AFTER LANDING at the White House, Reen followed Marian down the ship’s ramp to the south lawn. The shouts from the reporters at the fence were a wordless cacophony, distant as Marian’s laughter across the Appalachian snow, muted as the cries of the gulls swooping in from the Potomac.
Reen noticed with relief that the boy with the Vespa and backpack had disappeared. And he saw that, near a boxwood hedge, Tali was waiting.
Reen lifted a hand in greeting. “Cousin Brother.”
Tali didn’t reply. There was something important to be discussed, Reen realized, and Tali wouldn’t talk until Marian left.
Reen took a hasty and somewhat ungracious leave of Marian. Pensively, he watched her stride across the grass to her limo parked in the circular drive.
“Cousin Brother Firstborn,” Tali said without preamble as soon as she was out of earshot, “Jonis is missing. The Loving Helpers who were with him have been found dead.”
Reen regarded his Second Brother, by birthright the guardian of his conscience. “Where were the Loving Helpers found?”
“They were put into trash bags and placed by a newspaper stand on Constitution Avenue.”
“Such a thing has never happened before.”
“As soon as one human pattern establishes itself, another pattern supersedes it. Therefore we should not trust patterns.”
It was Tali’s right to give advice to his First Brother, but Reen also had a right to ignore it. “How were the Loving Helpers killed?”
“I thought it tasteless to ask, Reen-ja. Hopkins seemed very distressed at having to tell me, and I myself was uncomfortable hearing the news.”
Reen lifted his face to the clouds scudding across the pallid December sky. “Why should that make you uncomfortable? By now the others have all died in captivity anyway.”
“But no one is aware of our weakness, Cousin Brother.”
“The kidnappers know. Does Director Hopkins have any idea why this crime was different?”
“Hopkins believes something went wrong and the kidnappers were afraid of being seen. That is why they took Jonis and murdered the Loving Helpers. But then he understands these things better than I,” Tali said with unconvincing humility. Humility was something Reen’s Second Brother had never been very good at.
“Does he have suspects?”
Tali watched Marian’s limo nose its way through the iron gates and the barricade. “He says the CIA.”
Reen gazed after the limo as it rolled out into the E Street traffic. “Hopkins accuses the CIA of everything, Cousin Brother.”
Tali suddenly faced Reen. “You tell her too much.”
A fractious breeze shadowboxed with a bed of chrysanthemums nearby, making the heavy-headed flowers duck and weave. Only Tali, Cousin Brother Conscience, had the right to address Reen so sharply, and he exercised that right too often for Reen’s taste. “She has been implanted, Tali. She’s been under my control since she was a child.”
“Control or not, what she knows will make her hate us. Why do you insist on telling her?”
It would have been foolhardy to explain. The fact was that Reen couldn’t help himself. Time had knit them. Unravel the thread of Marian, and the weave of Reen’s life would fall apart.
“Remember, duty is to the Community, Reen-ja,” Tali said.
Reen dipped his head in acceptance of the criticism. “And I realize it is your duty to remind me.” Reen made his way to the West Wing, leaving his conscience standing in the watery sunlight by the boxwood hedge, staring after him.
The Rose Garden was littered with wet brown leaves. As he picked his way through the rosebushes, which had been cut back and bagged like corpses for the winter, Reen noticed Hopkins watching from a window. By the time he opened the French doors and entered the Oval Office, Hopkins caught up with him.
“You talk to Cole?” the director asked.
Reen took a deep breath. The Oval Office was redolent with the smells of lemon oil, peach potpourri, and old smoke from the fireplace. “Of course I have talked to Cole. You must have seen us come off the ship together.”
Reen felt crowded by everything: Marian, the threat of war, the dark undercurrents in the Congress. And he was terrified above all else of being stalked. His fear made him feel so lonely, he nearly confessed it to Hopkins.
“It’ll be all over the six-thirty news,” Hopkins complained. “Marian gets all the media attention. How do you think that makes me look? Where do you two go, anyway?”
Reen curtly changed the subject. “Tell me about Jonis.”
“Jonis? Oh, the last kidnap victim. Listen, Tali tells me Jonis was in charge of your defense. What if he talks?”
Reen thought of Marian and the flat indicting look in his Cousin Brother’s eyes. “He won’t talk.”
“If the CIA’s behind it, Jonis is going to spill his guts.”
“He won’t talk.” Reen pointedly looked away from Hopkins and at an enameled table, a state gift from India.
“You want to give me permission to search Langley?”
“No.” Reen strode out of the office, through the reception area, and to the colonnade.
“Well, okay. So don’t worry. If he doesn’t talk, we’re home free. I’ve got the thing under control.”
“If things are under control, where is Jonis?”
“He has to be with the rest of them, right? We’re trying to get them back, but solving a kidnapping is slow.”
“If solving a crime goes slowly, things are not under control.” They entered the main building at nearly a trot. Reen passed the White House pantry where a dark-suited member of the kitchen staff looked at him curiously.
“We’re talking to witnesses. That’s all we can do for the moment.”
In the elevator vestibule Reen paused.
“Where are you going?” Hopkins asked.
The nice thing about the FBI director was that he wore pleasingly dark suits and somber ties. But there were times Reen wished he could replace him. The White House chief tired of the man’s inane questions. “Upstairs.”
“To see Womack?”
“Is there anyone else upstairs I might want to see?”
“No.”
“Then it is obvious I plan to visit the President.” The elevator arrived. As Reen stepped into the car, Hopkins put his hand to the door.
“He’s losing it bad. He’s hired another medium. Did you know that? And his whipping it out in front of the whole NSC ...”
Reen moved to the back of the small paneled elevator. “The President acts senile, but I know better. Get your hand off the door.”
The director shook his head. “Our collective butts are in a sling, and he’s not doing a damned thing about it. If Womack had any sense left, he would have signed that tariff bill this morning instead of pissing on it.”
“Did you ever stop to think at what point the President upset the meeting? He planned the interruption. Get your hand off the door.”
Hopkins pulled his hand away. “He planned that? What are you talking about?”
Reen hit the button. “He tells me he’s on strike.”