“Very clever,” Ed said.
“And also very true. We believe that the good of society—in fact, the good of the individual—rests with recognizing and imposing an obligation to the state. We take what measures we can to transmit our views, hence this educational organization, my guest lectures at the university. But it goes very slowly: prejudice has such inertia.”
He rose, thrust his hands in his pockets, and paced, almost talking to himself, his eyes intent on some other place, some other time. “Inevitably, your investigations will reveal that my real name isn’t John Jay Madison. I was born Manfred, Landgraf von Richthofen. Quite a mouthful, isn’t it? It was, at one time, a name and family of some influence in Prussia, and of not inconsiderable wealth. The War changed that, of course. So, with perhaps a false start or two, I came to America to repair my fortunes.”
He spread his arms. “As you can see, I have, to a certain extent, accomplished that. I changed my name because John Jay and James Madison were, in my view, men of merit, of historical importance to both my homeland and this organization—certainly very American, something I was determined to become—and rather easier to pronounce.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help grinning back.
He stood at the opposite end of the room under an enormous portrait I recognized from ten-dollar Federal Reserve notes. The grim visage stared across toward the mystical symbol over Madison’s desk. “I should have adopted his name, had I dared. I assure you it is held in the esteem it deserves, elsewhere in the System—still, I must be able to buy groceries without arousing counterproductive passions.”
He went back to the desk. “Though you may disagree with what I believe, nevertheless I insist on being allowed to believe it, unmolested.” He made a sudden move toward his off side where the Mauser hung—I almost went for my gun. Eyeing me with some amusement, he continued the motion and pressed a small button on the desk. “Come, let me show you around. I’d like to assure you we have nothing to hide.”
“Jawohl, mein Herr!” a tinny voice said.
“Hermann, will you join us in the Washington Room?”
We followed through convoluted hallways into a larger, chair-filled chamber where Kleingunther stood rigidly at attention near a lectern flanked by flagpoles—the first I’d seen in the Confederacy. The flags, furled and covered, guarded a portrait on the front of the lectern: George Washington, wearing a canvas apron and holding drafting tools.
“Our lecture hall,” Madison said proprietarily. “Here we teach Hamiltonian philosophy and hold ceremonies traditional to our organization.”
“Looks like a Masonic lodge,” I said. Madison started to whirl, checked, then turned slowly.
“You are astute. It is true, we derive certain rituals from that ancient and honorable order. But where have you heard of it? It’s not a common thing to know about.”
“My brother, here,” Ed interrupted, “isn’t a common man. You might say he’s an entire world of esoteric information.”
“I believe I understand.” Madison smiled. “An excellent credential for a detective. Would you care to see where our directors meet?” In the smaller, more lavishly furnished place, Madison demonstrated a rear-projection device on the wall communicating with the Washington Room. “Sometimes it does indeed seem true,” he mused, “that a picture is worth thousands of words.”
We toured the entire mansion, at least I think we did. It was a rambling, complicated structure; we could have missed sections the size of Lucy’s house and never have known it. Lounges, conservatories, greenhouse. Everywhere we went, Madison preceded, a fountain of householder’s pride. Kleingunther followed in ominous silence.
The Federalist chief was quite unabashed at mementos of “early Hamiltonian history” scattered here and there “to remind us of our impetuosity”: Prussian armor and edged weapons; Hawaiian spears and shields; similar tokens from Uganda; gas masks and rifles from the War in Europe. In a sort of chapel, spread like a Bible in a helium-filled glass altar, lay the Constitution of the United States. “We, the People, in order to form a more perfect Union …”
There wasn’t any Bill of Rights.
In the basement hobby shop where, according to Madison, members pursued electronics, sculpture, modelmaking, there was even a little one-station press for reloading ammunition, not too different from the one a Denver gunsmith used to whip up my .41 Magnum. Madison was showing Lucy a spaceship in a bottle, and didn’t notice when I swiped a cartridge from the littered bench. Then, with a chill, I remembered Kleingunther, turned, and saw with relief that he was raptly following Madison’s lecture.
