determine what killed the duplicates. Apparently they just keeled over and died."
"That's the same report we got," Wyatt said. "And the same information you would have gotten, if you'd been in your office this morning."
"Really?" I asked.
His Holiness clenched his teeth and said nothing.
I turned back to the General. "Why was McMurtrie here? Did he bring Dr. Klienerman with him?"
Now it was the General's turn to keep his mouth clamped shut. He looked at Wyatt and cocked an eyebrow.
"The first . . . body," Wyatt said, his voice chokingly strained, "was found in Denver. McMurtrie figured as long as he was coming that close, he might as well drop in here and tell us what was going on."
"He knew you were here?" I asked Wyatt.
"We were in constant communication all the time," he answered.
"What's Dr. Klienerman have to say about all this?"
"Nothing," the General snapped. "Not a damned thing."
"He and Dr. Peña didn't get along very well," Wyatt explained. "You know how it is when two prima donnas get under the same roof."
"What do you mean?"
Wyatt looked even more uncomfortable. "Peña wouldn't allow Klienerman to see the bodies of the duplicates."
"What? But he's the President's personal physician! If one of those bodies is the President . . ."
"They're not," said the General.
"How can you be certain?"
"Peña's satisfied . . ."
"Dr. Peña told me they were exactly alike, for Chrissake!" I knew I was shouting, but there wasn't much I could do about it. "He can't tell one from the other, and he can't tell either one from the President's medical profile."
"They are not the President," the General insisted.
I took a good look at him. Arguing with him on that point would have been like trying to tear down Red Peak with a soggy toothpick. He had made up his mind and that was that.
Wyatt said, "Meric, you really ought to get back to Washington and stay close to your office. We'll keep you informed."
"I still want to see McMurtrie," I said.
"That will be impossible," the General said.
"Why can't—"
"McMurtrie's helicopter crashed between here and Mt. Evans. I got the word just before I came in here."
I couldn't move. Not even my mouth would work. It was like being paralyzed.
Wyatt seemed stunned, too. But only for a moment. He asked, "McMurtrie . . . ?"
"Dead. Everybody on board was killed. McMurtrie, Klienennan and the pilot."
"They're sure?"
The General's voice was stony. "State police helicopter flew over the crash site. Heard a distress call and went to investigate. By the time they got there, there was nothing to see but burning wreckage. No survivors."
"Jesus-suffering-Christ," said Wyatt.
I still couldn't utter a word. But my brain was racing at hyperkinetic speed. McMurtrie was killed. Murdered. Either he or Klienerman had found something, and they were both killed before they could tell anyone. Murdered by somebody here in the General's household.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was around midnight when my flight landed at Washington National. Home of the brave, I told myself. It was an effort just to pull myself out of the seat and trudge past the weary stewardesses standing at the plane's main hatch. Even their conditioned-reflex smiles looked bedraggled. I felt as if that helicopter of the General's had landed on my back. Utterly tired. Not just physically. The kind of nothing-left feeling when you've burned up the last of your adrenalin and the monster you were facing is still there, bigger than ever, breathing fire and reaching out to clutch you.
The airport was just about deserted. They stopped flights into National after midnight. The official reason was the noise; it bothered people living in the area. The real reason was security. Ever since the National Vigilance Society had tried to seize the Government and the city a dozen years ago, the airport had been kept under very tight security guard.
The damned corridor out to the main terminal building seemed endless. It was like a surrealistic
"That's the same report we got," Wyatt said. "And the same information you would have gotten, if you'd been in your office this morning."
"Really?" I asked.
His Holiness clenched his teeth and said nothing.
I turned back to the General. "Why was McMurtrie here? Did he bring Dr. Klienerman with him?"
Now it was the General's turn to keep his mouth clamped shut. He looked at Wyatt and cocked an eyebrow.
"The first . . . body," Wyatt said, his voice chokingly strained, "was found in Denver. McMurtrie figured as long as he was coming that close, he might as well drop in here and tell us what was going on."
"He knew you were here?" I asked Wyatt.
"We were in constant communication all the time," he answered.
"What's Dr. Klienerman have to say about all this?"
"Nothing," the General snapped. "Not a damned thing."
"He and Dr. Peña didn't get along very well," Wyatt explained. "You know how it is when two prima donnas get under the same roof."
"What do you mean?"
Wyatt looked even more uncomfortable. "Peña wouldn't allow Klienerman to see the bodies of the duplicates."
"What? But he's the President's personal physician! If one of those bodies is the President . . ."
"They're not," said the General.
"How can you be certain?"
"Peña's satisfied . . ."
"Dr. Peña told me they were exactly alike, for Chrissake!" I knew I was shouting, but there wasn't much I could do about it. "He can't tell one from the other, and he can't tell either one from the President's medical profile."
"They are not the President," the General insisted.
I took a good look at him. Arguing with him on that point would have been like trying to tear down Red Peak with a soggy toothpick. He had made up his mind and that was that.
Wyatt said, "Meric, you really ought to get back to Washington and stay close to your office. We'll keep you informed."
"I still want to see McMurtrie," I said.
"That will be impossible," the General said.
"Why can't—"
"McMurtrie's helicopter crashed between here and Mt. Evans. I got the word just before I came in here."
I couldn't move. Not even my mouth would work. It was like being paralyzed.
Wyatt seemed stunned, too. But only for a moment. He asked, "McMurtrie . . . ?"
"Dead. Everybody on board was killed. McMurtrie, Klienennan and the pilot."
"They're sure?"
The General's voice was stony. "State police helicopter flew over the crash site. Heard a distress call and went to investigate. By the time they got there, there was nothing to see but burning wreckage. No survivors."
"Jesus-suffering-Christ," said Wyatt.
I still couldn't utter a word. But my brain was racing at hyperkinetic speed. McMurtrie was killed. Murdered. Either he or Klienerman had found something, and they were both killed before they could tell anyone. Murdered by somebody here in the General's household.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was around midnight when my flight landed at Washington National. Home of the brave, I told myself. It was an effort just to pull myself out of the seat and trudge past the weary stewardesses standing at the plane's main hatch. Even their conditioned-reflex smiles looked bedraggled. I felt as if that helicopter of the General's had landed on my back. Utterly tired. Not just physically. The kind of nothing-left feeling when you've burned up the last of your adrenalin and the monster you were facing is still there, bigger than ever, breathing fire and reaching out to clutch you.
The airport was just about deserted. They stopped flights into National after midnight. The official reason was the noise; it bothered people living in the area. The real reason was security. Ever since the National Vigilance Society had tried to seize the Government and the city a dozen years ago, the airport had been kept under very tight security guard.
The damned corridor out to the main terminal building seemed endless. It was like a surrealistic
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