The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [157]
“I do. Implosion. They collapsed when their core rotted.”
“Exactly.” Robilliard nodded. “Now you’re planning to ask Caesar to cross the Rubicon and lay his head on the block of your dreams of justice. Can’t you see the difference? Caesar did it to overthrow the status quo and become emperor. You’re asking a man to do it so you can take the mantle.”
“I’m not. One way or another, I’m out. This will be my last public deed. I retire.”
“Oh?” Robilliard frowned. “And have you named a successor?”
Palmer shook his head. “You still don’t get it. I want to challenge the system because it’s the only chance left for my country, but I’m too old to carry on righting wrongs. I only hope others will have it easier.”
“I see. So President Hurst knows about your coup.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yet if you manage to pull off this stunt, with Odelle Marino disgraced, the President will have the floor clear to step in and really flush the bilges. Neat.”
“You and your imaginings.”
“Hardly. Common sense only, of the kind that has kept me in office twenty years.” Robilliard stood from the easy chair, holding on to his glass, and walked to stand beyond his desk, as if suddenly needing the physical protection of office. “He won’t do it, you know. And yet there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Palmer swirled his cognac in its glass, peering into the liquid amber whorls, but the answer he sought wasn’t there. Then, as he returned the snifter to the table, the thought hit him with such clarity that he had to blink repeatedly to clear his vision, as in the aftermath of sudden lighting. “Have you ever wondered why Caesar crossed the Rubicon?”
“To become emperor.”
“No, that was the outcome, perhaps the thought behind his action, but not the reason why.” Palmer leaned back and narrowed his eyes. “Let’s find out. Would you call Caesar in?”
It wasn’t the gait of the career soldier, or the field of medals covering most of his chest, or the close-cropped hair, or even the chiseled face. The authority and might that surrounded four-star general James Erlenmeyer like a halo had other roots—ancient roots, honed in the same forges that had cast generations of warriors before him. The same fire that had forged Patton.
“The issue is clear,” he said after listening to Palmer. “I would hear the request from the President herself. Then I would give it my consideration and, since the proposal entails high treason, I would refuse. That paper,” he looked with disdain at the single sheet of White House stationery, “is as false as the Roswell cover-up. Now, if you don’t have anything else to say, I will forget what I’ve just heard and be gone.”
Palmer waited, but General Erlenmeyer didn’t turn on his heel. “General. I have shown you proof of the DHS and Hypnos’s debauchery. Such depravity has become commonplace to a point where our prison system has become the private fiefdom of agencies and corporations to use at their own volition. Everything is in here.” He tapped his portfolio, more for effect than for any real reason, since the hard data was branded in his memory.
“Senator.” It was obvious the general was making an effort to keep his voice level. “You’re asking me to bring in the army and take over the Capitol. That’s a coup, rebellion, sedition, high treason, the works.”
“I won’t march the army into Rome,” Robilliard muttered.
General Erlenmeyer jerked around to face the senator. “You’re damn right I won’t!”
“You’re wrong about one thing, General. That paper is not a fake. President Hurst signed it less than an hour ago, but you would have to take my word for it.”
“Like everything else,” General Erlenmeyer retorted.
“Right. But whatever I might be, I’ve never reneged on my word. On the other hand, President Leona Hurst will not give you the order herself. It’s all a matter of deniability. She’s a political animal, like Robilliard and myself. But for once I’m determined to do something