We didn’t quite get the full tour. Several times we passed closed doors. “A private room. Some members stay with us for longer or shorter periods. I cannot violate their privacy. It doesn’t look very candid, I’m afraid, but it can’t be helped.” One such room was just off the cellar hobby area. The door was ajar, latched with a common hook and eye, and closed against a heavy power cable originating at the fuse box. The room beyond was dark; I thought I saw pilot lights burning dimly through the gap.
“So you see,” Madison said over brandy in his office, “these are facilities for education and recreation—our little planetarium, our gymnasium and steam room. But no Conspiracy Room. You would have seen it!”
“Depends,” Lucy said, looking around her, “on what a ‘conspiracy room’ looks like. Glad we saw the wine cellar, anyway. Prost!”
In due course we were shuffled onto the front porch with wholesome assurances of full cooperation and an open invitation to return for social or educational purposes. “Something tells me,” Madison winked at me, “that you might be right at home with many of our ideas on running a country, right at home … Oberst?”
“Leutnant,” I replied, “but on pretty indefinite leave.”
As we drove away, I fished out the empty case I’d swiped. It was far smaller than any I’d seen here—that’s what had caught my eye:
W-W .380 AUTO
A dull throb in my left shoulder: W-W stands for Winchester-Western, and the only Winchester of note in this world is a cathedral..380 Automatic is equally unknown, but it’s everyday fodder for the Ingram Model 11 submachine gun.
XV: Breaking & Entering
Are two people healthier than one person? Are two wiser? Then why believe they have more rights? Why believe the rights of one are less important? History’s sadness is that sanity, wisdom, justice—the very qualities that make us human—are not additive, while one’s brute animal ability to do another injury, is. Two people are, tragically, stronger than one. Stripped to naked truth, that is the basis for all government, dictatorial or democratic. Can we not do better?
—Sequoyah Guess
Anarchism Understood
MONDAY, JULY 20, 1987
“Manfred von Richthofen?” Somewhere a little voice was singing, “It’s only a paper moon, hanging over a cardboard sea …”
“The Red Knight of Prussia himself,” Lucy declared. “‘Twas his Flying Circus put me afoot back in thirty-eight. Never forget it—there we were: The Pensacola an’ the Boise flankin’ my Fresno Lady, bearin’ northeast outa Cologne. They—”
“But that’d make him at least—”
“Ninety-six,” Ed said. “Probably turned up here for a—”
“Something else, Lucy. What’s all this ‘Your Honor’ jazz he was handing out? You never told me—”
“Semiretired, sonny. What else would I do for a living? A little late t’ try sellin’ my body, don’t y’think? Don’t answer that, a girl hasta keep some illusions. Yeah, I still hear an argument now an’ again. Catfood money.”
We were in Lucy’s parlor, surrounded by Victorian furniture and felines, both overstuffed. I’d counted eight cats so far, one sleeping in Lucy’s bony lap, another making his way up the difficult north face of Ed’s shoulder. I was trying to keep a kitten from perching on my head.
“Pay attention,” Ed warned, “she’s being modest. Lucy’s a highly respec
ted adjudicator and member of the Continental Congress.” He pulled the cat off and placed it on the floor, where it stuck its nose in his highball glass.
“A distinction,” Lucy intoned, “utterly without distinction. Congress hasn’t met in thirty years, and I’m hopin’ like crazy it won’t ever have to again. Depends on what you boys find Friday night.”
We’d granted Deejay’s second wish in a small way, asking her to attend Madison’s next lecture, to keep the questions and answers going as long as she and a few well-chosen comrades could manage.
“Speaking of which, Your Honorship, how do you feel—in your official capacity—about busting into Madison’s place? I thought privacy was sacred in this country?”
