Hall flinched again as Mary flicked on her bedside light, and he turned in the bed, face red, vein in his forehead pounding, ready to unleash his rage on his mistress. But as she shrank back the feeling evaporated, replaced by a creeping cold somewhere in Hall’s chest. The whole bedroom felt like an icebox.
“Fulton?” Mary’s voice was small, timid.
He let out a breath. “I’m fine. It was a bad dream, that’s all.”
He turned away, drawn once more to the gap under the closet door. Mary said something but he didn’t hear it, but her light went out and she turned over, leaving Hall to contemplate the darkness. He listened to her breathing a while, listened to her as she lay perfectly awake, terrified in the middle of the night.
Terrified? Hall sniffed and lay back down. What did she have to fear? She’d been there, at the test. She’s seen her. She knew too, she had to.
Hall lay still, as still as he could, as he watched the closet. War, she’d said. War was coming. Well, that was his job. He was a soldier. War was his business.
But… but there was no pleasure to be had in war. Satisfaction, yes. Perhaps even ambition. But war was not a thing to be enjoyed, or savored. And the way she had said it, like she was appreciating a fine vintage wine. She was looking forward to it, the woman who didn’t even exist in the same world as the rest of them.
Hall blinked, his eyes dry. The gap under the closet door remained black this time.
She was going to destroy the world. He knew that now. Mankind didn’t matter to her. The test, out there in the harbor, it wasn’t for him, it was for her. She had to be sure the device would work, not for anyone’s benefit except her own.
What did she fear, if not the end of the world? Hall gulped a lungful of air that was too cold and Mary moved beside him, clearly listening, waiting for him to fall asleep.
Nimrod. She feared Nimrod, so much so that she’d had him removed, using her puppet, the Secretary of Defense. Nimrod was the final obstacle, that had to be it.
He knew what he had to do now. She’d said he would have a part to play, and play it he would. Only there was a chance, he knew, to defy her, to control his own destiny. She could be stopped. He couldn’t do it, but Nimrod could. He held the key.
She would be angry, of course. The wrath of a goddess. Hall pulled the sheets to his chin, his body folding into a fetal position beneath the covers as he watched the closet. If he could save the world, it wouldn’t matter. He could stop her. He could also… escape from her.
Hall swept the covers off and stood. Mary turned in the bed and watched him, but she remained silent.
He felt relief and he felt a calmness, like he was floating in a warm bath. He moved to the closet, and with a final look at the gap beneath the door, opened it and took his uniform from where it hung on the back.
“You’re leaving? I thought you said you would stay the night.”
Hall paused only a moment, then slipped the jacket off the hanger.
“Sorry,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t press any further. He heard her move on the bed, but he didn’t turn around. He thought he should perhaps say goodbye, say it properly, explain everything, but knew that she could be watching, listening. He had to act now, quickly.
Dressed, he picked his cap off the dresser and turned back to Mary. She looked at him with wide eyes that glistened wetly in the dark, and he thought of the blue light that spun in the eyes of Evelyn McHale. And he thought of how he would be free at last.
He said goodbye, said he loved her, and closed the bedroom door behind him.
As Mary turned over, in the gap between the bottom of the closet door and the thick carpet, a blue light shone.
FORTY-ONE
It was cooler in the holding cell, which was a relief. Gone were the bag and the shackles, allowing Nimrod some small comfort, at least.
He couldn’t sleep. He paced the cell, a space hardly more than twelve feet by ten, his eyes on the cement floor, watching the toes of his boots. They were scuffed, and the boots — knee-high riding boots, his particular favorites brought with him from England thirty or more years ago — needed a clean, a wax and polish. He paused in his pacing and examined the toes of the left. The leather was thin, worn. Maybe he needed a new pair. If he ever left the cell.
He began to pace again. How many hours he had been kept locked up, he wasn’t sure, but dawn was just a couple hours away.
He knew his arrest and incarceration was most likely illegal, the charges certainly fabricated, the whole charade engineered to remove him cleanly and without fuss. Rather than a straightforward disappearance, the accusations of Communist leanings and his subsequent public confession would be used to shut him and the Department down, allowing Atoms for Peace to step in and take over the whole operation, lock, stock and barrel. Controlling New York, controlling the Fissure. The Director would have what she apparently needed to enact her terrifying plan: access to the Fissure, unimpeded.
Nimrod paused as someone walked past his cell. The door had a small square window, which was shut, but the relatively thin metal of the cover allowed sound to penetrate the cell admirably. Although he hadn’t been able to see anything through the black bag when he’d been brought in, he imagined the corridors outside the cell swarming with MPs.
Nimrod chewed on a thumbnail. He had to see the President. While it was clear the Director had got to him, the President was a good man and an old friend. And even if he was dazzled by the wonders that Atoms for Peace — the very organization the President had created — could offer him and the country, he would listen, Nimrod was sure of it. Nimrod’s position within the hierarchy of government was unique; his influence spread far and wide. He could not be ignored.
However, time was running out. They would remove him quickly. He doubted there would be a military tribunal — on paper, certainly, records could be created, a transcript composed. But Nimrod knew that the next journey would be to the gas chamber or the electric chair, whichever was available in DC for the federal death penalty.
More footsteps outside. Their volume increased; then they stopped. Nimrod turned. Either it was time to be fed, or this was it. The Department would be no more; he would be executed while federal agents and MPs massed at the Empire State Building, arrested all agents, consigned every file in the office to sealed secure document boxes for burial in the Nevada desert.
Keys in the door, loud, taking forever. Nimrod thought of the old days, the freedom of flying his airship across the polar skies.
The door was opened by an MP, who smartly stepped back to allow an officer in. The door remained open as General Hall ventured inside the cell and removed his hat. Beyond, Nimrod could see two MPs waiting outside in profile, each staring at the other’s nose.
Hall saluted, and Nimrod found himself doing the same.
“Captain Nimrod, I’m here to ask you one question and one question only. I hope you’ll answer me truthfully and that you won’t take much time about it, because time is the one damned thing that the whole world is running out of. Do you understand me?”
Nimrod could swear the General spoke with a slight slur, but he couldn’t smell a thing on the man’s breath. He looked Hall up and down, remembering the officer was responsible for the most terrible of weapons the United States had at its disposal. General Hall talking about time running out didn’t fill Nimrod with confidence.
Nimrod’s mustache rolled above his upper lip. “Is that the question, or is there another one coming?”