A Time for War (25 page)

“You make comfort sound like a dirty word.”

“Not at all,” Jack said. “I happen to love it myself, though I wouldn't trade my bike for your tinted-windows limo. I'd miss too much of the world.”

“You have it before you, right there,” he pointed to the display.

“Data, not experience.”

“That depends on the kind of experience one wishes to have,” Hawke said. “Does a woman want the pain of childbirth or the child itself? Does a man want the pain of dentistry or a radiant smile? When you ride your bicycle can you play the piano? Can you paint, read? Drive an SLR McLaren? Everything in life is a trade-off, Mr. Hatfield.”

“Not freedom,” Jack replied.

“
Yes
freedom,” Hawke said. “You are not free to rape or burn down a house of worship.”

“That's where ideals come in,” Jack said. “Without them—a Bill of Rights or a church, for example—nations crumble.”

“A moral anchor,” Hawke said dismissively. “Something other than an iron will to unify people. To you it's one or the other.”

“Isn't it?” Jack asked. “That's one reason the Soviet Union didn't make it. Uganda under Amin. Iraq. Suppression and corruption are no substitute for a code of honor.”

“You have a high school student's view of the world,” Hawke said. “Have you actually spent time in Russia, in Chechnya, in the other republics? I have. The Soviet Union failed before it began because the Czar, the leader the masses despised, was executed and thrown down a mineshaft. Civilizations don't rally around morality; they rally around hate. Did the Confederacy rally around slavery because it was moral? No. They were united in their strong, universal dislike of being ordered to change their way of life, to make the needs of the state subservient to the whims of the nation. Despite being better financed, better armed, and with more men, the North took four bloody years to subjugate the Rebels. When was this country more united than after Pearl Harbor or 9/11? Joseph Conrad argued that what truly changes the world for the better are acts of ‘ferocious imbecility.' Who can argue that humankind's response to that has always been shoulder-to-shoulder unification? Look at the Crusades. To this day, many Muslims condemn them. When President George W. Bush dared to say—on September 16, 2001, when our nation was still bleeding—‘This crusade, this war on terrorism is going to take a while,' he was widely criticized for using that word. Yet what made his words necessary? What caused the original Crusades? In the eleventh century, as in 2001, it was an act of vicious aggression by radical Muslims—in that instance, cutting off access to Jerusalem. Hate, Mr. Hatfield. Hate unifies. Hate inspires. Hate of poverty, of degradation, of endless, difficult choices.
That,
Mr. Hatfield, is a third option.”

Jack saw where this was going and it frightened him. He imagined Hitler and his war against the Jews turned loose in some way he had yet to figure out. But a good journalist never lets opinion or ego get between himself and information. He lets his subject think he is the smarter of the two. That keeps him talking, explaining.

“At the risk of being sent to detention,” Jack smiled, “how does that have anything to do with why I'm here?”

“You told an associate that you believed my technology was being used to murder Americans,” Hawke said. “Is that accurate?”

“I did.”

“May I have your evidence? If you need to use a computer to open a file or database, the touchpad on the screen before you is linked to my corporate system through the Hawke-B satellite. You can even open any number of ONI files, if you need them—though I would have to give you my password.”

Jack did not react to Hawke's latest demonstration of access. He looked down. He typed a few commands into the touchpad. It was impressive. “I don't need a computer,” he said, “just an answer. And, if necessary, an explanation.” Something else a good journalist did was to never become the interviewee.

Hawke laughed again, this time with a little less enthusiasm. “I rarely watched your program when you had one, but I see why it was successful. You believe that pushing and bullying is the way to get information.”

“It saves time.”

“Is that how you seduce your women as well?”

Jack was not intimidated. “You wouldn't believe the lures I throw at women.”

“Like a fly-fisher?” Hawke smiled.

“More like that than you would imagine,” Jack said. “Seduction is not my style, Mr. Hawke. Women are pretty smart. Either they click with you or they don't. You're pretty smart. Either you answer my questions or you don't.”

“If I don't,” Hawke said, “what then?”