“Sure—along with your life, your property, and your rights,” Ed offered.
“In that order?”
“No order to it,” Lucy answered. “Just three ways of sayin’ the same thing. And, Winnie, I got no official capacity. Nobody does, not even the president of the Confederacy. She only rides herd on the Continental Congress, if and when … What you and Ed are planning is unethical, immoral, and—”
“Fattening?”
“I was about to say, illegal—if we were the legislatin’ kind, which we ain’t. You two get shot up in there, nobody’s gonna say a thing. Madison’ll be within his rights. Or, he could sue you right down to your bellybutton lint.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do while he’s taking over the planet?”
“Son, we gave up preventive law enforcement long before we gave up law.”
“We do have one chance,” Ed suggested. “Find something Madison won’t want made public in a lawsuit—”
“Blackmail?”
Ed plowed onward. “If we catch him in the act, prove he’s planning a massive initiation of force, then we can countersue, and it might be Madison who winds up on some asteroid.”
“The end justifies the means,” I grunted. “A retroactive search warrant.”
“Oh, no!” Lucy exclaimed. “Regardless of what happens to Madison, you’d still have to make restitution to him for burglary, breaking and entering, theft—”
I put my head in my hands and groaned.
“Better’n gettin’ shot full of holes, ain’t it?” Lucy asked. “Still don’t get it, do you? Well, take that kitty cat off your pate—Lysander, get down!—and I’ll explain again. See, we make restitution to Madison, but he’s making restitution to us, for—what, attempted world conquest? He winds up owing us a lot more money than …”
FRIDAY, JULY 24, 1987
Stakeouts aren’t remarkably different anywhere. I’d just finished my fifth cigarette in the last hour, and it didn’t help that Lucy’s old Thorneycroft only gave coffee—a Confederate dollop of chicory made it even worse.
We sat, biting our nails between puffs, watching the Hamiltonian mansion, doing what cops have done since they staked out the pyramids in horse-powered two-wheelers: we swapped war stories. He told me about hanging on the outside of a sports dirigible while a triple murderer did everything to shake him loose into fifteen thousand feet of empty space. I told him about the wonderful things you find in plastic garbage bags.
Madison was off to a late start. We hunched down in our cloaks, trying to keep warm—another thing that doesn’t change: you’re deaf with the windows up and the heater roaring away, so you freeze your ass off, consoled only by the knowledge that being able to hear has saved the lives of countless cops.
“Look out!” Ed whispered. We slumped farther down as a pair of enormous black hovercars—the Frontenac, lately repaired, and its twin brother—came around a corner and pulled up in front of the house.
Ed offered me a set of goggles with half-inch slabs for lenses. I started to strap them on, thought better of it, and simply held them before my eyes. “Infrared?” I asked. The images were in color, the hues wildly distorted. The Frontenacs were still black, but the landscaping was sickly shades of red-violet.
“Paratronic. Convert almost anything to visible wavelengths, with pretty strange results sometimes, depending on the—quiet!”
People emerged from the building, gathering briefly on the porch. Kleingunther, I could tell by his size, and Madison, bundled up against the evening chill. Two others were unrecognizable. I squinted over the edge of my goggles and gasped, “Bealls!”
“I thought so,” Ed whispered. “Who’s the other one?”
“Gotta be from back home.” The fourth character, ludicrous in American slouch hat, poncho, and baggy Confederate trousers, lit a cigarette. The sudden flare illuminated a harsh, narrow, pockmarked face: “Oscar Burgess!”
“Are you sure, Win?” They walked down to the curb and boarded.
“Is a bear Catholic? I’d recognize that face over the radio!” As I watched the cars pull away, I shivered, but not from the cold.
“I’ll take your word. So Madison’s a charming liar, but a liar nevertheless.”
“You expected different?” The gears in my head were grinding. I wasn’t surprised that SecPol had been on my trail, but Burgess himself? Unless they had their own Broach working, he must have followed me to Fort Collins, into the lab, and out through Meiss’s machine. How many others had made it through before the one we’d found got buried in the collapsed excavation?
