Out of the Ashes

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Copyright ©1983 by William W. Johnstone

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To Danielle Dubois

This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing government, they can exercise their Constitutional right of amending it, or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.

—Abe Lincoln

PROLOGUE

Louisiana, 1984

“Are you nuts?” Ben Raines asked, fighting back an urge to laugh in the man's face. “I mean, honest to God, fellow, have you got both oars in the water?”

The sarcastic slur and intellectual insult was lost on the visitor. “I assure you, Mr. Raines, I am in full command of all my faculties. You came highly recommended to me. To us.”

“By whom?”

“I cannot divulge that information. Not just yet. I am sorry.”

“How do you know I won't go straight to the FBI with this ... scheme of yours?”

The man pointed. “There is the phone. Call them. You can't prove a thing. But we can—about you.” He smiled.

“The FBI knows damned well I was a mercenary back in ‘69 and ‘70. So does the State Department. I made that very clear in several of my novels. Blackmail won't work with me.”

The man shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

“Look,” Ben said, “I don't like the way this country is going any more than you do—believe that, or not. But violent overthrow—even if you people had the men and equipment, which you don't—is not my forte.”

“But we do have the men and equipment, Mr. Raines.”

“You say. I don't want any part of it.”

“You're certain?”

“As certain as the sun comes up in the east.”

“Then we badly misjudged you, Mr. Raines.”

Ben shook his head in disagreement. “No, you didn't. If you had approached me just a few years ago, back in ‘80, or even ‘82, I probably would have gone along with you. But now ... no.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Because for the past few years I've been very comfortable. And getting fatter all the time. My books are selling well; no bill collectors calling every night; everything you see around you—including the house—is paid for. I have no reason to rock the boat.”

“If you are so happy, why do you drink yourself into a stupor every evening?”

Ben smiled. “You have been investigating, haven't you? I didn't mention happy, did I? Comfortable was the word I chose.”

“Has it not occurred to you that we may be privy to ... matters concerning the situation in the world that ... you are not aware of, sir? I beg you to reconsider your stance.”

Ben shook his head no.

The man sighed. “Well ... you will not be contacted by us again, Mr. Raines. Thank you for your time.” He hesitated, then said, “I ... may be making a mistake, Mr. Raines, but everybody is entitled to one. So here is mine: Bull Dean and Carl Adams are still alive. They're running the show.”

Ben came out of his chair. He stared at the man. “I don't believe it. Hey! I saw the bodies, buddy.”

The man's expression did not change. “If you reverse your position, Mr. Raines, just run an ad in the local paper that you'd like to buy a Russian wolfhound. You'll be contacted.” He turned and was gone into the night, the door closing softly behind him.

Ben sat down. He looked at the half-full glass of bourbon and water on the table. He picked it up and emptied it without taking the glass from his lips.

Bull and Adams alive? No way.

Ben Raines laughed and put the mysterious visit out of his mind. He put on a symphony and got drunk while listening to it. The next morning, the visit was hazy in his mind. After a week, he had forgotten all about it.

PART ONE

ONE

Washington, D.C., 1988

“Maybe historians will treat me in a more humane fashion than the press has for the past eight years,” President Fayers remarked to his wife. “But sometimes I wonder.”

“You've done a lot of good things over the years, Ed.” She smiled at him, patting his hand. “SALT 5 was only one of them. It's taken you time, and you didn't win all the battles, but you certainly didn't lose the war.”

“Then why, for the past several months, have I had this ... uneasy feeling in my guts that ... oh, hell, honey—I don't know. I've been a politician all my life. And I know something is going on. I can't put my finger on it, but ... some thing is crawling around the gutters of this city. Some ... secret I should know.”

His wife studied him. She knew only too well the sixth sense career politicians develop over the years, and knew it was not to be taken lightly. Her husband had had his finger on the pulse of the world for more than forty years, for the past eight as president of the United States. If he believed something was amiss ... it was.