Great Expectations Chapter XXXIII

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Chapter XXXIII pgs. 213-315

But in those moments before Alex reached the aisle, his father’s image flashed in his mind. And he could feel the words inside his bones. “I’m very disappointed in you.” Alex paused. Remordia, he thought. He wanted God’s peace, and he needed his father’s respect – that and the demi-god life he’d built. Save me from this craziness, he thought. He was Alex Lidecker. He could have anything he wanted. Well, he wanted it all.


Now several more people had gathered at the altar, and Alex recognized the one who was speaking. “The doctors say I have cancer, and I don’t want to die with these sins on my chest.” The man who spoke was Mathew Wisecraven, and he had worked with Alex. What’s more, he worked for Homeland Security. “They did a biopsy, and I go in for surgery next week. Doc says my chances are pretty good, but he says it’s in my liver, and he says that it probably started somewhere else.”

Alex wished for a curare dart and blowgun, or at least a cyanide bullet. Anything to shut Matthew’s mouth quietly and permanently. This was no time to be unburdening. This was a time that cried for secrecy, conspiracy. Alex had just survived a narrow brush with religiosity, and now this! So much was riding on discretion.

He hadn’t realized that Matthew was sick. Matthew was just a very average, graying guy with a small paunch, a small moustache, and a larger than average Adam’s apple. Alex scrutinized him for signs of illness, but there were none - or maybe just a hint of weariness around Matthew Wisecraven’s eyes. What sort of cowardice was this?

Frantically Alex thought about the secrets that Matthew had been privy to, hoping that he was only going to confess something about sex or drugs or swearing at his father. Surely anyone who worked for Homeland knew enough to keep silent.

“We made up the connection between Sadaam and Al Qaida. They hate each other. And we made up Iraq’s nuclear threat. The uranium deal – all faked. As if someone could build a nuclear bomb unnoticed by all the United Nations inspectors and all the American spy planes.” Mathew was pouring out secrets as if his very soul depended on them. Fortunately he was babbling so badly that no one in the congregation took anything he said seriously. At least Alex hoped that no one understood any of it.

“The threat to the bridges on the West Coast - we made that up too.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. “And they’re torturing the prisoners at Guantanamo, and I knew and never did anything about it.”

Alex breathed easier. It was old news. No one cared about nuclear bombs and bridges. And no one would believe that the United States could torture prisoners. Still, from here on in, Alex would have to make sure that Matthew didn’t get any sensitive information. Anyway, depending on what the doctors found, Matthew might not be coming back to Homeland ever.

The sense of God’s spirit was now a memory. Had it really happened? Was this some trick, some mass hallucination? He watched the people around him and considered himself an island of sanity amid a sea of hysteria. And he sat back down, realizing as he did so, that he wanted his demi-god’s life more than he wanted God’s peace. So be it.

But what about the others? In a panic, Alex looked around to see who else was in church. Who else might hear the sermon and get gabby? Ernie was there, but he had enough sense not to fall sway to that confess and repent routine. Alex was smarter and braver than God and he had a stronger will. No surprise here.

But then Alex realized that even the most loyal follower could turn coward when old age and death breathed into his nostrils. Someone about to die might get superstitious and need this mumbo jumbo to face up to the old grim reaper in the clouds. No more sensitive jobs to people over sixty-five, thought Alex, or to anyone with serious health problems. He might have to figure out a way to change the laws on age discrimination, but he probably wouldn’t have to go to too much trouble. No one was about to accuse this administration of prejudice – not this administration.

Finally it was all over, and people left in a long line, stopping to shake the pastor’s hand on the way out.

“Great sermon, moving.” But Alex said the words mechanically. Actually, he wanted to flog the reverend with a bullwhip. Unconsciously he made a fist and pictured it beating the man’s face into bleeding meat. Alex could almost feel the pastor’s teeth cracking from the power of his imagined blows. He wanted to curse, to will pain, suffering, on the man. And you call yourself a Christian, he thought, a Christian and a patriot. How dare you! If Alex had had the power to damn to hell, the pastor would have been struck down right there on the Church steps. Alex realized that he’d have to be more careful about what was preached in places of worship.

So much to hold down! So much to control! Was anyone else at Homeland or in the White House dying? This was no time for deathbed confessions! Medical records were hard to obtain, but not impossible. In fact, nothing was impossible to obtain in the name of national security. Strange, death used to be Alex’s friend – not just a tool, but more like a comrade working by his side, helping to fulfill Alex’s new American dream. He’d never considered death a problem before.

Great Expectations Chapter XXIII

to read from the beginning, please click the photos on the right.

Chapter XXIII

Alex had an office in the White House and behind his desk hung a three-foot tall picture of Winston Churchill. The frame was gilded and so thick as to border on gaudy. Me and Winnie, thought Alex, we were cut from the same cloth.

