Pyotr watched a bewildering succession of election results from all across America. He knew nothing about anything but the presidential race, but he found himself gripped by the numerous tight contests. There was the governorship of South Dakota up for grabs. And a bitter fight for a congressional seat from southern Florida. The tallies — like those in the presidential race — swung back and forth. Sometimes they were separated by only a few hundred votes.
Behind the network anchorman a map of the United States was evenly divided. The southern and western states were dark Republican red. The northern tier of states was bright Democratic blue. It was a dead heat for the White House — as fascinating as any soccer match he’d ever watched.
‘Did I miss anything?’ Olga asked as she buttoned the top button of her blue jeans.
‘Santos has pulled back ahead of Dickson in Florida.’
‘Again?’
‘By under two hundred votes. They have over ninety percent counted, but they still can’t…’
‘Oh, look! Look, look, look!’ Olga said, pointing at the screen. When Pyotr saw they had brought up a map of California, he fumbled with the remote control to raise the volume.
‘I am now being told,’ the anchorman said, holding the earphone in place and pausing, ‘yes, I’m being told that ABC News is ready to make a projection for California, which has a sufficient number of electoral votes to decide the presidential contest.’ Olga clutched Pyotr in excitement, and he felt the tension of the moment.
There was a loud rap on the door. ‘With just three percent of the precincts reporting…’ the anchorman said as Pyotr muted the television and grabbed the shotgun. He headed for the door. Olga cowered behind him and then ducked into the hallway to the girls’ bedroom. Pyotr looked through the peephole, then turned to Olga. ‘It’s just Fred.’
Pyotr opened the door.
‘Your watch, Pete,’ the man said. ‘All’s quiet, but the lady in 304-D asked us to check on her every four hours or so. She’s diabetic and needs to take some juice.’
Pyotr turned back to Olga, and she handed him his jacket. ‘Would you like to step inside for a second?’ Pyotr asked. ‘They were just announcing the winner of the election.’
‘Oh, who gives a shit,’ Fred said. ‘Nothin’s gonna change. They’re a-a-all the same. When they get in office, they forget their promises before the balloons hit the floor, and start linin’ up votes for next time. Haven’t had a decent president in this country since Abraham Lincoln, if you ask me. The place is goin’ to hell in a handbasket, and who do we get to choose from — Marshall and Bristol! No-o, I don’t even vote any more. What’s the point? We’re spent. Kaput, I guess they’d say in your country. Yep, by this time next century, the world will belong to the slope heads.’
‘The who?’
‘You kno-ow.’ The man pulled the corners of his eyes back. ‘The Japs and Chinese. Too bad ole Honest Abe’s not around any more. You know much about Lincoln?’ Andreev zipped up his jacket and shook his head. ‘Yeah, well… That was back when we were really somethin’, ya know. A helluva country. Now,’ Fred shook his head slowly, ‘we’re just coastin’ down the hill built up by all that hard work. By the time we’re old men, Pete,’ he laughed, backhanding Pyotr’s chest with a sad grin, ‘we’ll be talkin’ about way back when like them old Britishers in movies after their Empire went poof.’ He shook his head one more time. ‘But, boy, this place was somethin’, it really was. We thought we had somethin’ goin’ here. It’s just a damn shame there ain’t no Abe Lincoln left in us somewhere. It’s just a da-a-amn shame.’
PART III
‘ “Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?” In systems like the weather, small perturbations cascade upward, and predictability gives way to randomness. Such is the problem with influencing the course of human events. You can change the direction of history, but you cannot know where that change will lead.’
Chapter Nine
‘If you’re going to get that driveway clear, Gordon,’ Elaine said as she cleared the dishes from the breakfast table, ‘you’d better get started.’
‘Just a minute,’ Gordon mumbled. He was right in the middle of a three-part series in the Washington Post on life in the U.N. forces in Siberia. ‘Did you know,’ Gordon said, raising his voice, ‘it gets so cold in Siberia that your breath freezes? When you exhale, it freezes right in front of your face and falls to the ground.’
From the center of his newspaper came a loud crumpling noise. Elaine stared at him with one eyebrow raised — her hand atop the paper. ‘Did you know it gets so cold in Maryland that water freezes and falls right onto people’s driveways?’
Gordon heaved a sigh and put the paper aside. ‘You’re not supposed to shovel snow first thing in the morning,’ he mumbled as he climbed into his overshoes. ‘People get heart attacks.’
‘Not people with five-thousand-dollar Sharper Image snowblowers,’ she said as she headed off.
‘It was nine hundred dollars!’ he shouted after her.
‘You were the one who wanted that thing,’ she replied from the kitchen. ‘It takes up half the garage, Gordon. Do you know how many times,’ she said, returning for more dishes, ‘we could have gotten our driveway shoveled if we had paid a neighbor’s kid nine hundred dollars?’
Gordon was shaking his head. He had her on that one. ‘That’s just the point. Neighbors’ kids aren’t reliable.’
‘And you are?’
Gordon let out a long, sustained huff. He rose to don his coat. The garage was dark, but the light came on when he hit the opener. The door made its noisy ascent, revealing a driveway covered with four inches of snow.
Gordon smiled. He clapped his gloved hands together and put his goggles over his eyes. The snowblower had a Kawasaki engine in it. He stretched his muscles and touched his toes before he began the effort of yanking the starter cord. Five hard pulls later, the cold engine showed no signs of life. Gordon stood and breathed deeply — gathering his strength for another assault Man’s work, he thought. Still, he should have gotten the top-of-the-line model. It was another two hundred dollars, but it had a patented ‘quick-start’ ignition.
He began pulling again and again and again. There were some sputtering sounds of life, but the engine didn’t catch. ‘Need some help, sir?’ the man said from just outside the garage. He wore dark sunglasses and a dark suit. An Uzi was slung over his shoulder as casually as a tourist would tote a camera bag.
‘Nope! Almost got it,’ Gordon said, breathing heavily. He pulled and pulled until finally the motor kicked in. He revved it up and looked at the agent with a smile. ‘Purrs like a kitten!’ he shouted. The agent turned back to the front yard and circled his finger in the air.
Gordon headed out of the garage into the bright sunlight. The engine made so much noise that he almost couldn’t hear the shouted commands of the senior agent right by his side. The handle of the snowblower vibrated as he revved it up once again. ‘Look out!’ he shouted to the two men along his property line to the right of the drive. They didn’t turn to acknowledge him. Their eyes were peeled and their fingers on the triggers of their own Uzis.