price for carrying out the recommendations the papers contained. Hell, Carter was a Trilateralist, Bush too. Even they wouldn’t listen. They goddamn fucking wouldn’t listen. And now, now !”
Carlisle’s yellowed eyes swung in the direction of the picketers. “Take a look. The enemy’s still there. I come here every day and I watch them. I don’t even know who I’m watching most days. But it’s getting worse, escalating. People are angry, capable of accepting anything that qualifies as change.” Eyes back on Blaine now, as much sad as furious. “And we could have prevented it. We had them all selected. The seeds of discontent plucked away so this could never happen.”
“That’s why you quit, withdrew.”
“I walked out, on the Trilateralists and the world.”
“And what about the Delphi?”
Carlisle’s eyes blazed at Blaine’s abrupt mention of the word, then seemed to sink back in his head. His lips trembled.
“Who are they, Mr. Carlisle?”
The old man reached over suddenly and grasped McCracken’s lapels again. But this time the fury was gone from the move, desperation in its place.
“Stop them,” he urged pleadingly. “You’ve got to stop them.”
“I’ve got only ten days. Not enough time maybe to do it on my own.” Blaine lowered his voice. “I need your help, Mr. Carlisle.”
Carlisle let his grasp on McCracken slip away and slid a trembling hand into the vest pocket of what remained of his three-piece suit. It emerged with a key he pressed into Blaine’s hand.
“Greyhound/Trailways Bus Station,” Carlisle said softly, eyes on the key.
McCracken could feel the grit of rust layered over what had once been smooth steel. “A locker?”
“A grave.”
McCracken didn’t open the locker right away. He loitered about the bus station providing intercity service for an hour before even approaching it. Anyone in the waiting area whose seat faced the bank of lockers was subject to his scrutiny. He was looking for a man or woman who lingered while paying little attention to the boarding announcements. After the hour had passed, he felt confident that no one had the station staked out. Whatever secrets locker 33 had to offer had remained just that.
Still wary, McCracken guided the key into the lock. It resisted and he was careful not to bend it in the process. At last it turned to the right and Blaine pulled the locker door open.
The first thing he saw inside were rumpled clumps of cash, some wrapped in bands, others simply rolled or
folded. Big bills for the most part, many of them new, part of a stash William Carlisle must not have made much use of anymore.
Partially concealed by the scattered bills was an old soft leather briefcase. The conditions of the locker had dried and cracked it. The case had a zipper that was open enough to let some of the bulging contents slip out:
Tabs, the tabs of manila folders.
Blaine brought the briefcase from the locker as nonchalantly as he could manage. One of its handles was torn from its stitching, so he placed the case under his arm. He closed and relocked the locker behind him. Then he glided back out into the warm afternoon air.
McCracken had found a spot inside a nearby parking garage for the car Sal Belamo had arranged for him. There, in the darkness broken only by the domelight, Blaine unzipped the briefcase all the way and removed a hefty chunk of its contents.
The first five manila folders Blaine opened contained detailed personal files with photographs included. Three of the names meant something to him. Two didn’t. All five had only one thing in common:
Affixed to the top of the first page in each was a sticker of a yellow rose.
One of the subjects was a college professor. Another was a union organizer. Two more were leaders of the antiwar movement who had organized the march on the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. The fifth was an Indian leader who had led the ’72 protest at Wounded Knee.
All champions of
Carlisle’s yellowed eyes swung in the direction of the picketers. “Take a look. The enemy’s still there. I come here every day and I watch them. I don’t even know who I’m watching most days. But it’s getting worse, escalating. People are angry, capable of accepting anything that qualifies as change.” Eyes back on Blaine now, as much sad as furious. “And we could have prevented it. We had them all selected. The seeds of discontent plucked away so this could never happen.”
“That’s why you quit, withdrew.”
“I walked out, on the Trilateralists and the world.”
“And what about the Delphi?”
Carlisle’s eyes blazed at Blaine’s abrupt mention of the word, then seemed to sink back in his head. His lips trembled.
“Who are they, Mr. Carlisle?”
The old man reached over suddenly and grasped McCracken’s lapels again. But this time the fury was gone from the move, desperation in its place.
“Stop them,” he urged pleadingly. “You’ve got to stop them.”
“I’ve got only ten days. Not enough time maybe to do it on my own.” Blaine lowered his voice. “I need your help, Mr. Carlisle.”
Carlisle let his grasp on McCracken slip away and slid a trembling hand into the vest pocket of what remained of his three-piece suit. It emerged with a key he pressed into Blaine’s hand.
“Greyhound/Trailways Bus Station,” Carlisle said softly, eyes on the key.
McCracken could feel the grit of rust layered over what had once been smooth steel. “A locker?”
“A grave.”
McCracken didn’t open the locker right away. He loitered about the bus station providing intercity service for an hour before even approaching it. Anyone in the waiting area whose seat faced the bank of lockers was subject to his scrutiny. He was looking for a man or woman who lingered while paying little attention to the boarding announcements. After the hour had passed, he felt confident that no one had the station staked out. Whatever secrets locker 33 had to offer had remained just that.
Still wary, McCracken guided the key into the lock. It resisted and he was careful not to bend it in the process. At last it turned to the right and Blaine pulled the locker door open.
The first thing he saw inside were rumpled clumps of cash, some wrapped in bands, others simply rolled or
folded. Big bills for the most part, many of them new, part of a stash William Carlisle must not have made much use of anymore.
Partially concealed by the scattered bills was an old soft leather briefcase. The conditions of the locker had dried and cracked it. The case had a zipper that was open enough to let some of the bulging contents slip out:
Tabs, the tabs of manila folders.
Blaine brought the briefcase from the locker as nonchalantly as he could manage. One of its handles was torn from its stitching, so he placed the case under his arm. He closed and relocked the locker behind him. Then he glided back out into the warm afternoon air.
McCracken had found a spot inside a nearby parking garage for the car Sal Belamo had arranged for him. There, in the darkness broken only by the domelight, Blaine unzipped the briefcase all the way and removed a hefty chunk of its contents.
The first five manila folders Blaine opened contained detailed personal files with photographs included. Three of the names meant something to him. Two didn’t. All five had only one thing in common:
Affixed to the top of the first page in each was a sticker of a yellow rose.
One of the subjects was a college professor. Another was a union organizer. Two more were leaders of the antiwar movement who had organized the march on the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. The fifth was an Indian leader who had led the ’72 protest at Wounded Knee.
All champions of
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