CHAPTER 19
The USA
‘Jesus … shit … piss … fuck.’
Expletive and blasphemy, propelled by anger, accompanied by disgust and a wood hurled skywards to spiral and land in the shrubbery. A more accurate throw than the drive that had placed the ball some 200 yards down the fairway in the deep rough. Must be stress, must be lack of concentration. Bell glared at the golf simulator screen, its computerized picture switching, the oblique view of the green partially hidden by electronically generated foliage. Fucking software. Facing him, the swing analysis monitor replayed the shot from separate camera angles, had conjured a golf pro to perform in parallel, to demonstrate the error, to provide an answer. To rub it in. The little shit. Wouldn’t have an explanation as to how that whore’s daughter Special Agent killed Bob and escaped from the Mojave; didn’t have a solution to the defeat and rounding up of Forrester forces at the Compton airstrip. It took leadership to deal with that – willpower, vision, to side-step crisis and push forward in adversity. Hitler had never given up when the Munich putsch collapsed, when he sat abandoned in Landsberg prison. No, sir. No more lessons.
He remote-zapped the display to stand-by and pulled a wedge from the bag. Knock the ball out twenty yards, then a 5-iron could do the rest. There was a solution to everything. Already, his remaining combat teams were deployed in strength to Texas, Mississippi and Alabama, would mount guerrilla raids on black hamlets across the Deep South, create a tsunami-tide of refugees not seen since the Civil War or Depression. Plan B. The blacks could keep their pitiful drive-by shootings; the Reverend could sit on his Downtown dung heap and wait and watch in vain for the enemy. That enemy was elsewhere, outflanking, that enemy was drawing succour and support from every second the Caucasian hostages were held in the office towers. The Citizens Council would take command of the Confederate states, its Forresters enforcing the law, reinforcing their control. Bell turned the wedge in his hand. Flexibility, reserves of commitment – always important. Ethnic cleansing was coming to America.
The security intercom bleated, the moving-target indicator throwing up details of an approaching General Motors utility. Smoked glass, ostentatious tyres. It slowed, stopped at the gateway, a face emerging from the driver’s window to wink at the camera lens, a finger pointing to a hidden passenger. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. The guard stooped to converse and peer inside. Behind the wire, an Argentino lay alert, upright, its ears cocked.
Bell poured himself a lemonade, spoke into a handset. ‘It’s fine. They’re cleared.’ Finger-stab at a keypad, and he had deactivated the anti-assault ramps, slid away the secondary barriers. The car moved through, cutting to a different camera, a new shot. Bell bit into an ice cube.
Three minutes, a deceleration to negotiate the landscaped chicane, a brief pause to align the wheels at the bottleneck, and the visitors had arrived at the covered entrance. Bell sipped from his glass. He had designed the place well, could withstand an army of Feds, a regiment of Special Forces, if things grew tricky, if push came to shovel-equipped tank. A couple more minutes. The game would have to wait. He switched the simulation picture back to the fourth hole. No point being seen in the rough, displaying weakness. It was his prerogative.
The two men rounded the pagoda and strolled towards him across the lawn, identikitted in slacks and light cotton shirts. Acknowledging wave, a smile, handshakes, the routine behaviour, bonhomie, of colleagues and confidants. But there was tightness in the body language, a tension undercurrent in the welcome. Three men, a triangle of concern. Bell ran a hand through his hair, was reading the mood, tuning the sales pitch. His Forrester commander had been with him from the beginning, was hand-picked, ideologically sound, loyal. The police captain was dependable so long as victory was assured, setbacks contained. A hireling. Both could be whipped back into line. Hell, they owed him, were bound to him, would burn if he burned. Mutual assured destruction – the sole way to ensure allegiance.
‘There’s concern, Ted.’
‘Not in this yard.’ He filled a glass and passed it to the cop. ‘Jack, I thought you were here to pick our next golf venue.’
‘Got diverted. Small matter of a fucking catastrophe.’
‘Compton?’ Bell handed a drink to the Forrester, acting host, playing innocent. ‘C’mon. We simply realign the strategy. It’s a no-brainer.’
The police officer was inspecting the video unit. ‘Some of the boys require a little reassurance. They’ve worked hard, damn hard, been with you all the way.’
‘And I’ve paid them well, helped them with loans, provided them with housing. Think that has something to do with it?’ Inflection and inference were hostile.
‘They deserve an explanation.’
‘I deserve some trust.’ Bell took an ice cube and threw it hard at the fairway image. The lump bounced and splinter-melted off the mesh covering. ‘No, I demand trust.’
