Read Online Acts of Mercy by Bill Pronzini, Barry N. Malzberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Bill Pronzini, Barry N. Malzberg
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media?”
“I overcame greater odds four years ago.”
“Haven’t you done enough fighting? Isn’t it time to let someone else take over the battle—”
“I don’t want to listen to any more of this,” Augustine said. “I’ve had enough aggravation for one day.”
“Nicholas, I’m only trying to make you understand—”
“Understand? I’m beginning to understand, all right. You’re starting to turn against me too, just like the rest of them.”
She flinched as if he had struck her, stood quickly and came to him and gripped his arms. He wanted to pull away from her, but her eyes held him as much as her hands. “I’m not turning against you,” she said. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t ever think it.”
He could feel the anger starting to give way; as so many times before, the nearness of her, her touch, was a kind of emotional tranquilizer. “I’m sorry, Claire, I didn’t mean that. But I’ve taken all the pushing and shoving I can stand. My mind is made up; I need support, not dissent.”
“You won’t change it even for me?”
“I won’t because I can’t. Now I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“We have to talk about it. We ... have to.”
“No,” Augustine said. The anger in him was completely gone now; he felt nothing but weariness. “You asked me not to doubt you, you say you only want what’s best for me—all right, then tell me you’ll stand by my decision.”
“Nicholas ...”
“Will you stand by me?” he said.
Her throat worked as if she were swallowing something painful. Her eyes moved on his face, gentle, stroking, and he knew again the illusion of being absorbed in their depths. She said, “Do you really have to ask a question like that?”
Impulsively, almost fiercely, he drew her to him, held her in a tight embrace. Felt the solid unyielding strength of her flow into him and cement his own strength. “God, how I need you,” he said against the softness of her hair.
“I know,” she said. “I know. I know.”
Thirteen
We have gathered more evidence now against the man we believe to be the leader of the conspiracy against Nicholas Augustine—almost but not quite enough evidence to fully convict him in our eyes. We cannot afford to wait too long, and yet we must continue to be careful and cunning. The last necessary proof will come to us shortly, we are growing more and more certain of that; it can only be a matter of a day or two.
The clock ticks slowly, but it ticks inexorably too: ticks away the minutes of life that are left to this viper in the President’s bosom.
Fourteen
The Oval Office, ten-thirty Thursday morning.
Christopher Justice sat in one of the chairs near the fireplace, listening as the President gave an informal interview to senior correspondents from Time, the Washington Post, and Commentary. The reporters—two men and a woman—were grouped in a loose semicircle before the President’s desk; the only other person in the room was Austin Briggs, who occupied a chair near Justice’s.
The interview had been going well. Augustine was garrulous, polite, forceful; as a result the reporters, who were clearly hostile at first, were now responding more favorably to his comments on the nature of his office, on contemporary politics, on his plans for a second term. Briggs, though, seemed nervous and kept lighting one cigarette from the butt of another. Justice wondered again why the President had asked the press secretary to sit in. For that matter, he did not know why he himself had been asked to sit in, except that Augustine seemed to want him nearby more and more of late.
The reporters’ questions had gotten around now to Israel, as Justice had expected they would. The thin, attractive woman from Time was saying, “Mr. President, do you have anything further to add to your recent statement on Israel?”
The President smiled indulgently. “Only that those remarks of mine were meant as a comment on American foreign
“I overcame greater odds four years ago.”
“Haven’t you done enough fighting? Isn’t it time to let someone else take over the battle—”
“I don’t want to listen to any more of this,” Augustine said. “I’ve had enough aggravation for one day.”
“Nicholas, I’m only trying to make you understand—”
“Understand? I’m beginning to understand, all right. You’re starting to turn against me too, just like the rest of them.”
She flinched as if he had struck her, stood quickly and came to him and gripped his arms. He wanted to pull away from her, but her eyes held him as much as her hands. “I’m not turning against you,” she said. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t ever think it.”
He could feel the anger starting to give way; as so many times before, the nearness of her, her touch, was a kind of emotional tranquilizer. “I’m sorry, Claire, I didn’t mean that. But I’ve taken all the pushing and shoving I can stand. My mind is made up; I need support, not dissent.”
“You won’t change it even for me?”
“I won’t because I can’t. Now I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“We have to talk about it. We ... have to.”
“No,” Augustine said. The anger in him was completely gone now; he felt nothing but weariness. “You asked me not to doubt you, you say you only want what’s best for me—all right, then tell me you’ll stand by my decision.”
“Nicholas ...”
“Will you stand by me?” he said.
Her throat worked as if she were swallowing something painful. Her eyes moved on his face, gentle, stroking, and he knew again the illusion of being absorbed in their depths. She said, “Do you really have to ask a question like that?”
Impulsively, almost fiercely, he drew her to him, held her in a tight embrace. Felt the solid unyielding strength of her flow into him and cement his own strength. “God, how I need you,” he said against the softness of her hair.
“I know,” she said. “I know. I know.”
Thirteen
We have gathered more evidence now against the man we believe to be the leader of the conspiracy against Nicholas Augustine—almost but not quite enough evidence to fully convict him in our eyes. We cannot afford to wait too long, and yet we must continue to be careful and cunning. The last necessary proof will come to us shortly, we are growing more and more certain of that; it can only be a matter of a day or two.
The clock ticks slowly, but it ticks inexorably too: ticks away the minutes of life that are left to this viper in the President’s bosom.
Fourteen
The Oval Office, ten-thirty Thursday morning.
Christopher Justice sat in one of the chairs near the fireplace, listening as the President gave an informal interview to senior correspondents from Time, the Washington Post, and Commentary. The reporters—two men and a woman—were grouped in a loose semicircle before the President’s desk; the only other person in the room was Austin Briggs, who occupied a chair near Justice’s.
The interview had been going well. Augustine was garrulous, polite, forceful; as a result the reporters, who were clearly hostile at first, were now responding more favorably to his comments on the nature of his office, on contemporary politics, on his plans for a second term. Briggs, though, seemed nervous and kept lighting one cigarette from the butt of another. Justice wondered again why the President had asked the press secretary to sit in. For that matter, he did not know why he himself had been asked to sit in, except that Augustine seemed to want him nearby more and more of late.
The reporters’ questions had gotten around now to Israel, as Justice had expected they would. The thin, attractive woman from Time was saying, “Mr. President, do you have anything further to add to your recent statement on Israel?”
The President smiled indulgently. “Only that those remarks of mine were meant as a comment on American foreign
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