Empire of Lies

Also by Andrew Klavan

Damnation Street

Shotgun Alley

Dynamite Road

Man and Wife

Hunting Down Amanda

The Uncanny

True Crime

Corruption

The Animal Hour

Don't Say a Word

An Otto Penzler Book
Orlando Austin New York San Diego London

Copyright © 2008 by Amalgamated Metaphor, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Klavan, Andrew.
Empire of lies/Andrew Klavan.—1st ed.
p. cm.
"An Otto Penzler book."
1. Missing children—Fiction. 2. Terrorists—Fiction.
3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.L334E47 2008
813'.54—dc22 2007033052
ISBN 978-0-15-101223-7

Text set in Bodoni Std Book
Designed by Linda Lockowitz

Printed in the United States of America

First edition
K J I H G F E D C B A

This book is for Otto Penzler.

At issue ... was the question whether this sick society,
which we call Western civilization, could in its extremity
still cast up a man whose faith in it was so great that
he would voluntarily abandon those things which
men hold good, including life, to defend it.

-Whittaker Chambers

My name is Jason Harrow. I live on the Hill. It's an exclusive neighborhood in a small city about 800 miles west of New York. I won't say where exactly because I still get death threats from time to time.

You've probably heard of me in connection with the End of Civilization as We Know It. Unfortunately, if you get your news from the mainstream media—the television networks and the
Times
and so on—much of what you've heard has been distorted or is downright untrue. You know how that goes. If I had been some left-leaning crackpot who blamed America for being under attack, no doubt they'd have portrayed me as a hero, likely given me some neo-superman nickname like "Peace Dad" or "Heartland Patriot," as in "Heartland Patriot Assails American Foreign Policy." Even if I'd been an Islamo-fascist madman plotting to slaughter the innocent in their thousands, they'd have at least made me out to be a victim of some sort, a hapless product of Western imperialism, something like that, whatever.

But because I'm a political conservative and, even worse, a believing Christian, the networks and the
Times
and all the rest have consistently depicted me as small-minded and pinch-hearted, a bigot and an ill-educated fool. My motives have been impugned, my past raked over for scandal, and my religious convictions ridiculed and dismissed. Before I attempted to speak my mind during a television interview—when, because of my past associations,
the media assumed I was a liberal, one of them—I was described in news reports mostly as "a Midwestern developer." After the truth became known, all that changed. The
Times,
for instance, has never once written about me since that day without referring to me as "conservative Christian asshole Jason Harrow." Of course, for
Times
readers, the "asshole" is understood.

So I've decided to tell my story myself, all of it, as honestly as I can. I won't try to pretty myself up or argue my case or win your good opinion. I won't leave out the things I've done that I'm ashamed of, even the thoughts I've thought that I wish I hadn't, and there are plenty of them. I know that God has forgiven me, but God is funny that way; I won't expect the same from you. I ask only that you hear me out and save your final judgment until the end.

The day it began was an autumn day, a Saturday afternoon in October.

I was sitting in a cushioned chair on the brick patio at the edge of my backyard. The air was clear and warm with a hint of chill in it. There was a wind off the lake across the way—thunderstorms coming, though they weren't yet visible over the water.

I was looking down half an acre of grassy slope to where my two boys, Chad, ten, and Nathan, seven, were organizing some kind of Frisbee game around the swing set with some of their friends from the neighborhood. The boys were letting their three-year-old sister, Terry, tag along with them. I found this very heartwarming.

I was forty-five years old. The reedy figure of my youth was growing thicker at the chest and waist, but I was still trim enough. My once-sandy hair was thinner and darker, with a sprinkling of gray. My once-boyish face was not so boyish anymore, though I think it was what they used to call an honest face, smooth, clean, and open, the blue eyes bright.

My wife was in the kitchen making us some lemonade. My wife was named Cathy and I can't say how much I loved her, not without sounding like a sentimental idiot, anyway. We had been together twelve years then, and I still sat up sometimes at night and watched her sleeping. Sometimes I woke her because I felt so grateful for her and so passionate I couldn't help but trace her features with my fingertips. If this bugged the hell out of her, she
never let on. But then, she was a cheerful and generous creature who would melt into lovemaking at a look or a touch.

We had a deal between us, Cathy and I. Our deal was simple. It was agreed to at the start in no uncertain terms.

When I first came to this town from New York seventeen years ago, I edited the local paper. I started out as city editor and was promoted to managing editor pretty quickly. The city had an insanely left-wing government at the time, and so, of course, it was spiraling into bankruptcy and chaos. There were high taxes supporting lavish payoffs to the unions, high crime because of lenient judges and tight restrictions on the police, and strangulation by regulation for any businessman stupid enough to hang around. It was a government like a garrulous fat man moralizing over a dinner for which he would never pick up the bill. I helped run them out of town. My paper printed story after story showing why every one of their policies would fail and proving it by showing where they had failed in the past. Plus we exposed the corrupt political machine churning away as usual under all the welfare. Within three years, the voters threw the bums out. The unions were crushed in the next round of contract negotiations. Taxes and useless programs were cut. Bad guys started going to prison. New businesses started popping up, people started making money again, and—surprise, surprise!—the government's share of the profits brought it back from the brink despite the lower taxes. In short, the streets grew clean and the city grew rich, and my newspaper and I had a hand in it. For this, I can proudly say, I was roundly despised by some of the best-educated and wealthiest people in town. Something about my uncaring, insensitive editorial policy. Elites hate to be proved wrong by the common man.