‘It’s a given,’ the Forrester interjected, relaxing the tone, lowering the temperature. ‘I’m here – we’re here – ‘cos we got nothin’ but devotion to the cause, belief in you. Jack’s just communicatin’ the need for confidence-buildin’ in the ranks.’
‘That all?’
The police officer straightened to face him. ‘Absolutely. Visible presence, re-commitment to what we’re about. A short pep-talk would do it.’
Bell swung the subject, diverted to his Forrester. ‘Hey, you figured who the nigger bitch was you saw in that Mojave diner?’ An attempt to goad. ‘Past girlfriend? Hooker? Hard to ID or sex when they’re that colour, right?’
‘She’s memorized from somewhere. Can’t place it. I’m more interested in right now.’
‘Okay, your proposal. Security?’ Bell was thinking, thinking ahead, thinking through.
‘Taken care of.’ The Forrester swallowed a mouthful of lemonade, wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. ‘We reduce numbers to a minimum. Ourselves. Stay with the one vehicle. Pick-up to take place off Highway 10 ’tween Riverside and Cabazon.’
‘Timing?’
‘Already set up. One call, we can roll.’
The supremacist chief rubbed the side of his face, weighing priorities, suspicious at the independence of thought, the manipulation of his itinerary. ‘I don’t like loops outside my loop, command chains that yank my goddamn chain. You hearing?’
‘Absolutely.’ Solemn agreement from the police presence. ‘But you’re a busy man, Ted. A lot on your mind. We sometimes have to take a view, adapt to the situation. And it’s a hell of a situation.’
‘I prefer to call it an opportunity.’
‘Then tell it to your men in person. They’d appreciate it. I’d appreciate it.’
‘Think it would help?’
‘It would inspire.’ Sincerity which flattered, appealed to vanity, stroked the leadership nerve. Three words. Enough to tip the decision.
‘Make the call.’
It was as the offroader cushion-bounced onto the exit pan outside the front portals that Bell’s skeleton reservations fleshed out into genuine concern. It was as the electric gates swung shut behind, as the guard climbed in with a drawn pistol, that the concern developed into outright fear. His stomach balled solid. He understood the drill, had introduced it himself. Nylon cuffs were attached, a hood and ear-defenders applied, and the world went dark, the world went dead. Rancho Mirage, Palm Springs, Coachella Valley, the distance painted with mountains and the greenery of golf, the foreground with tennis courts, left outside with the living. He had been taken from them, was going on a separate journey.
Handover. No ceremony, only the rough handling meted by professionals, the jab of a sedative needle, the lapse of time and mind measured by nausea and confusion. He had been hurried, bundled out, boxed in, moved from one vehicle to another, his head pushed down between his knees or collar-tied against a steel bar. Hallucination leaked into disorientation. A straw was fed to his lips, gave water. But that was all. He was alone, drifting through an inner space, confined to restricted space, hours spent, wasted, suspended. It did not make sense, for senses were deprived. The terrain below changed, the rhythm shifting. Getting closer to burial, to total disappearance. He pondered vaguely what it was about, where he was going, and why, but the concepts were slippery and careered beyond his grasp. Disappointing. He would like to have remembered, to have thought things through. Still, there was a certain comfort in leaving it to others. The art of delegation. He had every confidence they would do their job. His pants felt damp. He might have peed them, could not recall, did not care. Dignity was an affectation of those with a future; he barely recognized the past. On the road, on the ropes. Could be night, could be day, could be dreaming.
Arrival came with commotion, energy and the sudden sharpness of heat. He was hauled out, half-dragged, semi-conscious between two men, his feet scraping, the sun hard on his back. The noises were indistinct, the view a lighter shade of black. He was Ted Bell, leader of the Citizens Council, founder of the Forresters, tycoon, strategist, prophet. Yet this was how they chose to treat him. They had no right, no goddamn manners. He would call a meeting, ask for blood. The incline steepened, his shins grazing as rocks and pebbles displaced beneath the uphill climb. He tried passive resistance. They ignored it, continued upwards, their grip tightening as his hold loosened. He was sobbing, frightened of the darkness, of his dread, of his imagination, of the known.
The hood came off. He stood in brightness, warmed but chill before the jagged entrance to a cave. This was it, his graveside. Mourners were few – the cop, the Forrester commander and four guards sweating in nuclear-biological-chemical warfare suits.
‘What the fuck are you wearing those for?’ he asked blearily.
‘Activated charcoal linings,’ the Forrester offered as explanation. ‘It’s a hazardous environment down there.’
‘What? Radioactive frigging waste?’ His words were congealed, slow.
