The Library at Mount Char

  “Excuse me,” said a tall guy with coppery red hair. “Did you say tutu?”

  Erwin dredged his memory and came up with a name. Bryan Hamann, he thought. White House chief of staff. “Yup. Purple tutu and a flak jacket. Israeli, I think. That and a knife. He was barefoot too.” Erwin shook his head a little. “Fucking weird.”

  “So…he was unarmed?” Thorpe said slowly.

  “It was a pretty big knife. But no guns, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And there were how many casualties?” the president asked, ruffling through papers.

  “Thirty-seven,” Erwin said, without looking at any notes.

  “They were armed?”

  “Lots of ’em were, yeah. Didn’t seem to help much. One guy in the hall, he had a forty-caliber Glock stuffed up his ass, way past the trigger guard. Only thing poking out was the butt of the magazine.”

  The secretary of state paused with a china cup halfway to her mouth, then set it back down, coffee unsipped. “But he let you live,” she said. “Why is that, do you think?”

  Erwin shrugged. “Fanboy.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “It’s kind of a long story.” Erwin hated people who told long stories without an invitation. He scanned the room. The president made a come-on gesture. “So, like, the guy in the tutu kicks in the door of the chapel and kills the cop that brung him there pretty much straight off.” Erwin took his Copenhagen out of his shirt pocket, thumped it a couple of times to settle the tobacco, and put in a dip. “Then, he asked which one of us was Steve.” He imitated the big guy’s voice: “ ‘Eshteeeeeeve?’ Like that. Hodgson’s lawyer blabbed—he was a pussy—and the big guy killed him, too, with like a weight on the end of a chain.” Erwin put the Copenhagen back in his pocket. “Man that guy was quick,” he said, looking at Thorpe significantly. “I ain’t never seen nobody that fuckin’ fast in my life.”

  Thorpe nodded. Message received.

  “Anyway, I figured I was next. So I started thinking fast. And I asked him if he knew a chick named Carolyn. He recognized the name. I think that almost got me off the hook.”

  “What made you think to do that?” the secretary of state asked.

  Erwin shrugged. “Her and him both dressed weird.”

  They were all looking at him now.

  “Weird how?” asked Hamann.

  “Well, he was in the tutu.” He scanned their faces. “And Hodgson had said that this chick Carolyn was going around in a wool sweater and bike pants, them Spandexy things, the night he met her. And leg warmers. That was weird too. So that had already reminded me how one of them ladies who robbed the bank did it in a bathrobe and cowboy hat. It wasn’t so much a connection as they just kinda reminded me of each other. Kinda thin, but I figured if he was getting ready to kill me anyway it couldn’t hurt to try. So I asked if he knew her.”

  “And that worked?”

  Erwin shrugged. “Almost. Slowed him down for a second, anyway. He didn’t speak English, but I could tell he knew the name.”

  “What did he speak?”

  “Dunno. Funny accent. Couldn’t place it. But when I said ‘Carolyn,’ he sat up and took notice. Then he said ‘Nobununga’—or something like that. I pretended like I knew him, too.”

  “Nobunaga?” the president asked. “Where do I know that name?”

  Erwin was surprised. Oh right, he thought. He was a history major. “Oda Nobunaga. Yeah, he was my first thought too.”

  The president snapped his fingers. “Right. That’s it.”

  “Pardon me,” said the secretary of state, “but who are we talking about?”

  “Oda Nobunaga,” Erwin explained. “In sixteenth-century Japan he unified the shogunate. Mostly, anyways.”

  They were all staring at him now, the way dumb shits sometimes did when you surprised them. All except the president himself. He was smiling a little. “Go on,” he said.

  “But I got it wrong,” Erwin said. “It wasn’t No-bu-na-ga. He said No-bu-nun-ga.”

  “Who the hell’s that?” Hamann asked.

  Erwin shrugged. “Not a fuckin’ clue. Maybe it was a code word, or some stupid shit like that.” He nodded at the director of Central Intelligence. “No offense.”

  The DCI shook his head. None taken.

