No one spoke.
“Look,” Korinek said in his high-pitched, thin voice. “There are certain realities in America, in the world, that you have to live with. A powerful Jewish presence is one of them. Not total control, not a secret master-plot. At least, we don’t perceive it that way “
“The Party…!” Goddard began. “We won’t tolerate “
“The Party? What Party? Don’t delude yourself! Here, Goddard, let me make it simple. You and your ‘Party’ are freaks, anomalies, a bunch of fringe crazies who took advantage of a ghastly catastrophe and a sick old man to make a grab for power. The rest of us don’t want you, your Party, your Vincent Dom, or your jumped-up neo-Nazi theories!”
Goddard reared up to tower over the desk. “Freaks! Crap! The American majority is with us! You’re the anomalies… the buttoned-down liberal ‘elite’… the money-men… the self-appointed ‘culture’ aristocrats… the ‘Civil Rights’ jizmoes nobody wants… not even the Blacks, who’ve had a bellyful of Jewish landlords and merchants and patronizing liberal do-gooders! We’re America!” He reached for his peaked cap. “We’ll see what President Outram has to say about this!”
“You’ll find the President essentially agrees with my point of view. He wants the Blacks and certain other… uh… unassimilable minorities out. But he’s ready to work with the traditional interests to keep our Jewish citizens.”
“‘Traditional interests?’” Goddard parroted. “Traditional money, traditional media, traditional Jewish power! In spite of all Outram has done, the Jews and their collaborators still have a death grip on this country! On the world!”
“We haven’t hurl a single Jew,” Wrench put in, very reasonably, in the same tone he used when lecturing to the uncommitted. “They’re being sent to the Izzie colonies in Russia, sure, but nobody’s stopping them from taking their personal property and whatever else they can use there, no matter what Dee-Net’s propaganda says.”
“We think our Jews are valuable here. They add many cultural dimensions to our society.”
“God damn it!” Goddard flared. “Some of us don’t shy away from calling a spade a spade! We are tired of Jews! We have had it up to here with Jews! For two pogging thousand years we have worried about Jews… for or against! We’ve kicked ‘em out, we’ve put ‘em down, we’ve been nice to ‘em, we’ve invited ‘em in, we’ve leaned over backwards to remedy ‘past wrongs,’ we’ve got down on our knees and apologized for accusing them of killing Christ…! And what do they do? They work night and day to bleed us, to subvert our values, to subjugate us, and to make us over in their image! We’ll find your ‘holding camps’ and put your ‘prominent Jews’ on the next plane to Ufa! If you get in our way “
“You’ll what? The armed services are ours.”
“Bullshit! You want to ask ’em? Pick up your goddamned telephone and call General Hartman… General Dreydahl… Admiral Canning!”
“Some of those men aren’t what you think. Others will have to resign very soon or end up in custody. Your Cadre? Colonel Lessing, I believe your units are currently up in Quebec, watching the pretty autumn leaves.”
“How in hell could Outram agree to this?” Wrench wondered. “Last time Mulder talked to him…?”
“Money?” Lessing surmised. “Power?”
“Can’t be. Outram’s never taken ‘contributions’ to change his opinions or his vote before. And he has power. Power he’s too sick to use any more.”
“Maybe that’s your answer.”
Liese rose and straightened her skirt. The smoke-grey, silken fabric shimmered as she moved. “I think we’ve heard enough.”
Korinek got to his feet also, a pale, solid wall of a man. “We’ll give you time to dismantle your Party apparatus and crawl back into the woodwork. A month. No more. After that it’ll be treason trials, I.R.S. audits… arrest, imprisonment, and whatever else we have to do to get rid of you!”
“Nice meeting you again,” Wrench observed affably.
Korinek stroked his fish-belly-white jaw and watched them depart.
Gordy Monk met them outside at their car. Three more escort vehicles stood nearby, engines running. “The President’s secretary just phoned,” the bodyguard told them. “Mr. Mulder’s coming down.”
They could see from the angry color in Mulder’s cheeks that his meeting with Outram had gone much like theirs with Korinek. He didn’t say a word. Goddard got into his armored PHASE limousine, made a “see you later” sign, and sped off, leaving Mulder and the others to climb into their own vehicle. They would meet back at the Party’s Washington headquarters, the big hotel on M Street that had been commandeered after Starak had turned its owners into permanent absentee landlords.
As they drove. Wrench wriggled out of his uniform jacket, although the damp October morning was not hot. They turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and headed for Washington Circle.
“Stop the car,” Wrench ordered. Monk obediently pulled over to the curb.
Mulder leaned forward and whispered, “You think this will work?”
Wrench made the finger-signal that warned of the likelihood of microphones. Aloud, he said, “Gordy, see if there’s anything wrong with the engine, will you? The damned thing’s heating up again.” Their chauffeur got out and raised the hood.
Liese and Lessing had not been told what was to happen. This was standard Party policy: the fewer who knew, the fewer slip-ups. They watched as Wrench opened a compartment in the armrest and took out a plastic-wrapped object, some ten inches long. The covering came off to reveal a lobster-looking thing of blue-black metal. Wrench muttered about “seeing what was wrong with the car,” opened his door, and contrived to drop his coat into the gutter. He swored isgustedly. When he picked the garment up again, the lobster was gone, down into the storm grating beside the curb.
“It’s green light now, Commander Wren,” Gordy announced. He banged the hood down, made a show of wiping his hands on his handkerchief, and got back in.
The rest of the trip passed without incident.
The “safe room” in Mulder’s suite in the old hotel was a windowless box five meters square, perhaps once a serving pantry for the wealthy guests who had once dwelt here. Liese had furnished it with a pair of sofas covered with sombre, brown-and-grey Navajo blankets, a desk, four streamlined, black Glassex chairs that resembled agonized modem sculptures, and two comma-shaped coffee tables that looked like Yin and Yang. The pictures on the beige walls were hotel kitsch: big, ornate, gilded frames containing uninspired landscapes.
“All right,” Lessing said when he had shut the insulated door. “Let’s hear it.”
Wrench made a little bow. “Eighty-Five?”
A red light on the desk blinked on, and the machine’s Melissa Willoughby voice purred, “Yes, Commander Wren?”
“How’s our pen doing?”
“Quite well. The transmitter has already sent me twelve telephone conversations and seven verbal messages which were directed to my White House terminal.”
“So that was why you wanted a presidential pen!” Liese shook her head in wonderment.
“Yup. I kept the first pen he gave me. I fished our replacement out of my pocket, palmed it, and traded it for one out of Korinek’s box.” He pulled a pen from his jacket and flipped it to her. “Here’s the first one. For Patty.”
The computer said, “I have become quite expert at miniaturizing my components and peripherals, Miss Meisinger. The pen transmits signals on the frequencies I myself employ. The second device, the one Commander Wren dropped off on your return, is a mobile transceiver; it enhances the pen’s messages and forwards them by tight beam to my terminal here.”