A Wizard of the White Council (15 page)

“Terribly convenient,” said Krastiny. He tugged at his exterminator’s coverall. “All of them in one place.”

“Yeah, I’d say,” said Schzeran. “Guess her brother Lithon’s having a birthday party. On election day, of all things.”

“Yes, indeed…” An electric jolt went down Krastiny’s spine. “What did you say?” he barked.

“Election day?” said Schzeran.

“No, no. Her brother. What is her brother’s name?”

“Um…Lithon, I think that’s what her father said. I could check the recording again…”

“No. Good work. Very good work. Head back to the compound. I think we have enough to report to our employer.”

“Roger.” Schzeran hung up.

Krastiny put away his phone and looked at Bronsky in the driver’s seat. “Drive. Back to the complex.” He sighed and looked at the Westers’ pleasant little house. What horrors would befall them at the hand of Marugon? “We need to have a long conversation with Lord Marugon.”

Bronsky grunted and put the van into drive. 

Chapter 12 - Kill Them All 

Anno Domini 2012

Cheers filled the campaign command center.

People packed the vast room, standing on desks and chairs and tables to get a better view of the speaker’s platform. Men and women with Gracchan Party badges on their shirts popped open bottles of champagne. Red, white, and blue balloons bounced around the room.

Wycliffe watched the scene from behind a curtain, unable to contain his own grin. Markham knew how to throw a good party. 

“We did it, Thomas,” said Senator Jones, his worn face animated with a smile. “By God, we did it.” Wycliffe bit back an acerbic comment and nodded. 

A hush came over the cheering crowd. Markham walked up to the speaker’s platform, a glass of champagne in his hand. He grunted, tapped at the podium’s microphone a few times, and set down his glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention.” A few whoops rang out. “If I can have your attention…thank you.” He beamed. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce the president-elect and vice president-elect of the United States of America…William Jones and Thomas Wycliffe!” 

Thunderous applause rang out. 

Wycliffe thrust aside the curtain and walked onto the speaker’s platform, Senator Jones at his side, the cheers washing over him in an unending wave. Wycliffe scanned the crowd, grinning. Gracchan campaign workers had packed the command center, and rows of TV cameras lined one wall, focused on the speaker’s podium. Wycliffe caught a glimpse of Goth, standing in the corner like a dark statue. A few other winged demons wandered the crowd, hidden in their slouching thug disguises. 

“Congratulations, Mr. Vice President,” said Markham.

“Thank you, Markham,” said Wycliffe, “and congratulations to you as well. None of this would have happened without your diligent work.” They shook hands, and Markham joined the other campaign managers in the front row. 

Wycliffe gripped the podium and spoke into the microphone, summoning the Voice into his words. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. At least, I think it’s still evening.” He glanced down. “Markham, what time is it?”

Markham glanced at his watch. “Um…quarter past one, actually.”

“Well, then, let me amend my words. Good morning to you all.” The crowd laughed. “I know it is customary for the president-elect to give a speech. However, Senator…rather, President-Elect Jones feels it would be inappropriate to gloat after such an astonishing victory. So, rather, he has tasked the gloating to me.” Laughter rang out. 

Wycliffe spread his hands and took a step back. “But what cause have we to gloat? So what if in a year’s time we have taken the Gracchan Party from obscurity to national leadership?  So what if we carried 396 electoral votes, one of the largest victory margins in the history of our country? So what if we had about seventy-seven percent of the popular vote, again one of the largest victory margins ever? And so what if the House of Representatives now boasts fifty-seven Gracchan members, and the Senate fifteen?”

In retrospect, it had all been so easy.  The countless speeches and the endless campaigning had paid off. The Voice had inflamed the voters’ emotions, driven them to the polls in record numbers. Marugon had been wrong. True power did not lie with technology. Instead it lay with the black magic, with the Voice. 

“Impressive victories, yes,” said Wycliffe, letting the Voice carry notes of triumph and elation. “But, I say, we have no cause to gloat! For it was the American people who elected us, the American people who voted us into office, the American people who turned out in record numbers to vote Gracchan. This is a victory for the American people, and it is not we who have cause to gloat, but they!” 

His speech rose to a shout, the Voice roaring in his words, and the crowd roared back at him. Even the cynical reporters and cameramen gazed at him with rapt awe. Another storm of applause rose up. 

