Gibbon's Decline and Fall (9 page)

Throughout all those decades of dedication, Jake saw Webster personally only once. It happened on October 31, 1985, when Jake was thirty-five years old. On that day he was accepted as a formal member of the Alliance. After weeks of feverish anticipation, during which he rehearsed over and over the casual remark he would make about his possible relationship to the great man, he had been ushered into a large office, high up in one of the most luxurious buildings in Chicago. Suffocating falls of ashen draperies covered the windows and muffled any outside noise. Bluish lamplight pooled on an ebon carpet thick as swamp ooze. From behind a desk carved like a catafalque, Webster rose, to beckon Jake forward with a single curve of a pale, expressive hand. Jagger, who had been cautioned to keep his mouth shut, had been amazed at his difficulty in moving at all, in simply keeping his balance.

What Webster said was: “Mr. Jagger, I am happy to welcome you to membership in the Alliance.”

Thirteen words. Though it was far from the acknowledgment Jake had hoped for, Jake did not utter a word about fathers and sons—not then, not subsequently. Over the next few days Jake managed to convince himself that such a query would have been inappropriate, ignoring the fact that in that room, in Webster's presence, any query would have been impossible. There was something quite awful in Webster's manner, an aspect that stifled small talk. In that high, smothered room Jagger had not only seen but felt him, like a hot wave that started just behind his eyes and flooded throughout his mind, examining every thought and approving them all. Every insight: approved. Every ambition: approved. Every aspect of himself was accepted, as he was, as he intended to be.

A more fanciful man than Jagger might have made a story out of this, but despite all his reading, Jake had no imagination. He did not wonder about Webster's psyche or substance. He simply told himself that a man with Webster's wealth and power would be different from other men, and Jake revised his own expectations to accord with that difference. His rapid
advancement in the organization and his acceptance by Webster himself was proof that a relationship between him and Webster existed. If Webster didn't want to talk about it or want others to know about it, fine. Jake could imagine some good reasons for keeping the matter private. He could wait.

Two years later he knew his patience had paid off when, as a doggedly faithful, unquestioning member of the Alliance, he was sent to Santa Fe with the suggestion that he marry well, beget children, and become well-known. With the help of people Jake had come to know well and pay well, he had done so, picking a wife on the basis of her fortune, wooing her relentlessly, charmingly, as he had learned to do with possible candidates for membership. He had wordlessly and methodically raped her on their wedding night and thereafter as needed until two pregnancies—the first had resulted in a girl—had been achieved. As soon as the children were old enough, he had packed them off to the Alliance headquarters, where children of members were educated. He was not fond of them. They were only pieces in the game, the boy an elusive stranger and the girl a receptacle for which some use might eventually be found. Just as his wife, Helen, was a piece in the game for which some other use might be found.

Below Jagger's aerie a car nosed its way onto Hyde Park from one of the tangle of little streets below Gonzales. It turned upward, the headlights painting twin cones of yellow across the juniper- and chamiza-flecked hill. Without meaning to, without knowing he was, Jagger held his breath. The car slowed as it neared the entry to the hilltop complex, slowed even more, hesitated, then turned in to begin the steeper climb toward the house.

Well. He lifted his chin, settling his collar, then smoothed his hair with both hands. It was good hair, graying but full, well cut, the forehead line echoing the line of his eyebrows, also gray and full. His face was heavy, but the heaviness was in the bone, in the prowlike thrust of the jaw, the impressive mass of the temples. Some might have judged the eyes too small for this face, too deeply set and veiled. No one would deny their concentrated alertness.

He watched a moment longer, making sure the car was coming to this house, then strode to the door and waited just inside. To open it in advance would seem too eager. To be slow answering it would be impolite. He let the steps approach,
the doorbell ring, then counted one, two, three, four, five before thumbing the latch.

“Mr. Jagger,” said an unfamiliar voice, coming from an unfamiliar person—a slight rumple-suited form wearing a creased, anonymous face behind thick-lensed glasses.

