Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas

Чтение книги онлайн.

       6. Publication

       West Virginia, USA

      At his remote mountain retreat high in the Appalachian wilderness Becker’s personal phone was ringing. He was much older now than he had been on that fateful night many years before when he’d initiated that wide-eyed fool Nixon into the darkest secrets of the Committee, but even carrying his advanced years Becker moved nimbly for a big man. There was more than one telephone receiver on his cluttered writing desk, but it wasn’t hard to know which one to answer.

      One phone was so black it seemed to create its own gravity-field. A series of flashing lights along its extended surface indicated sophisticated scrambling circuits were in operation. It connected Becker to the Executive Section’s Head of Communications in a bunker deep under DC. It didn’t ring often – Becker’s underlings knew better than to disturb him when he was at the cabin. On the few occasions there had been call to answer it a superpower had been toppled or a pope had been shot.

      The second phone was a translucent red. When it rang and flashed insanely it could only mean one thing, and it wasn’t that Gotham City needed Batman to pop a rolled-up sock down his tights. It could only mean the saintly head-of-state of Becker’s own ‘Great Nation’ had got himself into very hot water and needed bailing out. After all, everyone needed a legitimate day job, if nothing else to keep those IRS bloodsuckers off your back. What a waste of his talents, Becker often pondered, to be reduced to buying off two-bit whores and arranging ‘accidents’ for jewellery-encrusted pimps. Of late this second phone had done more ringing than the first. But today wasn’t to be its day.

      The third telephone was shaped like Mickey Mouse. There was no good reason why this should be so, but some things were beyond explanation, as Becker knew only too well. Of the three it rang least often, but when it did the thing more than made up for it. The whole plastic mouse would vibrate and wobble, its receiver-holding arm pumping away like a body-builder. When Becker had first purchased the cabin, to allow himself to escape the tortured freneticism of his double working-life, he’d discovered the monstrosity in a box of junk pushed to the back of an outhouse. In a fit of whimsy, the sort that can only descend over a man under the mind-buckling pressure that he experienced every day, Becker had made it his own personal phone.

      Today Mickey looked like he was having an epileptic fit. His eerily electric voice screamed, ‘IT’S FOR YOU! IT’S FOR YOU!’ Becker reached for the bright yellow handset in disgust, as much to put the radar-eared rodent out of his misery as to answer the call.

      But when the caller introduced herself, the Dark Man’s face lightened considerably – it was an editor from Karl Popf Stein, the major New York publishing house whose address he knew only too well. Two months earlier Becker had sent her a very special package. But as the conversation progressed, the look of hope slipped from Becker’s face, badly staining his shirt in the process.

      ‘Look, Mr Decker. Time for a bit of honesty, I think. There’s no call for this sort of fiction anymore. The public don’t go for this heavy-handed the world’s in peril stuff. They want fluff, and I doubt very much you can do fluff. So please, stop harassing this office or I’ll be forced to call in the authorities. Your hysterical e-mails are giving our server a nervous breakdown.’

      Becker’s face began to exude the sort of infrared radiation which had been known to cause men to spontaneously combust. This was too much to take, coming no doubt from someone who was a dope-smoking English Lit major, who probably wet her unbleached Nicaraguan-cotton panties at the first sign of a parking ticket.

      ‘It’s … not … fiction,’ he just about managed to stammer. ‘That manuscript covers my experiences running the Secret Government’s Black Operations Programme. It details why ‘‘what happens’’ happens. It’s all explained – from what really went on at Pear Harbor to the lies behind alien abduction. From the Gulf War to ‘‘daytime chat shows’’. It’s political dynamite. Have you got any idea what a risk I’m taking just sending it to you!’

      She cut him off mid stride. ‘Quite frankly the only risk involved must have been to the poor Federal Mail employee who delivered it to our door – quite a tome, isn’t it. It needs severe pruning. I suggest you get yourself a ruler and a red pen and starting with the first line, get cutting. Then keep cutting all the way to the end.’

      Darkest despair gripped Becker, as his cultured voice reached a thunderous new intensity. ‘But it’s all true! Don’t you recognize the blockbuster of the century when you read it? This book lays the secrets of the world bare and breathless, like a big-haired White House intern – one who’s just had done to her what you can do to your competitors.’

      The editor sounded wary, perhaps suspicious of being further sucked in by the madman down the line. ‘But why would an individual in your position bare his soul like this? If half of what you say is true you must be crazier than if it isn’t.’

      Becker couldn’t believe some people’s cynicism. The words tumbled forth in an avalanche that had been building for years. ‘Have you even bothered to read my conclusion on the last page? There’s a paralysis at the very top of our leadership. A reluctance to face facts. We can’t rule out the possibility that someone high up on the Committee has an agenda all their own!’

      ‘I’m afraid I didn’t get that far. I found your claim that the Vietnam protest movement was all part of some vast CIA mind-control experiment alarming and offensive. I was part of that movement and I can assure you that CIA agents did not supply any of the LSD I took. I suppose you’ll be claiming they were sleeping with us next to monitor our responses.’