  “Anyway, I fucked up. When I said the wrong name, the guy in the tutu figured out I was trying to bullshit him. He was fixin’ to kill me with that spear of his—or try, anyway. But it turned out he was a fanboy. I dunno who was more surprised, him or me.”

  “A ‘fanboy’?” the secretary of state asked. “So…you two know each other? I don’t understand.”

  “Nah. It’s just sometimes—”

  Thorpe’s tone was cold. “Madam Secretary, Command Sergeant Major Leffington is well-known within military circles. ‘Living legend’ is probably a fair description of his status. At Natanz, while wounded, he singlehandedly—”

  “Yeah, anyway,” Erwin said, “he’d heard of me. You get to where you recognize the look.”

  “I see. And you think that’s why he spared your life?”

  “Well, I wasn’t gonna just sit there and let him kill me. But yeah. After he recognized me he just grabbed the Hodgson kid and took off.”

  “Did you pursue him?”

  “I gave it a shot.” Erwin shook his head. “Man that guy was quick.” He looked at the president. “Hey, you got a trash can or something? I gotta spit.” He pointed at the wad of Copenhagen in his lip.

  Thorpe looked at him, wide-eyed, then stifled a grin.

  “Under the desk,” the president said.

  “Thanks.” Erwin walked around behind the president’s desk, retrieved his trash can, and spat a brown stream in it. He set the can on the desk. Might need it again in a minute. “Say, can I ask you a question?”

  The president waggled his fingers in a come-on gesture.

  “Why do you give a fuck?”

  “OK, that’s about enough of—” Hamann began.

  The president held up his hand. “How do you mean, Agent Leffington?”

  Hamann’s face was really red now. Yup, Erwin thought. Asshole. “Call me Erwin,” he said to the president. “Yeah, what I mean is, why do you give a fuck? I mean, it was all horrific and shit, but ain’t it a little below your pay grade?” He meant this sincerely. A thirty-person massacre ain’t so much, as presidents go.

  The president and Hamann exchanged a glance. The president gave a small nod. “Mr. Leffington—” Hamann began.

  “It’s Erwin,” Erwin said.

  Hamann’s face got redder still. Erwin gave no fucks.

  “Erwin, then,” Hamann said, smiling through gritted teeth, “do you have a security clearance?”

  “Sure,” Erwin said. He had one from the Homeland Security gig. He told them the level. It wasn’t especially high.

  Hamann looked smug for a moment, but when he glanced at the president his face fell.

  “Tell him anyway,” the president said.

  “Sir, I don’t think—”

  The president gave him a look.

  “Right,” Hamann said. “Ah, yesterday, this office received a call from a member of the terrorist organization. A woman.”

  “Carolyn? She called here?”

  They all looked at him again. “That’s correct,” Hamann said.

  “Nooooooo shit,” Erwin said softly. “Huh. What’d she want to talk about?”

  “Steve Hodgson was the reason she called,” the president said.

  “I ain’t followin’.”

  “She wanted me to arrange a pardon for him,” the president said.

  “Oh?” Erwin said, very interested now. “You talked to her? Yourself? Personal-like?”

  “She had the access codes,” Hamann said. He and the president exchanged another glance.

  Erwin waited, but neither of them said anything more. He’s holding something back, Erwin thought. Access codes will only get you so far. What did she say? What did she say to ma
ke that asshole put the president on the phone? He suddenly thought of the tellers at the bank robbery, of Amrita Krishnamurti, that spotless employee of twelve years, tossing away dye packs, marked bills, her career. But someone was speaking to him. The question was a good one, though. He tucked it away for later examination. “Sorry,” Erwin said. “Say again?”

  The president didn’t seem too put out about Erwin zoning out. Erwin provisionally decided that he liked the guy. “I said,” the president said again, “what made you take an interest in her in the first place?”

  “She did a bank robbery three, four weeks back, her and some other lady. Left prints all over the place, at the bank. Everywhere, like. Then, just one single print at the house where they found this Hodgson guy.”

  “Just the one print?” the president asked. He sounded like he understood why this was weird, which surprised Erwin again.

  Oh. Right. He was a prosecutor. “Yeah. Just the one. Weird, huh? Usually you either get lots of ’em, or none at all, if they wear gloves. But this time, just one. It was perfect, too. They found it on the plate over the light switch in the dining room, like she rolled it out on a pad.”

