawn a thing they hoped to see again. The minders, the killers, the cops, the callous and the nonchalant. Anyone and everyone-men and women-who had the knowledge.

And the strength.

Some nights they would gather in the station itself, others in the plaza or on one of the desiccated skeletal upper floors with the magnificent views that went otherwise unappreciated. They would remain undisturbed, secure in knowing that some of their own controlled all security and surveillance in the complex.

Over steaming cups of coffee, cutting shots of whatever got them through the night, or pure adrenaline, they would gossip, exchange much-needed information and intelligence, or just take each other's measure.

There were other places like it throughout the world-Brevin's Hole in Las Vegas, Nevada; Two Dollar Bill's in Hollywood; La Rotunda in Rio-but Canary Wharf was the pinnacle. A place where acceptance as a friend (or enemy) meant you had arrived among the world's last remaining truly tough men.

On this rainy 3:00 A.M., there were about twenty of them gathered on the seventeenth floor. Thermoses of steaming liquid were being pa.s.sed around; photographs of new babies, lovers, or victims being sought as well. As usual, the low hum of conversation stopped at the pleasant ding of the elevator doors as eyes casually turned to inspect the new arrivals.

"s.h.i.t," someone whispered as Xenos and Franco stepped off.

They stood for a moment, taking in the room, their bodies still, their eyes never stopping.

An older man, one of the few who had been coming to Canary Wharf when it was still a real wharf, walked over to him. "Goldman."

Xenos looked past him, into the crowd that had gone nervously back to their conversations.

"Who?" the man asked quietly.

"That would be me, I expect," another man said from the crowd behind.

The old man shook his head as he stepped out from between the two. Casually all conversations moved to the sides of the wall-less floor, opening up forty feet of s.p.a.ce between the two men.

"Well, look who we have here, boys. Our American cousin, come back from the dead." Canvas regarded the two men carefully, missing no curve or lump in their clothing, no shift of weight between their legs. "I expected you yesterday," he said quietly.

"Flight was delayed."

Canvas nodded. "So?" he said after nearly a minute of silence.

Xenos just stared at him.

"I Cinesi send their regrets, serpente," Franco said in an electric tone. "They're going to miss the last payment."

Like a tennis match, those in the room switched their attention to Canvas.

One of only two living Four Phase Men in the world.

"Pity," Canvas said defiantly as he shrugged. "Their money's just as good as anyone else's." He laughed, ignoring Franco, but never taking his eyes off of Xenos. "Just a poor boy trying to make a living, that's me."

All eyes back to the other Four Phase Man.

"Could be a real short living."

Eyes on Canvas.

"An' why's that?"

Xenos unb.u.t.toned his duster and the crowd took another step back. "Apple Blossom's over. Time to settle accounts."

For the first time, the bystanders smelled the putrescence of inevitable death settle over the room, floating between the two men.

Not yet decided which way to drift.

Canvas seemed genuinely nervous, but he quickly covered it with a professional braggadocio. "Apple Blossom was a joke from jump. I told the c.h.i.n.ks they oughta find themselves someone else." He hesitated. "Who's paying for the collection, Jerry? Certainly not this little Corsie?" He seemed relaxed, confident, completely at ease.

But he lowered his hands to his sides, split his weight evenly between his feet, relaxing his right arm. "No. You wouldn't do it for money, not pure and n.o.ble Jerry Goldman."

He shook his head sadly. "You must've started caring again, eh?" He frowned. "Pity," he said with genuine emotion. "When are you going to learn, Jerry? No room on the bus for sentimentality."

"It ends tonight." Xenos paused, and when he spoke again it was in tones that dripped finality. "For the Corsi-cans, for the children, for you and me ... it ends tonight. Nothing more to worry about. Ever."

"I look worried to you, Goldman?"

Xenos sighed deeply. "You look ... dead."

Franco walked over to the Englishman, hatred and murder in his eyes, and dropped a bloodred scarf to the floor in front of him. "Burn in h.e.l.l, verme schifoso!"

Canvas smiled. "See you there, darling."

Franco spit in the man's face, then turned, stalking back to Xenos.

The two men (Xenos and Canvas-once Jerry Goldman, talented young musician; and Colin Meadows, aspiring artist) looked at each other, into each other, then Canvas nodded.

"Pas de mort?" he asked quietly. "I always appreciated the romantic in you. Most didn't, I know. But I found it one of your most attractive qualities, old son." He picked up an end of the long scarf and tied it tightly around his left wrist.

Xenos walked forward slowly, picking up the other end of the scarf, tying it around his left wrist. "You won't suffer. You have my word."

"I don't intend to."

Xenos nodded, then spoke in a loud, demanding voice; directed not at Canvas, but at the rest of the crowd.

"Gentlemen, may we have this room."

They filed out quickly. Franco the last to go, flashing lightning stares at Canvas, whose eyes remained locked with the man tied to him, less than five feet away.

And they were alone.

In the silence of the never finished floor, they contemplated their lives, their sins, their gained and missed opportunities. And they deeply weighed the mirror in front of them.

"Good-bye, Colin," Xenos said as he pulled a ten-inch-blade Randall a.s.sault knife from his duster.

Canvas abruptly reached out with both hands, grabbed Xenos's head with his hands, and pulled it close for a long hard kiss on the lips.

"The only way for legends to die!" he shouted. He stepped back, pulling out a fourteen-inch Bowie knife.

Xenos stepped back until the scarf was stretched taut between them.

And the dance began.

Eighteen.

The snow was falling harder as the Lincoln stopped in front of the hamburger stand just long enough for the heavily bundled-up person to get in.

"Do you need to come in?" the driver asked.

"No," the pa.s.senger replied. "I'm clean."

"Do you need to deliver anything?"

"No."

"Are you intact?"

"I've detected no changes in the flow across my desk, in my a.s.signments. My phone was clean as of 1450, and I've detected no surveillance."

"Very well." Buckley pulled onto the lightly trafficked service roads that ran for miles from the rural airport. "How are you, Michael?"