Father Night Read Free Page B

determined to fill the power vacuum Waxman had foretold would come to pass in the Middle East. And, despite Acacia’s first failure, he had been right, damnit, all the way down the line, right.
    “I know you,” Waxman said. “You like to give the people around you a hard time.”
    “That’s my job.”
    Waxman nodded. “The reins of power. I understand.”
    “What reins? We’re all in this together.”
    Waxman’s eyes grew diamond-hard as he sat forward on the edge of his chair. Had it been anyone else, the General might have been alarmed. But Waxman was Waxman; he lived in his own head.
    “There’s bullshit and then there’s bullshit, General. You may have fooled the others, but never for a minute believe that you’ve fooled me.” Waxman inclined his narrow torso like an arrow aimed at the General. “History informs us that while rule by consensus may work for a short time, it breaks down.” He spread his white hands. “We’re all human, General, we all want what we want—and it’s never the common good. You want what you want, General. I know it and you know it.”
    And what is it exactly that you want, Waxman? the General wondered.
    He set aside the remains of his cigar. “You’re really in love with that mind of yours, aren’t you?”
    “Mind games.” One corner of Waxman’s lips twitched. “You don’t want to start with me.”
    “Is that a threat?” The General’s voice was languid as he rose.
    Waxman had no choice but to get to his feet. One shoulder was noticeably lower than the other, as if he were poised to make a fast getaway. The General towered over him; nevertheless, he appeared anything but intimidated.
    “Sun Tzu wrote, ‘All war is deception,’ General,” Waxman said as, leaning on his stick, he brushed past. “You would do well to keep that in the forefront of your mind.”
    The tick-tock of the walking stick was like the beating heart of a clock. The General watched Waxman disappear into the innards of the hunting lodge. At length, he turned and picked up his cigar, but it was already cold. The taste he loved was gone.

 
    T WO
     
    T HE SUNLIGHT in Moscow was white. It fell from a featureless sky cold and hard like sleet. Somewhere there were clouds, Jack McClure thought as he peered through the hospital window, and beyond, hard as it was to believe, a pale blue sky.
    Workmen were busy stripping off the gaily colored billboard sheets for the Red Square Circus. Just beyond loomed the blank, brutal faces of the squat Soviet buildings across the street, a reminder of the old guard, as well as the repression and corruption that endured through every regime change. The Russian personality was stronger than communism, socialism, glasnost, and latter-day imperial fiat.
    Hearing Annika call his name, he turned to see her across the corridor. She had just emerged from the room where Dyadya Gourdjiev lay beneath rough muslin sheets. Dyadya. Everyone called him Uncle—even Annika—but he was actually her grandfather.
    “How is he?” Jack said, stepping across to her.
    “The doctors say he’s dying, but I don’t believe it.” She gave him a wan smile. “Neither does he.”
    He took her in his arms. She had her thick blond hair tied back in a ponytail, as she had the first time he’d seen her two years ago in the bar of a hotel across town. The buzzing fluorescent lights turned her carnelian eyes dark as dried blood.
    “But if the doctors—”
    “The doctors are fools,” she said. “They’ve been saying he’s dying for the better part of a year.” Her wide mouth was warm against his cheek. “He’s been asking for you.”
    “Me?” Jack pulled away to see her expression. “You’re joking.” But he could see that she wasn’t. “Why would he want to see me?”
    She laughed softly. “Don’t be an idiot. He liked you even before he knew you loved me.” She tapped his temple with a long forefinger. “He likes what’s inside there, the way you think. He says