The young man sat back, chewing on some imaginary straw, then nodded. But there was a hesitancy in what he said next. "I think I see what you're getting at. We have the money, so that's not it. That's not our key, right? Because we can't use money against them. TheyVe got it tightly bottled up as far as money's concerned."
Kustow came forward and leaned over the table, facing him. "That's right. But the very fact that we have the money gives us an edge. The fact that if we wanted to, we could call on some forty to fifty million between us, that gives us power."
Stevens took his hand from his mouth. "I don't see it, Bryn. How? If we can't use it, how does it help us?"
Kustow half turned and looked at Lever. Again, Lever nodded. Slowly, Kustow straightened up, then, without another word, he left the room.
"What's going on?" Parker asked, laughing uncertainly. "What is this, Michael? Some kind of revolutionary cell we're forming here?"
Lever looked at him calmly and nodded. "That's just what it is, Jack. But we're joining, not forming it."
Stevens had tilted back his head and was scratching beneath his neck. For a moment he said nothing, then, slowly, he began to laugh, his laughter getting stronger. "Well, I'll be. . . ."
Kustow was standing in the doorway again. "Gentlemen, I want you to meet an old school friend of mine. A man who, we hope, will someday make America great again." He stood back, letting a tall, dark-haired man step past him, into the room.
Stevens had stopped laughing. Parker, beside him, gasped and half rose from his seat.
"Hello," said Joseph Kennedy, smiling and putting out his hand. "It's good to meet you. Bryn's told me a lot about you two."
kennedy leaned BACK in his chair and stretched out his arms, yawning and laughing at the same time. The table in front of him was cluttered with half-filled glasses and empty wine bottles. Around the table the young men joined in his laughter, pausing to suck on their cigars or drain a glass, the air dense with cigar smoke.
They had all known Kennedy, of course. You could hardly grow up in the North American Above and not know the Kennedys. Even after the fall of the Empire, a Kennedy had overseen the period of transitional government and, through his influence and skill, had prevented the great tragedy from becoming a debilitating catastrophe. This was that man's great-great-grandson, a figure familiar from the elite MedFac channels. When his father had died, eight years back, he had inherited one of the biggest legal firms on the East Coast and had not hesitated to step into his father's shoes at once. Now, however, it seemed he was tired of the legal game. He wanted something bigger to take on.
Which was why he was there, speaking to them.
Joseph Kennedy was a big, good-humored man, handsome in the way that all the Kennedys were handsome, but with something else behind the good looks; something that made people look at him with respect, perhaps even with a degree of awe. He was powerful and charismatic, like an animal in some ways, but supremely intelligent with it. His mind missed nothing, while his eyes seemed to take in more than the surface of things.
Though he was a good six years older than the men he had come to meet, there was a youthfulness about him that made him seem one of them. He had made them at ease quickly and with a skill that was as much inherited as his vast personal fortune. But he did not play upon his charm. In fact, the opposite was true. When he spelled out what it was he wanted from them, he made certain that they knew the cost of their involvement. It would be bad, he told them. In all likelihood they would be disinherited before the year was out, estranged from their families. At worst there was the possibility that they would be dead. The stakes were high, and only a fool went blindly into such a game.
That said, however, he reminded them of their breeding, and of what there was to gain.
"Freedom," he said. "Not just for you, but for all men. Freedom from the old men who chain you, but also freedom from the Seven."
"We will make deals," he said. "At first our enemies will think us friends, or, at worst, accomplices. But in time they will come to know us as we really are. And then they'll find us worse than in their darkest dreams."
And when he said that he paused and looked at them, each in turn, measuring how each one faced him and then, as if satisfied, nodded to himself.
There was more, much more, but in essence they knew what he wanted of them. Loyalty. Obedience when the time came. Support— covert at first, but then, when he asked it of them, out in the open. When the time was right they would mobilize all their resources; four out of hundreds across the great continent who would rise up and change the face of North American politics for all time.
Behind them were discussions about the Edict, about the immortality treatments and the latest terrorist attacks in Europe. Now, at the tail end of the evening, they were talking of other things. Of women and ball games and mutual friends. Kennedy had been telling them an anecdote about a certain Representative and the daughter of a Minor Family. It was scandalous and close to the knuckle, but their laughter showed no fear. They were as one now; wedded to the cause. And when, finally, Kennedy left, they each shook his hand and bowed their heads, mock solemn, like soldiers, but also like friends.
"Was he always like that?" Stevens asked Kustow when he had gone. "I mean, was he like that at College, when you knew him?"
Kustow stubbed out his cigar and nodded. "Always. If we had a problem we went to him, not to one of the teachers or the Head. And he would always sort it out." He smiled, reminiscing. "We idolized him. But then, in my second year, he left, and everything changed."
There was a moment's silence, an exchange of glances.
"Does anyone fancy a meal?" Parker said, breaking the silence. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving."
"Sure," Kustow said, looking to Stevens, who nodded. "And you, Michael?"
Michael hesitated, then shook his head. "Another time, maybe. Right now IVe got to sort something out."
"Mary?"
He looked back at Kustow, wondering how he knew, then laughed. "I spoke to her earlier. Said I'd see her sometime this afternoon. I..."
There was a hammering at the outer door.
"What the hell?" Kustow said, turning to face the sound.
"Do you think. . . ?" Stevens began, looking to Michael.
"No," Michael said quietly as the hammering came again. "But whoever it is, they sure as hell want to see someone in a hurry."
He went across quickly and slid the door back, then strode out across the plush expanse of carpet in the reception room. The three men followed him, standing in the doorway, watching as he slid back the bolt and stood back, pulling the double doors open.
Outside, in the dimly lit corridor, stood a Han. A tall Han in plain green silks with mussed hair and a distraught expression.
"T'ai Cho!" Michael said, surprised. "What in the gods' names are you doing here?"
"It's Kim!" T'ai Cho said breathlessly, grasping Michael's arm. "He's been arrested!"
"Arrested? For what?"
"At the Patents Office! They say he stole the patent he was trying to register! You have to do something, Shih Lever! You must!"
"What is this, Michael?" Parker asked, but Kustow touched his arm and gave him a look, as if to say "leave it."
"I'll come," he said, looking across at Kustow. "Bryn, will you get word to Mary. Tell her that I've been delayed. I..." He turned back. "T'ai Cho ... has Kim got legal help?"
"No ... no, he .. ."
"Okay." He patted T'ai Cho's arm, as if to reassure him, then looked back at Kustow. "Do you know where Kennedy was off to, Bryn?"
"Just home, I think."
"Good. Then contact him. Tell him I need him. Tell him . . . tell him a good friend of mine is in trouble and that I'd appreciate his advice and help."
Kustow smiled and nodded.