  “So she wanted us to find it,” the president said. “Why?”

  “Don’t know,” Erwin allowed. “Good question, though. Wanted us to connect her with this Hodgson guy, maybe?”

  “We keep coming back to him. Who is he?”

  “Nobody in particular, so far as I can tell. He’s a plumber.”

  The secretary of state, regal, studied him over the top of her glasses. “A plumber?”

  “Yeah,” Erwin said. He spat in the president’s trash can. “You know—them guys who make the toilets work? He seemed pretty normal, though,” he said meditatively. “Not like them bank-robber ladies or the tutu guy.”

  “Did anything strike you about him?” the president asked.

  Erwin considered the question. “I didn’t have a whole lot of time with him. But I don’t think he had any more idea what was going on than I do. He seemed all guilty about something, though. I couldn’t figure out what. He got busted selling a little weed when he was a kid, did two years when he wouldn’t roll over on his supplier. No arrests after that, but he got mentioned in a lot of other guys’ files.”

  “And now?”

  “These days he’s clean, best I can tell. Other than the dead cop, I mean. And he denies that.”

  “Do you believe him?” the president asked.

  “Yeah,” Erwin said. “I do. I think she set him up.”

  “Why?”

  “Leverage, I ’spect. What’d you say when she asked about the pardon?” The president didn’t answer. His eyes were like ice. He said yes, then. “Never mind. None-a my fucking business. Sorry.”

  “You might be right,” the president said. “Leverage. Hmmm. What would she want from him?”

  “Dunno. Seems like a lotta trouble to get him to fix a faucet. Does it matter?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, you got Thorpe over there. He ain’t much of a negotiator. You gonna kill ’em?”

  Everyone was very quiet. Then, after a moment, Hamann spoke. “Thank you, Erwin. That will be all.”

  Erwin waited a second, but this time the president didn’t override him. “Yeah. Sure.” He spat again. “I wouldn’t.”

  Now both Hamann and the secretary of state were glaring at him.

  “Why not?” the president said.

  “I think it’s what they want,” Erwin said. “What she wants. Whoever she is, she’s not dumb. She had to know you’d trace the call, right? And she had to know it would piss you off, getting your cage rattled.”

  “She didn’t rattle—” Hamann began.

  “Yeah. Whatever. So, way I see it, you can either go skip-skip-skippin’ down this merry trail she’s blazed for you, or you can lay back in the tall grass for a while, see if maybe you can figure out what the fuck is going on.”

  The president eyeballed him for a long moment. “Duly noted,” he said. “I’ll think it over.”

  “You do that. You done with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Everyone looked relieved.

  “Erwin, can you wait for me in the lobby?” Thorpe said. “I’d like a chance to debrief you on a couple other details.”

  “Yeah,” Erwin said. He sighed inside, thinking of the fall leaves. “Sure.” He walked out the funky curved door, pausing just a moment to run his fingers across the perfect wainscoting.

  III

  They conspired for another hour or so. Erwin, irritated, amused himself by annoying the secretary. Eventually the door opened. The herd of assholes spilled out, most of them glaring at Erwin as they left.

  Thorpe was one of the last ones to leave. He walked up to Erwin, eyes wide. “You know,” he said, “they talk about you, in the Unit. Yoshitaka and the others. I’d heard some of the stories. But before today, I never really believed—”

  “Hey,” the president called through the open door. “Erwin? Got a second?”

  Erwin and Thorpe exchanged a look. “He can’t kill me,” Erwin said with a shrug. “I got the Distinguished Service Cross.”

  “Two of them. And the Medal of Honor.”

  “Yeah, well, that one got all blown out of proportion.” Erwin went back into the Oval Office. “Yes, sir?”

  “I wanted to thank you for your help today,” the president said, “and your service to your country, of course.” He paused. “It’s been very memorable, meeting you.”

  “Yeah. Nice meetin’ you, too.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Happy to help and shit.” Erwin paused. “Say, you mind if I ask you something?”

