The Inner Circle (49 page)

“Jesse’s dead.”
 

“What?”
 

“Your new friends killed him.”
 

Ian shook his head. “You can’t put that one on me.”
 

“I think I can.”
 

Behind us, there was a slight squawk from someone’s radio. A black mask made one appear from beneath a robe, spoke softly into it, then nodded at Ian.
 

“I guess that’s my cue,” Ian said.
 

I murmured something so quietly I barely even heard it myself.
 

Ian cocked his head. “Say that again?”
 

I murmured again.
 

We were standing less than ten feet apart. He eyed me suspiciously, then glanced at the black masks, before swinging the crutches forward and cutting the gap between us by five feet.
 

I murmured a third time, even more quietly.
 

“Ben, speak up.”
 

Ian leaned forward some more and that was when I kicked out at his left crutch. It was the one supporting most of his weight, and he started to fall. I kicked out again, striking him right in the face. The whole thing lasted maybe three seconds, and by then the black masks were pushing me past him down the corridor.
 

I shouted back at him, “I said your De Niro impression sucks!”
 

Ian shouted something back to me but I couldn’t make it out. I think I was laughing. The black masks, however, made no comment as they pushed me around another corner. We came to a door. One of the black masks knocked twice. The door opened and I was pushed through into a small dark room. Another black mask was standing guard. A chair was in a corner. And in the other corner Carver sat in a wheelchair, shaking his head at me like I was sorriest son of a bitch he had ever seen.

67

They shoved me to the empty chair. One of them had plastic zip ties, and they restrained my legs to the chair, my wrists behind my back, interlocking another zip tie through the back portion of the chair so I could hardly move. The black masks did this without a word, and when they were done they left without a word, leaving only me and Carver and the black mask standing by the door keeping watch.
 

Carver was maybe ten feet away in his wheelchair. He looked thin and frail. About what you would expect from someone who had been shot in the chest less than two weeks ago.
 

I said, “You look like shit.”
 

He said nothing.
 

“Seriously. It looks like you were shot in the chest or something.”
 

He said, his voice quiet, “What are you doing here?”
 

“Rescuing you.”
 

“And how’s that working out for you so far?”
 

I shrugged. “I envisioned it going differently in my head.”
 

“You shouldn’t have come here.”
 

“Yeah, well, you know how I hate to miss a party.” I looked at the black mask standing by the door. “Mind giving us some privacy so my friend and I can talk shit about your boss?”
 

The black mask gave no response.
 

Carver said, “How did you find me, anyway?”
 

“Your boojum.”
 

“You actually managed to get in contact with him?”
 

“You sound surprised.”
 

“I am. At the time, it was the only thing I could think to say. But then after some reflection, I realized just how difficult it would be.”
 

“What can I tell you?” I said. “I’m good at what I do.”
 

“Says the guy tied to a chair.”
 

“I’ve been in worse spots than this.”
 

Carver shook his head slowly and whispered, “I don’t think it can get much worse than this.” Then, his eyes lighting up briefly: “How did my boojum know where to find me?”
 

I glanced again at the black mask. “Seriously, buddy, mind giving us a few minutes alone?”
 

Unsurprisingly, the black mask again gave no response.
 

Carver said, “Can you even see anything without your glasses?”
 

I smiled at him. “Contacts.”
 

“How do they feel?”
 

“Not very good.”
 

“Sorry to hear it.”
 

“Not your fault.”
 

“How’s everyone back home?”
 

“They’re okay. Jesse died.”
 

“Shit.”
 

“I know.”
 

“Was it bad?”
 

“Pretty bad, yeah.”
 

“Shit.”
 

“I know.”
 

“Anyone else?”
 

“Ian apparently decided to model his life after Judas Iscariot.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“He sold us out.”
 

“How do you know?”
 

“We had a nice little chat out in the hallway before they brought me in. Anyway, what happened to you?”
 

“I was shot.”
 

“No shit. But what happened afterward?”
 

“Difficult to say. I’d been shot before, but never this badly. My entire body, it went through phases of hot and cold all at the same time. I lost consciousness for a while. At one point I remember being in an ambulance. They must have had it right outside the hotel the entire time, or nearby, because they started working on me right away. They had to have, because somehow they managed to keep me alive. Then I drifted back out of consciousness, and the next thing I knew I woke up in a hospital bed.”
 

“But you weren’t in a hospital,” I said.
 

“Not a proper hospital, no. But I think I was there.”
 

“Where?”
 

“Their base of operations.”
 

“What makes you think that?”
 

“Just a hunch. There wasn’t a window in my room or anything, but the place was completely white and spotless. Some doctors came in. They introduced themselves as being the very best. Who knows, maybe they were. They managed to take the bullet out of me, patch me up, put me on an IV. But I’m still pretty weak. I don’t think I could even walk on my own, though I haven’t really been given much of a chance. I’ve been restrained since I first woke up. First to that hospital bed, then to this wheelchair.”
 

“Did you meet Caesar?”
 

“No. I asked to see him but was told his schedule was too full. You?”
 

“I heard him speaking earlier tonight. Sounded like a real douche bag.”
 