My boss, however, liked me. The man who owned the paper was a billionaire land developer named Lawrence Tyner. He convinced me to leave the paper and come into his real-estate business. He taught me the ropes and helped me to invest in the city itself and the surrounding countryside. Ultimately, I made my fortune with him. And I met Cathy, who was one of his lawyers.

I didn't think much of Cathy at first. I didn't think she was all that pretty, for one thing. "Efficient-looking," I would've called her. She was short and full-figured, bordering on pudgy. She had medium-length brown hair and a sweet, friendly face. She always seemed harried, hurried, on the edge of panic, was always running off to some zoning-board hearing or other with her giant purse and a stack of folders under her arm. It made me nervous just to look at her.

Then one day around Christmas, her boyfriend broke up with her. I didn't know this at the time. He lived in another city halfway across the state. He'd been stringing her along for years. He was one of those horrible mild guys. You know? Really earnest and caring all the time. Narrowed his eyes a lot and nodded without lowering his chin, his lips all pursed and serious. For about five years, he used this New Man sensitivity to manipulate Cathy into hanging around. Then he met someone he liked more, and Cathy was out.

Anyway, our office Christmas party came along. Everyone was drinking and singing and getting up to mischief and so forth. I wasn't much of a drinker anymore, so after a while I took a stroll through the back offices to get some quiet. There was Cathy. She was sitting at her desk in the dark with a paper cup full of bourbon. She wasn't drunk or anything. She was just sitting there, staring into space. I peeked my head in her door.

"Everything all right?" I asked.

"I hate my life," she told me. This was a woman I'd said maybe twenty sentences to in the year since I'd been working for Tyner. "I did everything right, everything my mother said. She was a feminist, my mother, very fierce. She said I could have it all. She
told me what to do, and I did it. I got good grades, the best grades. I went to law school. I got a big job. I never depended on anyone. I even played softball when I was in high school. I hate softball."

This sounded like the start of a long evening. I went into her office and sat down across the desk from her.

"I have a sister," she said, gazing not at me but into the shadows. "She dropped out of college and got married. My parents went nuts, screamed and yelled. It was awful. My sister went to work as a secretary until she got pregnant. A secretary! Pregnant at twenty-two! And then she quit and stayed home and kept house! My mother nearly died. Now she has four children. Her husband owns a small construction company. He's a great guy. Treats her well. Loves the kids. And my sister is the single happiest person I've ever met." She was silent a moment. Her eyes seemed to grope for something in the darkness. Then she said, "I want her life. My sister has the life I want. I know I'm supposed to want my life, but I don't. I hate my life. I want hers."

It was a funny thing. Sitting still like that, staring into space like that, talking so quietly, she didn't seem as frantic and efficient as usual. She seemed softer, more vulnerable and much prettier than I thought she was at first.

We dated for three months after that, but I think I knew I loved her that night. We started talking about getting married. I was living in a quaint old two-story shingle on River Street back then. We were downstairs in the kitchen there, sitting over sandwiches. I said to her, "Listen, this thing, this modern thing where, you know, marriage is a partnership and we're equals, and we share housework and child care and all that—I'm not that guy. I'm, like, the because-I-said-so guy, the head-of-the-household guy, that's me. Marry me and I call the shots. I'll break my butt to make you happy, and I'll try to give you the life you said you wanted.
I don't cheat, I don't leave, and I am what I say I am. In return, I expect—I don't know—sex, dinner, some peace and quiet now and then; maybe some affection, if you've got any. That's the best I can do. What do you think?"

Without cracking a smile, she stuck her hand out to me across the table. "Deal," she said.

We shook on it. Then I chased her around the table, tossed her over my shoulder, and carried her upstairs.

So that was our deal. And I was thinking about our deal that very day—the day it all began. I was sitting on the patio, watching my children play and thinking about our deal and also thinking about a girl named Tanya. Now, Tanya was a college girl who worked in my office over the summer, an energetic, cheerful blonde with a bright, pretty face and a tight, electrifying figure. And I was thinking about her because I had spent a certain amount of late July and part of August fighting the urge to fuck her senseless.

She had given me a number of indications that fucked senseless was exactly what she wanted to be. She was an expert flirt. Her gaze was admiring whenever I spoke. Her smile was warm, her perfume intoxicating. She encouraged me to play the mentor with her. I often found myself lecturing her on local zoning policy or whatever, just to get a taste of that gaze, that smile. At first, she flattered me a little. After a while, she flattered me a lot, calibrating her praise to my increasing credulity. And then there was her touch.... As the weeks wore on, she would sometimes lay a hand on my forearm when we spoke, or straighten my collar or brush an imaginary piece of lint from my chest. Once she even came up behind me and massaged my shoulders briefly as I was working at my keyboard. And yet ... yet she never took that last step. She never propositioned me. She never tried to kiss me, never so much
as stood on tiptoe. That last step, with all its risk of rejection and with all its moral responsibility—that she left up to me.