The Victorious Opposition (24 page)

No one gave Anne anything close to a hard time. She found that instructive; people in the CSA took Featherston’s orders seriously—or at least they’d learned they would be sorry if they didn’t. Anne rode a bus to the enormous Olympic stadium on the northern outskirts of town. It hadn’t existed when she’d left the country two years earlier. Now the great bowl of marble and concrete, Confederate and Party flags aflutter all around the rim, dominated the skyline in that part of Richmond. Other Olympic buildings and the village where the athletes lived surrounded the stadium.

In the stands near her, Anne heard American accents from both CSA and USA, clipped British tones, Irish brogues, and people speaking French, German, Spanish, Italian, and several languages she didn’t recognize. For that matter, she had trouble following some of the French she heard. When the couple with the odd accent cheered the athletes from the Republic of Quebec, she understood why.

Black men from Haiti and Liberia competed along with everyone else. When a Haitian sprinter won a bronze medal, Jake Featherston looked as if he’d swallowed a big swig of lemon juice. In France, Anne had heard he’d had to accept the Negroes’ participation on equal terms, like it or not: otherwise the Games would have gone elsewhere. She wondered how furious Featherston was, and whether he could extract any sort of revenge on the International Olympic Committee.

But that was a question only a handful of insiders would know about. To most citizens of the Confederate States, to most of the swarms of visitors from abroad, all that mattered was whether the Olympics came off well. By that standard, Featherston and the CSA were doing fine.

A Confederate runner narrowly beat a man from the USA in the 800-meter run. The crowd went wild. Anne clapped and yelled as loud as anyone else. She would never be behindhand in cheering for Confederate victories over the damnyankees. She wished there were more of them, and on fields different from the track.
One of these days,
she thought.
Maybe one of these days before too long.

W
ith a grunt, Clarence Potter rose from the seat he’d been occupying for what seemed like forever. He hadn’t wanted to pay for a Pullman berth from Charleston up to the Confederate capital. Now he was paying in a different way: with a sore back, and with eyes gritty from lack of sleep. His seat had reclined, but not far enough. He’d managed to doze a bit on the way north, but he hadn’t got nearly enough rest.

As he stood and grabbed his carpetbag from the rack above his head, the weight of the pistol in the shoulder holster reminded him of the weapon’s presence. He wondered if Freedom Party goons would be waiting for him when he got off the train. If they were, they’d be sorry.

But no one troubled him on the platform or in the station. He hurried through the cavernous building, and got to the cab stand outside ahead of most of the other passengers, who’d had to go to the baggage car to retrieve their suitcases.

“Where to, pal?” asked the driver of the frontmost cab when Potter got in. The fellow added, “Freedom!”

“Freedom!” Potter echoed, hating the word. He felt the weight of the pistol again. “Ford’s Hotel, across from Capitol Square.”

“Right you are.” The cabby put his auto—a middle-aged Ford imported from the USA—into gear, waiting for an opening in the traffic. “You here for the Olympics?”

“That’s right.”
Among other things,
Clarence Potter thought. “I know they started a couple of days ago, but I couldn’t get away from work till now. These days, you hold on tight to a job if you’ve got one.” He’d had more flexibility than he let on, but the driver didn’t need to know that.

The fellow nodded. “Ain’t it the truth?” he said. “Even this lousy job—I couldn’t very well leave, could I? Not if I want my kids to eat, I couldn’t. Business was crummy till the Games started, too—you’d best believe that.”

“Oh, I do,” Potter said solemnly. “Times aren’t easy anywhere.”

“Yeah.” The driver pulled away from the curb. Behind him, the next cab moved up to wait for a passenger.

Richmond had changed since Potter last saw it. Of course, that had been during the dark days at the end of the Great War, when U.S. bombers were methodically knocking the Confederate capital flat. Now it seemed so fresh and clean, someone might have rubbed the buildings and even the sidewalks with soap and water. And maybe someone had, to give visitors the impression Jake Featherston wanted them to have. Potter wouldn’t have been surprised.

Freedom Party stalwarts stood on every other corner. They weren’t wearing their usual bludgeons, and were giving strangers directions. How long would they stay on their best behavior? Till the Olympics were over, no doubt, and not a minute longer.