Carver said nothing. He barely even cracked a smile. I had seen him angry before, even depressed, but this expression now—hopelessness—was something I had never seen. I wanted to tell him about the team outside, about Bae and his team, about how right now the Kid was listening in to everything we were saying. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he probably suspected there was another transmitter on me.
 

A knock came from the door, two quick taps. The black mask opened it.
 

“Well, well, well,” I said dryly. “Why am I not surprised?”
 

FBI Assistant Director Edward Stark stepped into the room. He wore suit pants and a white dress shirt. The lighting in the room wasn’t very good, but his face looked pale. His eyes were drained. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, or if they did they were so quiet and faint they could barely be heard.
 

He took another step forward, though it wasn’t really a step so much as a stumble. Then, quite suddenly, he tripped over his feet and fell flat on the floor, smashing his nose against the linoleum. Blood splattered the titles and began pooling around his head.
 

It was almost as much as the blood seeping out of his back, from where the handle of a knife protruded.
 

Through the doorway stepped another person. This person was dressed in a black robe and cowl and gloves and white Bauta mask.
 

And for the third time that day, I found myself saying, “Hello, Congresswoman.”

68

She stepped carefully over Stark’s fallen body and walked right up to us. Another black mask followed her, carrying a cushioned folding chair. The black mask opened it up and set it down right in front of us, then stepped back so she could take a seat. As she did, she took off her mask and smiled at me.
 

“You’re not surprised to see me?” she asked.
 

“Not really. My father always told me it’s never wise to trust a politician.”
 

“And yet here you are.”
 

“Your point?”
 

“You’ve been wasting your time. Not just with your friend here, but your entire life. I told you how I read that thing of yours you posted online. What I didn’t tell you was I found it to be quite an amusing narrative.”
 

“What was so amusing about it?”
 

Behind the congresswoman the black mask who had deposited the chair and another black mask began cleaning up Edward Stark’s body. Opening one of those large rolls of clear plastic tarp. Hefting the body onto the plastic tarp. Rolling the body back up in the plastic tarp.
 

“You’re not a hero, Ben. You never were. Your friend might have put ideas in your head, made you think you’re more important than you really are, but I’m telling you the truth. You’re weak. Foolish. Naïve.”
 

“Are you trying to arouse me?”
 

She sighed and rolled her eyes.
 

“Seriously,” I said. “How did you know deprecation is what gets me off?”
 

Congresswoman Houser said to Carver, “You’re certainly quiet.”
 

“I don’t even know who you are.”
 

The congresswoman gave me a blank look. Behind her, the two black masks had picked up the body wrapped in the clear plastic tarp and were now carrying it away.
 

I said, “What, so now it’s my job to make the introductions? Fine. Carver, this is Congresswoman Francis Houser from North Carolina. If I ever have a chance to write another amusing narrative, I’ll be sure to note that she’s a lying bitch.”
 

“Now, now,” she said, wagging a finger, “no reason to be uncouth.”
 

I said to Carver, “Did she really just say uncouth?”
 

He nodded. “I believe she did.”
 

The congresswoman sighed again. “If you two aren’t going to take this seriously, then I’m not going to waste my time.”
 

“Why are you here anyway?” I said. “To rub it in our faces? To boast about how smart and powerful you and your asshole friends are?”
 

“You misunderstand us, Ben. That’s why I came to see you. That, and I needed to eliminate poor Edward back there.”
 

Behind her two more black masks—or maybe they were the same ones as before—came in with buckets and towels. They got on their knees and began cleaning up the blood, while the third black mask—the one who had been standing by the door this entire time—watched on silently.
 

I said, “A bit overdramatic, wouldn’t you say?”
 

“Perhaps. But I liked the way you tried to warn me about him. Like you were trying to protect me.”
 

“I gave him the same warning about you.”
 

“Is that right? So then you never truly trusted either of us.”
 

“Again, is there a point?”
 

She said to Carver, “You believed Edward set you up, didn’t you? At least initially. You may not know it, but he began suspecting the very same thing you did. About the games. So it was decided something needed to be done. Instead of eliminating him outright, we approached him quietly to try to learn what he knew. We figured if we kept him close, we could someday use him to our advantage.”
 

“Who’s
we
?” I asked.
 

She stared at me for several long seconds but said nothing. Behind her, the two black masks on the floor looked as if they were wrapping up.
 

“Your husband,” I said. “He was never a member of the Inner Circle, was he?”
 

She shook her head sadly. “No, I’m afraid he was not.”
 

“So then why did he die?”
 

“Because he refused to accept the truth.”
 

“And what truth, pray tell, is that?”
 

“You can sit there and hide behind your wall of sarcasm for as long as you’d like, Ben, but the reality is our world is in serious trouble. There’s nonstop war, famine, genocide—”
 

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I heard the same line of bullshit from Caesar earlier tonight.”
 

“It’s natural to be frightened of things you do not fully understand. You view us as evil. You think what we do is morally wrong. But what you have to understand is we’re just trying to save the world. Your father was right—it’s never wise to trust a politician. But this isn’t a political thing. Republicans, Democrats, Independents, even Libertarians—they’re all here tonight. So are different members of Parliament. Almost every religious viewpoint is represented here as well. Don’t you understand just how wide reaching this is? Our world is in serious trouble, and if someone doesn’t do something about it, we will all die.”