Wall of Night Read Free

then into this lake. The villagers drank the water and fed it to their livestock. Now they’re all dead.”
    â€œNo, that can’t be—”
    â€œNot only has your mistake put us behind schedule, but now we have to cover it up before we have swarms of Western media digging around,” Xiang said.
    The older man found his voice. “Is that all you care about? Public relations? You heartless—”
    â€œThis goes beyond public relations! We’re talking about the future of China. The deaths of a few peasants is inconsequential. In fact, it’s so inconsequential that one more won’t make any difference.”
    In one fluid motion, Xiang drew his side arm, pressed it to the director’s forehead, and fired. The back of the man’s head exploded. He crumpled to the ground. Xiang reholstered his pistol, then placed his foot on the corpse’s hip and rolled the body down the slope.
    Mouth agape, the younger man watched the body land in a heap atop those of the villagers.
    â€œYou’ve just been promoted,” Xiang said. “See that you do better than your predecessor.”
    White house, Washington, D.C.
    Ten months to retirement, thought President John Haverland, staring out the window of the Oval Office. Ten months left in a career that had spanned forty years. After November he’d serve out his last days as a lame duck, a glorified house sitter. Even now, his official duties were becoming fewer and fewer, which, truth be told, didn’t bother him much. It gave him time to think.
    In all, he decided, he’d done a fair job. He’d made his mistakes, but that was life. He’d learned from them, however, and worked hard to base his decisions in that wisdom. Most of them, at least.
    His own vice president was such a case. He’d never liked Phillip Martin, not when they worked together in the Senate, and not when his campaign advisors had put his name at the top of the list for vice presidential running mates. He’d argued against it, but in the end the choice was simple: Martin’s inclusion on the ticket would secure the votes Haverland needed to win. Of course, if the only issue had been victory, he would have told his advisors to shove it.
    Quite simply, John Haverland believed in the power of service and he believed he could make a difference to the welfare of his country. Four years ago, Americans didn’t trust such sentiments. They were tired and mistrustful. Even so, by the time the election entered the final stretch, Haverland had changed a lot of minds. It still wasn’t going to be enough, his staff told him. Without Martin, we lose.
    They had the statistics to support their claim. He reluctantly assented, and two months later he was elected president. Martin had played his role well enough, but the irony of their partnership was never lost on Haverland. He, the faithful, buck-stops-here president; and Martin, the polished, self-serving, chameleonlike vice president.
    And now the son-of-a-bitch is making a run for the presidency.
    â€œNot if I can help it,” he muttered. He pressed his intercom button. “Joanne, please call Vice President Martin and tell him I need to see him.”
    â€œYes, Mr. President.”
    Martin arrived ten minutes later. He flashed his plastic smile at Haverland and strode across the carpet. “John, how are you today?”
    â€œSit down, Phil.”
    Martin’s smile never faltered, but Haverland saw a flash of uncertainty in his VP’s eyes. The perfect political animal, Haverland thought. God help us. …
    â€œPhil, I’ll come to the point: Your secretary has accused you of sexual harassment.”
    â€œWhat?” Martin cried. “Peggy Manahan? That’s ridiculous, John. I would never—”
    â€œIn fact, Phil, what she describes sounds more like sexual assault.”
    Martin chuckled. “Oh, come on. …”
    â€œShe claims you had her pinned