Ah, but Webster was there also, almost invisible in the dusk, looming over the shoulder of the little man.

“Mr. Keepe is one of our people,” Webster said in his sonorous, hypnotic voice.

“Raymond Keepe.” The smaller man nodded, bobbed, cocked his head, birdlike.

Jagger stood aside, half bowing them in. Keepe divested himself of a wrinkled topcoat. Webster wore none. Jagger hung up the coat and led the way down the hall into the spacious room beyond, where lamplight pooled on saltillo tile and leather chairs, on Navajo weavings and parchment-shaded lamps made from prize-winning Santa Clara pots.

“Very ethnic,” Keepe said, smiling.

“It goes over well with the neighbors,” said Jagger uncertainly.

“One must keep up with the neighbors,” Webster murmured with slight amusement, as though responding to a witticism. He strode to the window and looked out over a hundred miles of desert and mountain, one hand briefly extended, as though to touch the fabric of the world. “You've done well, Jagger.”

“I've followed orders, sir.”

“Oh, we know.” Webster turned, selected a chair, sat down comfortably, and gave Jake an approving look. “We've come to reward you for that.”

Jagger flushed, paled, felt himself swaying, held his breath, and chose to say nothing.

Webster smiled.

“Mr. Webster is enjoying the fruits of success,” said Keepe in an alert and cheerful voice. “Which he hopes to share with you. The Alliance has recently accepted several new applicants for membership.”

“Ah,” murmured Jagger. “Important people.”

“Important entities,” murmured Keepe.

“At least, so they believe,” said Webster, a chuckle in his voice.

Jagger took a deep breath and dared. “May I ask …?”

“The Vatican,” said Keepe. “And its allies in Arabia, Iran, Iraq, as well as factions in certain other Muslim nations.”

It was the last thing Jagger had expected. Though it was common knowledge in the Alliance that the pope's views on women accorded well with those of the ayatollahs, that matter was not usually spoken of publicly in the U.S.

“It was only a matter of time,” Webster said, still with that air of amusement. “Better sooner than later.”

Keepe said, “Better sooner, certainly, as we have only a few years left until final collapse.”

“I thought twenty years or so,” Jagger murmured, slightly confused.

Keepe shook his head. “So we had thought, but the destruction is moving faster than that. Our people say all the fish will be gone in five years; most of the birds in three to five more. The amphibians are already down to a few scattered species. Mammal species are half what they were fifty years ago, and the rate of extinction is increasing. Starvation deaths in Africa and Asia are up. The progun people are stronger than ever, and armament sales are being increased to fuel tribal wars on every continent. The final starvation, emigration, extermination cycle has already begun. Alliance must take control in the next ten years in order to be in a position to save our members.”

“Some of our members,” said Webster with a small smile. “It was never intended that we save them all.”

Keepe accepted the correction. “Certainly, sir.”

“Still,” Jagger marveled. “The Vatican.”

“The cardinals grew tired of hearing about women's issues.” Keepe grinned. “Aren't we all most dreadfully tired of women's issues?” He sniggered, a tee-hee like a sneeze, as quickly over.

This seemed to stir some response in Webster, who looked up and asked idly, “Where's your wife, Jagger?”

“In her room, sir. Would you like to meet her?”

“Why would I want to meet her?” The voice was faintly chiding, as one might tease a much-loved child.

Jagger flushed at the warmth, at the acceptance it betokened, more than he had expected. “Only a customary phrase, sir.”

That slightly amused smile once more. “Of course, Jake. Of course. I merely wanted to be sure we were not overheard.”

“Tush,” said Keepe. “It won't be long before we can forget such caution. Soon the return to our heritage, and after that the solution of many problems, including those of womankind.”

Webster gestured impatiently. “This isn't why we're here.”

“Of course, sir.” Keepe leaned forward, becoming businesslike. “Mr. Jagger … May I call you Jake?”

Jake nodded, annoyed despite himself. What did it matter what this lackey called him?