Suddenly he was in with the really big boys, and the stakes - they were astronomical, so high they would cause a veteran gambler to tremble. This game allowed for no errors. The consequences of a bad move made death seem easy by comparison. Before now, he'd been playing only for himself. Not that he ever considered the possibility of failure or defeat. Such horrible words! Before this, if he had missed something, he had only himself and his father's image to deal with. Now, if something went wrong, he'd have unhappy partners in Washington, and a second set of unhappy partners in corporate America and the corporate Middle East - unhappy and very powerful partners.

Blackmail was a funny game - something like holding a scorpion by its stinger." On the one hand, Alex held all the strings and all the power. On the other hand, an unhappy partner, should he ever get loose, could have him killed. Of course he'd taken precautions. “In the event of my death, the following documents will be made public…”

No, he made sure that it was in his new partners' best interests to keep him alive and happy. But his victims had resources and power of their own. And he had to make himself an indispensable asset to these victims before any one of them figured out how to destroy the evidence against them.

This was life, not a chess game. Possibilities were infinite, and he, Alex, had to foresee all of them and plan. Contingencies, parries, thrusts, and counter-thrusts, just as in a fencing match - victory depended on balance and timing. Alex knew that his strength lay in offense. He had to keep the upper hand, and be several moves ahead of everyone else. Always on the offense. Be bold. Hit first. Hit hard. Keep hitting. Never let up.



The California campaign had been a huge success. The energy crisis had yielded over

$8 billion for his corporate clientele, and more importantly, it had left the state near bankruptcy and ripe for political takeover. Plans for a recall election were already underway.

But just when it looked like the Weasel’s problems had been whitewashed clean away, they began surfacing in the newspapers.



ENRON EXECS CHARGED WITH INSIDER TRADING

The once-prized commodities are now classified as ’junk bonds.



BUSH ADMINISTRATION TIED TO ENRON

President Bush fought against placing caps on the price of energy in California.





They were dark days, and Alex was groping for something, anything, to make the scandals go away and to make the president look good. The tabloids were digging up stories about the twins. The newspapers criticized everything – his tax cuts for the rich, his weak environmental policy, and, finally, like a rotting carcass, the Enron scandal stunk up the air around the White House and their friends. Adam Snavely, Weasel, and Allen Smythe-Huntington were safe enough, but some of their friends’ heads were on the chopping block. It seemed that Alex spent most of his days doing damage control. What he needed was a huge diversion. Alex had great friends in the news media who transferred much of the heat from the president to the Clintons, but, face it, they needed new material.

“We’re counting on you, Lidecker. This is where you earn your keep.” John Ambrose had barked a laugh when he said it, as if it were all a joke, but both men knew he had meant it.

The diversion had to be something completely new, completely unexpected and it had to be huge - the greatest piece of showmanship of all time. He’d been meeting with seven close friends from the CIA and FBI. So far, they hadn’t come up with any new scandal items because wiretap laws were too restrictive, so Alex was considering a new angle. Cloak and dagger was fascinating and it had never been exploited before – at least not in the United States.

The Seven Musketeers, they called themselves, and this was their fifth meeting - their fifth attempt to find a suitable diversion article for the news. “This may just do it,” said Ernie Martinez, switching on his recorder. Ernie and Alex’s friendship went way back – through the CIA days with their all-night stake outs, the close calls, and the night-clubbing until both of them were falling asleep in their whiskey.

“They’re planning to hijack planes,” said Ernie. He switched on the recorder. Someone was raving in Saudi, most of it swearing with allusions to dogs and pigs and Americans.

“It’s Al Qaida, of course.” Ernie stopped the tape and stretched. “They don’t have all the details pinned down yet from what I’ve put together, but they’re planning something immense.”

“Ideas, gentlemen. How can we make the most out of this information?” Alex asked.

“Instead of alerting airport security, what if we use undercover FBI – hundreds of them in each of the airports!” Eddie came up with the idea. “We could make it look like a miniature scale war, a real life cops and robbers show. We play up the good versus evil aspect.”

Marty Stillman puffed on his cigarette. “Could work,” he said. “We pick an agent to be the hero and do him up in all the papers. That’d take the heat off of Enron for weeks.”

Scott Holmes, the newest and youngest Musketeer, all but hiccupped with excitement, so anxious was he to fit in. “And we do follow-up stories on the FBI and the CIA. Disaster narrowly averted thanks to shrewd work by our undercover agents. We pick a couple of agents with interesting stories in their lives - a handicapped kid, a battle with cancer - you know what I mean. And we show their families and do clips of their wives and mothers talking passionately about their heroes. Later, any time Enron starts to surface, we do feature articles about out FBI heroes, and relegate Enron to page 25 where hardly anyone sees it.”

But Alex was deep in thought. They’d use it and they’d spin it all right, but there had to be something more… While the others chattered, the word “Remordia” played in his head, dancing like a hand-tied fly bobbing over a trout’s head. Thoughts formed in his mind, at first just murky impressions, and then a clear plan.

 
To read from the beginning, please click the photos on the right.