Wycliffe waited for the crowd to calm. “We may not have cause to gloat, but we most certainly have cause to celebrate. A message has been sent to the wealthy, to the corrupt and greedy who would control our lives. We will not tolerate them! We are coming for them! And now let us celebrate, for tonight has been a victory for the United States of America!” A fresh roar came up from the crowd. “And now President-Elect Jones would like to say a few words.” 

Wycliffe stepped to the side as Jones took the podium. He considered using the Voice to dictate Jones’s speech and decided against it. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Jones, his voice magisterial, his face solemn and presidential. “I have only two things to say. First, I would like to thank all the campaign workers and volunteers who have labored so long and so hard. This victory would not be a reality without your diligent and faithful labors. And more thing.” An appropriate level of emotion welled up in his voice. If nothing else, Jones was a good actor. “God bless the United States of America!”

The crowd cheered again. Wycliffe and Jones smiled, shook hands, and disappeared behind the curtain once more. 

“We did it,” said Jones as they walked through the back corridor to Wycliffe’s offices. “We actually did it. President of the United States. I can hardly believe it. I’d wanted to be President since I was a little boy, you know. But…I never thought it would actually happen, not at my age…”

Wycliffe snorted. “Do you seriously think I have a spent a year and tens of millions of dollars in order to lose a presidential campaign?” 

Jones shook his head. “No. I suppose not. We have a lot to discuss, Thomas. Quite a bit needs to be decided. Appointments have to be made and so forth.” 

“Tomorrow,” said Wycliffe. “It’s late and it’s been a very long day. We can decide matters tomorrow.”

“One thing first,” said Jones. “I want Secret Service protection. Immediately.”

Wycliffe stopped. “What?” 

Jones quivered a bit but did not look away. “Secret Service protection. I want it at once. You refused it during the campaign. That’s all well and good, but I want it now.”

Wycliffe raised an eyebrow. “You don’t feel safe with my bodyguards? You’ll hurt Goth’s feelings.”

Now Jones did look away. “Goth…I don’t think he and the others have any feelings at all. I want Secret Service protection, Thomas, and I will get it.”

Wycliffe was astonished. Did Jones have a backbone after all? Perhaps he had planned to rebel after the election all along, hiding behind the office of the presidency. If so, then Wycliffe would nip this little insurrection in the bud. “Go to bed, old man,” said Wycliffe, the full command of the Voice behind his words.

Jones jerked, a muscle in his face shaking. 

“We will discuss this in the morning,” said Wycliffe. “Now go to bed.” Jones turned and marched away, stiff-legged. Wycliffe sighed and watched him go.

He might have to give Jones to Goth sooner than planned.

###

“Excellent, excellent,” said Wycliffe. He had plugged a microphone headset into his phone, freeing his hands to type at his computer. “I’m pleased we were able to come to agreement on this matter.” He had countless more phone calls to make in the next few days, thanking supporters, congratulating the new Gracchan congressmen and Senators, compromising with opponents. “Now, I believe that wraps everything up…”

Someone knocked, and Wycliffe glared at his office door. No one was to disturb him until after lunch. He hung up and removed the headset. “Come in. And this had better be important.” 

The door opened. Goth stalked inside, ominous in his black coat. 

Wycliffe dropped the headset on his desk. “I did not want to be disturbed.”

“The sniveling worm is here to see you.” Goth had taken a strong dislike to Senator Jones. “He insisted. I would have killed him, except you wish him kept alive.” 

“Gracious of you,” said Wycliffe. “Very well, let him in.” He smirked. “It’s time the new president and I had a chat. And if it doesn’t go the way I hope, well, I may give him to you sooner than I had planned.”

Goth’s grinned, yellowed fangs visible for a moment beneath his fake beard. Then he disappeared through the doorway. A few moments later Senator Jones strode into the office, clutching a sheaf of papers.

“Ah, Thomas,” said Jones. He pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down. “It’s time we had a discussion.”

Wycliffe folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “I couldn’t agree more.” 

“Well, good.” Jones hesitated, shuffled his papers, and plunged in. “I’ve come a decision concerning certain Cabinet appointments.” He dropped a list on Wycliffe’s desk. “These would work best. I want you to call them, ask them to serve. And I’d like you to take a speaking tour while I go to Washington for military and defense briefings.” He looked Wycliffe in the eye and trembled a bit. “And I’m going to get Secret Service protection, Thomas. I’m through with those…those monstrosities of yours in the black coats. They’re not safe, and I refuse to have anything more to do with them.”

Wycliffe chuckled. “You’re telling me what to do?”  

Jones licked his lips. “I am the President-Elect of the United States, and you are the Vice President-Elect.” His expression stiffened. “I am grateful for all your help during the campaign, certainly, but I will be president, and you will do as I say.” He stood. “I trust I am understood?” 