In Capitol Square, a Mitcheltown—what the damnyankees called a Blackfordburgh: a shantytown full of people who’d lost their jobs and lost their homes—had flourished for years. It was gone now, with no sign it had ever existed. Where were those people? Were they all working? Potter laughed under his breath. Not likely. But they were out of sight, which was what mattered to the present masters of the CSA.

Ford’s Hotel was a great white pile of a building, with Confederate flags flying everywhere on it. The cab wheezed to a stop in front of the entrance. Potter gave the driver half a dollar, which included a dime tip. He carried his bag up the low stairs leading into the hotel and past the doorman, an immensely tall, immensely fat Negro in a uniform gaudier than any the C.S. Army issued. Potter recalled the getup from his wartime visits to Richmond, though he didn’t think this was the same man wearing it.

He checked in, got his room key, and put his clothes on hangers and into drawers, as if he were an ordinary traveler. Then he went downstairs again and spent five cents for a copy of the
Richmond Whig
, which gave him a schedule of Olympic events.

President Featherston will watch the swimming competition tomorrow,
one story said,
to cheer on Richmond’s own Peter Dawson, who will be aiming for the gold medal in the 400 and 800 meters.
Potter nodded slowly to himself. The swimming stadium would be a good place to try: much smaller than the great bowl where the athletes competed in track and field.

Every story in the paper seemed to glorify Featherston, the Freedom Party, the Olympics, Richmond, or all four at once. What made that particularly disgusting, as far as Potter was concerned, was that, up until the Freedom Party took power, the paper, as its name showed, had been strong for the Whigs. No more. Not many papers in the CSA persisted—or were still able to persist—in opposing the Freedom Party and the president.

“Which is why someone has to do something,” Potter murmured.
And who better than me? I should have seen this coming before anybody else. Hell, I did see it coming, but I couldn’t take Featherston seriously. My only consolation is, nobody else did, either.

Without Jake Featherston, what would happen to the Freedom Party? Nothing good. Potter was sure of that. Featherston was the glue that held it together. Take him away, and the pieces would fly apart. They would have to . . . wouldn’t they?

Potter ate a big steak and a mess of fries in the hotel restaurant. Then he went up to his room and turned on the wireless. It was full of stories about—what else?—Jake Featherston, the Freedom Party, the Olympics, Richmond, or all four at once. The wireless stories were very smooth, smoother than those in the paper. Whoever had put them together knew what he was doing.

The next morning, Potter ordered a plate of ham and eggs.
The condemned man ate a hearty meal. Well, why not?

He got another taxi and took it to the swimming stadium. Tickets were three dollars apiece—not the worst daily wage for a working man. Potter set three brown banknotes on the counter, took his ticket, and went inside.

For a tense moment, the smell of chlorine rising from the huge swimming pool put him in mind of Great War gas attacks. He had to fight down panic—had to and did. Then he worked his way toward the presidential box. He couldn’t get as close as he would have liked. Freedom Party guards in their almost-Army uniforms surrounded Jake Featherston. Potter sighed. He’d expected nothing different. He would have to wait for his chance, if it ever came.

He settled into his seat, right by an aisle that gave him at least the illusion of a chance to get away. He drummed his fingers on his thigh. How long would Featherston watch? Would he go do something else before Potter found a chance?
You’ll find out,
Potter told himself.
Wait. See what happens.

While he waited, he watched the swimmers. He cheered “Richmond’s own Peter Dawson” as loudly as any of the men around him with their Freedom Party pins. He’d always thought of himself as a patriot. The difference was that, to him, Confederate patriotism didn’t start and stop with the Party.

Dawson didn’t win the gold in the 400 meters; a swimmer from Sweden did, by several lengths. But the hometown hero did win a silver medal. Better yet, he outkicked a man from the USA to do it. Cheers rang through the swimming stadium. After shaking the Swede’s hand, Dawson pulled himself from the pool and waved to the crowd.

“Frankfurters! Git your frankfurters! Twenty-five cents! Frankfurters!” The colored vendor roamed up and down the aisles, hawking the sausages. Clarence Potter handed the man—whose graying hair said they were about of an age—a quarter. He got back a frankfurter on a bun wrapped in waxed paper. As Potter unwrapped it and began to eat, the Negro hurried up the aisle once more. “Frankfurters! Git your frankfurters!”