  The president gave the question serious consideration before he answered. “Go ahead. I may take the fifth, though.”

  Erwin didn’t smile. “I didn’t vote for you.” He waited for a reaction. There wasn’t one. “Reason was, all the time you talked on TV, you always sounded like a dumbass. It was really convincing.”

  “Erwin, we should probably—” Thorpe said, from out in the lobby.

  “Years of practice,” the president said. “What’s your question?”

  “I was just wondering why you did that. Pretend to be a dipshit, I mean.”

  The president grinned. “Prolly the same fuckin’ reason you do.”

  They looked at each other for a second, then both of them laughed, long and loud.

  “Yeah,” Erwin said. “OK. I’m convinced. Good luck in November!”

  “Thanks,” the president said. “I won’t need it.”

  They both laughed again. Erwin stepped back out into the bitchy secretary’s lobby.

  “Hey! Erwin?”

  He turned around. “Yeah?”

  “We do a card game, every other Tuesday. If you’re in town, I’d love to have you sit in.”

  Erwin considered this. “No ya wouldn’t. I’ll clean yer fuckin’ clock.”

  “I can print money,” the president said, grinning again.

  “Hmm. Yeah. Good point. OK, I’m in. What time?”

  “Around six, usually.”

  “See you.”

  “Phyllis?” The president’s secretary looked up. “Add Erwin to the Tuesday list. If I’m tied up, have Harold take him over to the residence.”

  She glowered, then jotted a note down on a legal pad. “Yes, sir.”

  Thorpe was looking at Erwin with something like awe. “Be looking forward to it,” Erwin said.

  He kinda was, too.

  INTERLUDE III

  JACK

  Steve had been about twelve when he was orphaned. Even now, he remembered life with his birth parents fairly well. But the car accident that killed them and put him in a coma was a blank, his memory completely gone after breakfast cornflakes three days prior. They told him this was common with violent brain injury. He remembered waking up in a hospital room. It was night, and he had been alone, though his aunt Mary showed up an hour or so later, all tears and hugs. His pare
nts were dead. Steve himself had been in a coma.

  He’d gotten a bad concussion. That led to swelling of the brain, hence the coma. If there was permanent damage, no one could find it. Other than his long nap—a little over six weeks—and some minor burns, he was unhurt, remarkably so considering the ferocity of the crash. Years later, in his senior year of high school, Steve tracked down a newspaper photo of the wreckage. A tractor trailer had run a stop sign on a back road, speeding. It smacked into the front end of his mom’s Cadillac, essentially flattening the front half. This made jelly of his parents and catapulted Steve into a new life, quite different from the one he was used to.

  After an additional two-week hospital stay that ate up his father’s life-insurance policy, Aunt Mary brought Steve home to her single-wide trailer. Steve, devastated, tripped over his grief with every thought: my-teeth-feel-fuzzy-better-brush-’em-because-Mom-says, I’m-hungry-wonder-if-Dad-will-get pizza. The loss throbbed in the core of him like a toothache.

  Aunt Mary didn’t let this ruin her plans. The night she brought Steve home she went out to a roadside bar called Lee’s Stack and got very drunk. Around two a.m. she rolled back in with a guy named Clem. Steve, done with crying, watched the moon through the window as he listened to Mary and Clem bang the headboard on the other side of the flimsy plastic wall.

  The next day Clem drove Steve back to his old house in Mary’s aging, rattletrap Dodge. The estate was in bankruptcy—apparently Steve’s dad, a real-estate guy, had made some boo-boos. A trustee let them in with a key. Steve got to keep his Commodore 64 computer, his clothes, and a box full of comic books. There were other toys, but he had to pick and choose because space at Mary’s place was limited. He wanted to get the television, but Clem snagged it for himself. The trustee hustled them out before the auction started.

  Predictably enough, Steve became an angry kid. Commuting to his old school was out of the question, so along with his parents he lost the friends he had known since childhood. Steve was still growing, but clothes were listed well below vodka and cigarettes on Mary’s shopping list. A kindly English teacher noticed this and took him out to the Salvation Army, and bought him clothes that fit with her own money. Steve hated her for it, more so when the other kids figured out what was going on.