“Jake, the Alliance timetable is being moved up. The American takeover will be in 2008 instead of 2012, as originally planned. We still plan a political coup. Obviously, candidates must be readied now. We'd like you to run for lieutenant governor this fall.”

“Lieutenant …” Jake hid his disappointment. “Of course, if that will help.”

Webster purred, “Inasmuch as something will almost certainly happen to the governor, we think it will help, yes.”

Jake kept his face carefully blank. Governor. It wasn't what he'd hoped for, but it made sense.

Keepe sat back, hiking up his trouser creases with twitchy fingers. “Once you are governor, acting or de facto, we can consider the next step.” He gazed expectantly into Jake's face.

“Next step?”

“The elections of 2004 and 2008. We'll need candidates for a number of offices. Including the presidency, of course.”

“Of course,” Jake managed to say above the thundering of his blood. Of course. The presidency.

Webster waved this subject away with the movement of one forefinger. “It's too soon to make any commitments about that. All you need to know right now is that Keepe is here to help you, Jagger. He'll take charge of your life for you. In fact, he already has.” He laughed, an enormous joviality, as startling and unexpected a sound as an avalanche, amplified, larger than life. The room rocked delightedly with laughter while Webster warmed Jake with his smile.

Jake grinned back, showing his teeth. Here was what Jake wanted! To be like Webster! He did not say so. He merely grinned and nodded his understanding, his lips stretching, his head bouncing, all of themselves.

Webster fell silent, regarding Jagger approvingly once more. Jagger's mouth and head stopped moving, he dropped
his eyes, as from a bright light. Averting his eyes was an instinctive reaction. Though he thought of it as a respectful gesture, it happened without his volition.

Keepe pursed his lips, nodded. “We're already in a very strong position in this country, of course. We've taken over all of the antigovernment militias, most of the religious groups who think of themselves as conservative, plus what's left of the KKK and the American Nazi party, but they're only pocket change. We now own the Republican party. Any moderates still hiding in there have been flushed out. We've been managing the press for over twenty years now, and the public is accustomed to our view of the world.”

Jagger paid attention. “I didn't realize …”

“Oh, yes. People don't want to absorb new information. They like predictability. So as long as we don't surprise the public with the truth, we're free to move as we like. Very shortly we won't even have to be covert about it. And then, of course, people are sick of issues. Civil rights, human rights, women's rights—people are tired of all that. You understand?”

Jagger nodded, falling back on an all-purpose acknowledgment. “I'm flattered to be included in our plans.”

Webster moved at that, lifting one aristocratic nostril. “Don't misinterpret this personal visit as an accolade. That would be premature.” He took the chill from the words by leaning forward, opening his hand toward Jake as though inviting his attention. “I often make such trips, checking things, being sure there are no misunderstandings. A good rule is always to keep in touch oneself, to know things firsthand.”

Jagger nodded obediently, hearing a father's voice in the words. This wasn't rejection; it was discipline. Jake was accustomed to discipline. He took a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

Webster gave him a glance of proprietary pride and said:

“I want you to be obedient, Jake.”

Jake flushed at the emotion he was feeling, a great welling of warmth, a wonderful acceptance. He couldn't speak.

Keepe waited politely. When neither of the others said anything more, he leaned forward to tap Jake on the knee. “Our people have been over your past with a fine-tooth comb: your finances, relationships, everything back to your birth. There's nothing there—or I should say there's nothing there
now
—that could raise an eyebrow. The hospital records say your mother was a hardworking widow who died young. The
Defense Department records say your father was an American hero who was killed in Korea. We've created a history for you, for anyone who goes looking.”

Jake felt a moment of vertigo, almost of nausea. He had aspired to another fatherhood than the one they had just awarded him, but Keepe was going on, nodding to himself as though ticking off a list.

“I do my job well, Jake, and Mr. Webster expects us to work together. I'm sure you'll be easy to work with. I'll handle all the details: the campaign, the publicity, funneling the money in, everything. Right now I'd like to know if you have a current prosecution that would make a good media hook.”