Wycliffe laughed. “William, William, William. I understand completely.” The Voice roared into his words. “Now sit down!” 

For a moment Jones struggled against the compulsion of the Voice, and then he plopped back into the chair. “Stop this at once, I insist…”

“Be silent,” said Wycliffe, and Jones’s jaw clicked shut. “Now, listen to me, you gutless worm. You’re quite right that it’s time you and I have a talk. When you walk out of that door…if you walk out of that door…you’ve going to have a clear understanding of your role here, do you understand?”

Jones’s eyes darted back and forth in his terrified face, silver hair falling over his sweating forehead. 

Wycliffe leaned forward, scowling. “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear. You did not win the election. I did. You may be President, but you will do as I say.”

Jones’s face twisted as he struggled to speak. “So…I’m…to be a figurehead?”

Wycliffe redoubled the Voice. “I said to be silent!” Jones’s jaw slammed shut. “This is how it’s going to be. You will do as I say. You will do all the speeches, the addresses before Congress, the political appointments, the top-secret briefings, the political appearances, all of it. You will be the President in the public eye. But you will carry out my instructions exactly. You will give the speeches I write, you will appoint the people I tell you to appoint, you do exactly what I tell you to do, no more, and no less.”

“That’s what you’ve really wanted all along, isn’t it?” whispered Jones. “You’re going to be President in all but name. I’ll take the blame for anything that goes wrong. You’ll squeeze two terms out of me while you rule behind the scenes. And then you’ll run under your own name for another eight years.”

Wycliffe snorted. “It’s taken you this long to figure it out? I’d always believed you to be a small-minded fool.” He got up, stalked around the desk, and glared down at the trembling older man. “And I want you to understand one final thing. I don’t need you.”

“What?” stammered Jones. “But…a figurehead…you said…”

“I’m vice president,” said Wycliffe. He grinned. “Try and think about that, old man. How does the vice president become president?”

Jones went white. “You wouldn’t…”

“Would I?” said Wycliffe. “I suppose you’re right. I wouldn’t kill you. Oh, no. I’d give you to Goth instead.” Jones flinched. “He hates you, you know. I’m not entirely sure why. I’m not too fond of you myself, but Goth despises you.” Wycliffe laughed and leaned closer. “He’d play with you for weeks, before he finally decided to kill you. And it would look like an accident once he was finished. I’d declare public mourning, make a solemn speech at the National Cathedral…and then I’d be president.” Wycliffe shrugged. “So what if I’m president in my own name a few years ahead of schedule? Once my two terms are up, there are other ways to control the new president, just as I’ve controlled you. I could be national security adviser, or the secretary of defense. Or I could even be vice president once again.”

“Someone will find out, eventually,” said Jones, his voice a terrified croak. “Someone will find out what you’ve done.”

Wycliffe snorted. “Pardon my language, but that’s bullshit. I’ve been a politician for eighteen years.” He smiled at the memory of Eddie Carson and the strategy that won a Senate seat. “I’ve used the black magic, in some way, to win every election since the first one. And no one has ever stopped me. Now, Mr. President-elect, here are your choices. You may serve as my figurehead. Do so, and you will have the respect of the world. You will be famous, admired, even beloved. You might even win a Nobel Peace Prize, if some of my foreign policy plans go as I hope. Or you may choose to stand on principle…which you’ve never before done in your miserable life, I must point out…and choose to defy me. In which case, I hand you over to Goth right now. He’s waiting out in the hallway.” 

Jones didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do what you want.”

Wycliffe beamed. “Very good, Mr. President-elect. I always thought you were a prudent man. Now go back to your rooms and relax. Have a martini, watch a movie. I have some more work to do. Tomorrow I have a list of announcements for you to make. I shall contact you then.” Wycliffe fluttered his fingers. “Go.”

Jones nodded, rose, and staggered from the office. 

Wycliffe was going to have to kill Jones much sooner than he had hoped. Perhaps he could wait a year, have Jones argue with Congress. Then Wycliffe could present himself as Jones’s successor, carrying on the great statesman’s battle against the corruption of the wealthy. 

Wycliffe laughed and picked up his phone. “Politics,” he said to himself, “is such utter nonsense.” 

The door opened again. Wycliffe scowled. “Now what…”

Vasily Kurkov strolled inside, trailed by two of his security people. He dropped himself in the chair Jones had vacated and propped his feet on Wycliffe’s desk.