Chaingang

“I'll go circle around by the center. You watch the woods on the side by the plant there. Stay with the car. If he comes back and leaves before I get back, I'll catch up with you tonight. ‘Kay?"

“Go.” The second man opened the door and jogged off around the woods. But Chaingang was long gone. That would be the penultimate observation they would make of him. Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski went into the woods, and something went wrong with the monitors—"a bobble in the power,” the rural power company told them, apologetically. By the time a salesman by the name of Mr. Conway, resplendent in three-piece vested suit, tie, and wig, came out the other side, melting into the shopping center crowd, “technical difficulties” had developed. It seemed that the battery could die, after all ... in a manner of speaking.

The lone watcher who monitored his movements only for Dr. Norman reported that the clear glass spectacles were a nice touch.

36

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The office was beautifully done. He had been in enough CEO and directorate executive suites and boardrooms to know this one had cost serious crown jewels. Not your run-of-the-penthouse leather-and-chrome Mies van der Roe-buck barcelona knockoffs and fake Manets. There were genuine antiques and real masters on the walls.

The two silent men who flanked him escorted him through the kings’ throne room past the most beautifully ornate Wooten desk he'd ever seen, through a plush silk-walled anteroom where a tiny but unmistakable Braque was enshrined under subtle track portrait spots.

He was seated in the presence, across a polished cross section of rare wood approximately the size of a modular Rondesic home, and allowed a moment to gather whatever was left of his wits. A fierce neon by someone he didn't recognize, and a wonderful Larry Rivers, flanked the Man.

“Grant Silberman?” he said, with a question on the end, but it was clearly rhetorical. He tried to look sincere, contrite, studious, and worthy of forgiveness, all without changing anything in his face. “Aka Robert Newman, aka Christopher Sinclair. Chief of Section—” he made it sound like Chief Dunderhead—"and survivor of the debacle?"

“Yes, sir,” he answered, quietly.

“Matters not.” He gestured, and gold winked. “You know the old saying—shoot them all and you'll always get the guilty.” The Man smiled, and poison dripped. “Not that it will have any exculpatory value, but just for some semblance of an explanation, how did Clandestine Services ever obtain the responsibility for the creation of anything as insane as a domestic-based school for hit men?"

He decided—fuck it—he'd just give straight answers and damn the torpedoes. To a point, anyway. The brain implant and their “ace” would remain in-house secrets.

“When the idea of a training program of this sort was first broached a quarter century ago, it was quite natural for it to come under the military intelligence umbrella. We were at war, unofficially, but at war nonetheless, and of course, it was a question of eminent domain. This would be the sphere of operations where such things should rightfully take place, so it was within Clandestine Services that the responsibility for the initial program fell."

“Were the initial stages of the program documented, and if so, in what form?"

“You mean memoranda from on high? Written orders?"

“When options were discussed, when the various beginnings of the program took place, were records kept?"

“Yes. There were many special memoranda, minutes of meetings, and general notes—which in turn would become support documents and position papers. The sensitivity of such documentation was such that many records were limited to only one copy, with a carefully monitored ‘subscription’ list. The lab people and the R & D people had their own records, naturally, so all we really saw would be the memos—their projections or appreciations of program development and personnel."

“Do you know if such records are still extant, and if so, where?"

“No, sir."

“An educated guess as to where such records might exist?"

“The head of the research and development for the project was a doctor who was working for the government, but I believe he is deceased. I have no idea. Presumably all records were destroyed due to the nature of the matter."

“How could such a program be put into play, given the enormity of horror with which most of us would receive anything along these lines?"

“It's difficult to explain how it all developed—these things develop over time and—"

“To play with human lives as if they were tokens on a game board! How could any of you live with yourselves?"

“I was following orders. In the military and in other—"

“The Nazis said the same thing. How does that excuse the killing you personally sanctioned?"