The medalists got up onto the victory stand. A pretty girl put the medals—gold, silver, bronze—around their necks. They all grinned and shook hands with one another. A band blared out what Potter presumed to be the Swedish national anthem, though he didn’t recognize it. Up went the Swedish flag, yellow cross on blue. The Stars and Bars and the Stars and Stripes rose on flagpoles to its right and left.

When the anthem ended, the three young men descended from the platform. They were still chattering excitedly. Peter Dawson and the swimmer from the USA might have been friends. Maybe they were. Potter wondered how often they’d raced against each other, how well they knew each other.

“Frankfurters! Twenty-five cents! Git your frankfurters!” Here came the vendor again, distracting Potter—and everyone around him—from the joy of the moment. Back in the Roman days, vendors at the Colosseum selling dormice in honey had probably made people miss the best moments of lions devouring Christians.

The Negro paused by Potter, taking another frankfurter from the enameled metal box he wore at his waist. A sweat-stained canvas strap that went around his neck supported the box, leaving his hands free. He handed the sausage to a woman across the aisle, got back a dollar banknote, and gave her three quarters in change.

“Frankfurters! Git your frankfurters here!” The vendor stopped again, two or three steps farther down. For a moment, that meant nothing to Clarence Potter. Then he realized no one there had called or waved for a frankfurter. The Negro reached into the box just the same. What he pulled out this time wasn’t a bun wrapped in waxed paper. It was a submachine gun with the stock sawed off short to make it easier to hide. With a wordless shout of fury and hate, he aimed it in Jake Featherston’s direction and started shooting.

Guards toppled, wounded or dead. People screamed. The president of the CSA went down, too. Did he dive for cover, or was he hit? Potter didn’t know. He
did
know the surviving guards were going to fill the Negro full of lead . . . and probably everyone around the fellow, including himself. With hardly any conscious thought, his own pistol sprang into his hand. He shot the Negro in the back of the head.

The colored man crumpled as if all his bones had turned to mush. He was surely dead before he hit the stairs. By sheer luck, the submachine gun didn’t spray any more bullets when it clattered off the concrete.
You poor damned fool,
Potter thought.
If you’d only waited a little longer, I would have tried to do it for you. Now—sweet Jesus, maybe I’ve gone and saved Jake Featherston’s worthless life.

“Drop it!” Four Freedom Party guards screamed the words at the same time. They pointed Tredegars and submachine guns of their own at Potter. Very slowly and carefully, he laid down the pistol.

“Don’t shoot him!” somebody close by called. “He just killed that goddamn nigger—and where the hell were
you
?”

“That’s right!” someone else said, voice cracking with excitement. “He’s a hero! He just saved President Featherston!”

Those rifle barrels didn’t waver, but the guards held their fire.
Maybe I didn’t save him,
Potter thought hopefully.
Maybe he got one right between the eyes. Maybe . . .

But no. Jake Featherston stuck his head up. He had a pistol in his hand. He wouldn’t have been easy meat for anyone.
With a little luck, he won’t recognize me,
Potter thought.
He hasn’t seen me for years, after all.

Featherston’s eyes widened. He recognized Potter, all right. Then one of his guards—who didn’t—said, “This guy killed the nigger who was shootin’ at you, sir.” Other people called Potter a hero, too. Hero, here, was the last thing he wanted to be. But he was stuck with it—and so was Jake Featherston.

B
ack in the Gray House, Jake Featherston gulped down a whiskey and set the glass on the presidential desk. Across the desk from him, Clarence Potter, annoyingly calm, sipped from a drink of his own. Jake said, “So you were sitting right there close to me, and you just happened to have a pistol in a shoulder holster.”

“I didn’t just happen to have it.” Potter sounded annoyingly calm, too. “I’m an investigator. Some of the things I investigate are pretty unsavory. I always have a pistol where I can grab it in a hurry.”

“And you never once thought of plugging me?” Featherston said.

“Of course not,” Potter answered. His face said,
If I did, do you think I’m dumb enough to admit it?