“Come on, partner,” I said, like a hundred times before, “we got work to do.” The thought of entering without a warrant didn’t make me feel any worse than I ever have on late-night searches. Maybe some judge’s piece of paper isn’t the blank check I’d always believed—we were still invading someone’s castle, and maybe we deserved to be shot.
We parked in the nearest alley and headed for an underground crossing. Traffic wasn’t any lighter at this hour, but speed was the main consideration: on a thoroughfare like this, a car could be on top of you before you’d noticed. At the other side, we approached the darkened mansion from behind. Ed produced a device, slid out an antenna, and unfolded a sharp-pointed ground stake.
“This is my defeater—like the one our burglar used.”
“I hope it works better than his did.”
“Different principle: it’s in contact with my Telecom at home. We mightn’t prevent the alarms from tripping, but if they do, my computer will start arguing with theirs, delaying the lights and sirens for a while.”
“How long?”
“Depending on their unit, maybe ten minutes. We’ll have longer if we’re careful going in.” He shoved the defeater into the ground.
My hands shook as I accepted another gadget. “S-sorry. I’m used to working the other side of the burglary game!”
“Calm down! You don’t hear my teeth chattering, and I’m not used to it, either.”
“Now he tells me. Another amateur cracksman! It’s been a swell evening, Ed. Think I’ll go downtown and see what’s playing at the Rialto.”
“Shut up and strap that on your wrist! As long as its face is green, we’re clear. If it turns orange, we’ve tripped something and the computers are discussing it. When it turns red, drop everything and run—we’ve lost the argument and the house defenses are working again. I’ll check upstairs, Madison’s office and so on. You do the basement. Get a good look at that closed-off room—Deejay’ll want every detail. Almost forgot—take this little pickup, and we’ll crank it through the ’com when we get back.”
“If we get back. Anything else before the massacre, mon capitaine?”
“We may have to do the upper floors, too. We need to know how many of your people are here.”
“They’re SecPol’s people, and they’ve all got guns! Great big—”
“Okay, okay! Give it ten minutes, unless your telltale turns orange. Meet me in the office. If it turns red, it’s every being for himself.”
“Right. Hope I remember my way around this pile of bricks.” The back porch wasn’t locked, but the floorboards were real groaners. By the time Ed was doing things to the back door with tiny tools, I was surprised my pants wer
e still dry. He taped the latch to keep it from springing shut. We slipped past the kitchen and reached the cross-hall to Madison’s office. I took the other branch, to the basement, adjusting the goggles on my nose. The place was eerie with shadows, and the weird colors didn’t help.
With a couple of false turns, I found the hobby room. Through paratronic lenses, most of the light seemed to be coming from a closet door, the dull, ruddy glow of iron in a blacksmith’s forge. I opened the door to find a water heater, bright as neon. Peeking over the goggles I could see nothing, although I could feel heat on my face.
Lenses back on again, I walked to the bench. I’d left the furnace room door open, but my body cast a shadow on the tabletop. Then, with inspiration, I found a soldering iron and pulled the trigger—it worked as well as a flashlight. I examined the reloading area, carefully keeping away from powder and primers, found more .380 cases, a couple of 9mms that might belong to Burgess, and a matchbook from a Denver speakeasy.
Across the room was the latched door. Holding the iron in my left hand, I drew my revolver, lifted the hook with its muzzle, and opened the door carefully. Nobody home, but it seemed very familiar: same cabinets, same tangles of wire, a replica of Deejay’s cluttered lab, and of the infernal machinery that had propelled me here. I crossed the room, one eye on the door, another on my wrist, trying to keep a third on what I was doing. How would the telltale look through color-distorting goggles? Just now it was a pale pink. A quick glance sans eyepieces returned it to a nice safe green.