Shad looked contemptuous at the merest bit of heat from Durand's frame.
"You can rehearse your excuses later. It's not my job to believe one thing or another - that's for the prosecutor to decide."
"Goddam cracker president!" Hughes said.
Durand licked her lips. Maybe she was used to Howard Hughes being flaky. "I'll think about it," she said, "very seriously." And then she gave a sad little toss of her head. "Poor Etienne," she said. "Poor Philip."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
In honor of the occasion, Herzenhagen wore a mourning band and the little red ribbon of the Legion of Honor, the decoration de Gaulle had awarded him back in '44. He could have worn all his medals, here at the veterans' cemetery, but most of them were too showy.
He didn't want to be vulgar, not here at his own inauguration.
Senator Flynn was being buried in a little dell surrounded by green hills and long rows of modest white tombstones, veterans anonymous in their ranks as during their service years. Around one side of the grave site were round green hills; currently crowned by Secret Service in black uniforms: the other side sloped down to a lovely autumn view of the Potomac Valley, with Washington and its white marble monuments glowing in the westering sun. An inspiring vista, truly. And absolutely perfect, because anyone on the sloping hills had a perfect view of Leo Barnett.
Barnett, an old preacher who couldn't resist a grave side service and a chance to give a homily to the cameras.
Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Barnett's words echoing Herzenhagen's thought.
For two days he'd been staying in a safe house with Gerard and a half-dozen of Johnson's strong-arm goons. The press had been camped outside, but that wasn't what made the stay a nightmare. Gerard had jumped him repeatedly over the last few days, jumping him until the normal spastic reaction faded, until he could function in a strange body from the first instant.
So President Barnett might trip on a tombstone and fall down. Big deal. He'd get right up again, and go right to work on getting the Quarantine Bill passed.
And then all he needed to do was confirm a finding from the National Security Council, then sign an executive order, and every wild card in the country would be on his way to a nice new tent city on a federal reservation in some picturesque state like, say, Utah.
And President Barnett would be trapped in Herzenhagen's body, which would be hustled away to his limo by Herzenhagen's security, then loaded with stonefish toxin, the stuff the CIA stored by the gallon for any interfering defector, agent, or reporter, which would result in cardiac arrest and which wouldn't show up in an autopsy.
And all the media lice that had been following him around, and the surly cops who'd ordered him not to leave town - well, they'd be left with another body and no answers. And then strings could be pulled to get Peggy out of jail.
Out of reflex he glanced up at the Secret Service. Herzenhagen's own security, unarmed and inconspicuous, hovered at a discreet distance, until the moment of the jump when they'd arrange for the President's heart attack.
Gerard - she'd been driven here in a separate car to avoid the press - drifted toward him. Herzenhagen didn't entirely like the way she moved - she moved jerkily, twitching, and there was a smirk on her face.
Oh well. He'd worked with less promising material in his time.
And in any case the whole thing was about to pay off. His life's work, reassembling into a perfect picture. The bits of history shattered by the wild card, nurturing it and caring for it and finally seeing it on its way like a good child - all about to be completed. As the President called for a moment of silence, Herzenhagen bowed his head and found himself thinking of the others, Einstein, Hughes, Hearst, Battle, and Flynn himself, the ones who had dedicated themselves to this triumph and who would not share in its consummation.
The President finished. Herzenhagen raised his head, found himself staring into the taunting eyes of Gerard. Annoyance flickered through him. He held her eyes, assumed his benevolent face, and nodded toward Barnett.
Gerard did nothing. Just smiled.
Barnett was moving down the line. He took the flag from the soldiers, handed it to the widow. Herzenhagen gave a more emphatic jerk of his head.
No response. Gerard stood on tiptoe, peered at the President. Herzenhagen moved closer, checked his six o'clock again, saw only a stout middle-aged woman in a K-Mart dress, a worried-looking black man with a beard and a blue blazer, a couple of small children separated from their parents. No one he had to concern himself with. The President was moving down the reception line, would soon disappear into the crowd. Herzenhagen leaned toward the jumper.
"Vite!" he urged. "Allez-y!"
Gerard gave him a scornful look. "Speak English." A disrespectful mumble.
Anxiety clutched at Herzenhagen's heart. "Jump him! Now!"
The President reached the end of the line. Gerard cupped her ear. "Whassat?"
"What game is this?" Herzenhagen demanded. "Do it! Jump him!"
He had spoken too loudly: the K-Mart lady was frowning at him through her bifocals. Gerard pointed at his red Legion of Honor ribbon.
"Your laundry tag is showing, Phil."
The President was disappearing. Herzenhagen lunged after Gerard, grabbed her lapel.
"Jump him!" Trying to keep his voice level.
And suddenly she wasn't Gerard at all, but a mocking Howard Hughes, grinning through his little goatee. "Wanna date with Rita Hayworth?" Hughes said.
Herzenhagen realized who'd been behind it all. "Howard!" he screamed, and raised a fist, not really knowing what he was going to do with it....
Something cannoned into him from behind. He stumbled and fell flat on a Navy man's grave, saw black hands close on his like steel bands, heard a voice screaming in his ear, "He's gat a gun!" Screaming over and over. He tasted autumn leaves in his mouth. He tried to struggle, but was pinned. From somewhere came the scent of gunpowder and gun oil. Felt something underneath him, a solid iron lump, and more hands closed around him, white hands this time, and as he was lifted from the earth he saw something under him, a pistol, not his pistol but another; and he stared at it in shock and looked around him for Hughes and the black man, but he couldn't see either one, and rude hands were patting him down, demanding his name. His own security, unarmed and unable to intervene under the eyes of the Secret Service, had long since faded.
The President, down below, had already been husded into his limo and was gone.
"Hughes," Herzenhagen said. A Secret Service man looked at him.
"Is that your name, sir?"
Herzenhagen straightened and realized he was in deep trouble. "I want my lawyer," he said.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Shad's nerves howled at him to stomp on the gas and get the hell away from Arlington, but the bridge across the Potomac was jammed. Instead he moved the rented limo into the queue, and waited.
"Did you see the way I fucked with his mind?" Croyd barked. He had his little-crabcake-lady appearance again. "Man, the look on his face when I turned into Hughes!"
"I wish you hadn't done that," Shad said. "If people were paying attention, they might figure wild cards were involved."
"Fuck that! You think I give a damn?" He snarled at the stalled traffic ahead, leaned over Shad, hit the horn button. He looked like Marjorie Main on a rampage. "Move, you assholes!" he roared. Shad winced at the volume.
"Let's try not to attract attention to ourselves, okay?"
"Who gives a damn, Gravemold? Isn't that your name, asshole?" Croyd hit the horn button a few more times for emphasis, then jerked back into his own seat. Shad recalled how Croyd had attacked in the car on the night of the Governor's Island escape. The vibes were turning unpleasantly familiar.