“The main part of my business here is through.”

“The main part,” Hawke said.

“I'm pretty sure that someone with your ‘proprietary technology' is up to no good,” Jack said. “But I'll find that out on my own.”

“Not with the help of Ms. Griffith,” Hawke said confidently. He indicated the flexible display.

Jack looked down, saw security footage of a woman entering and leaving the Murrieta facility.

“She learned nothing,” Hawke told him.

“Sure she did,” Jack said.

“What was that?”

This was one question Jack was happy to answer. “That she's not alone. The two clowns you sent to chase her away? Didn't turn out too well for them.” Jack had learned that by reading the text message from Doc on Hawke's flexible display.

Hawke had survived too many boardroom battles and Congressional committees to be thrown by a sideshow setback. What seemed to wound him—and Jack had followed his eyes carefully as they went from Jack to the flexible display then back—was the realization that his own device had just been used against him.

“What is your other business with me?” Hawke asked. His voice was unworried but his expression was slightly guarded, his eyes were wary.

“You're guilty of something,” Jack said. “You've told me that by your lack of curiosity about what I suspect, what I may know. An innocent man would have asked.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” Hawke said. “You're a conspiracy theorist, nothing more. You lucked out once, with the Hand of Allah, and you're desperately trying to do so again. On my back.”

“Do you have anything else you want to share?” Jack asked.

“Just this.” The veneer of graciousness vanished, like harsh sunlight breaking through mist. “I flew you down here to sit across the table from the man who called me a Mafioso, a level of attack that even heads of state have never dared.”

“They're afraid of you,” Jack said. “I'm not.”

“They're wise,” Hawke replied. “You're not. I wanted to tell you, face-to-face, that the sound of Jack Hatfield's voice no longer matters. Who has come running to the Hero of Golden Gate? Where are the offers? Where is
The New Jack Hatfield Show
? You were always a fringe voice but now you are a discredited one as well. A freak who chased down a radical freak, nothing more.”

Hawke tapped his glasses, paused, smiled.

“You and Miss Dover Griffith—a man on the way down leading a girl who has lost her way. I'm informed that you sent a bully as your proxy, a rogue coyote. He attacked two security men who were merely escorting the young lady from a dangerous situation.
That
is your contribution to society. Verbal and physical thuggery. That is your flexible display screen, your contribution to the world. Fortunately your wife left you. There is no one to hear you except a poodle, a mercenary, a pizza maker, an aging hippie, and now a frustrated journalist. You come here and piss on
my
people? You and your circle are pathetic.”

“Are Americans pathetic, Mr. Hawke? Are the Chinese better than us?”

“The Chinese again,” Hawke said. “You're like a journalistic abattoir, you know that? You examine every part of the animal, over and over, to make sure it is used for something. I already told you, my activities are at a level of security—”

“I didn't ask about your activities,” Jack interrupted. “I asked about the Chinese.”

“You'll have to be more specific,” Hawke said, amused and apparently intrigued. “They are no more monolithic than Americans.”

“What do the leaders want?”

“Personally? Globally? Domestically?”

“Dealer's choice,” Jack replied.

Hawke thought for a moment. “There are two kinds of Chinese leaders. Egalitarian—those who believe in the Maoist ideals of widespread equality and work tirelessly to achieve it—and the elite, aristocratic Chinese—those who believe in equality, but also that their nation is more equal than others. They detest what they perceive as American arrogance.”

“You mean, the fact that
we're
proud, too? The fact that we beat them and practically everyone else on the planet to every important scientific and cultural step forward.”

“The Chinese had gunpowder, what they called ‘fire medicine,' in the ninth century, when North America had more buffalo than
homo sapiens
.”

“Yeah, but since then? Since the Europeans came over and created a new breed of can-do people?”

Hawke smiled. “There. You see? American arrogance. Jingoism. We didn't create Beethoven's
Ninth Symphony
. The Sistine Chapel ceiling. The Parthenon.”

“No, but they only would've been heard by Aryan ears without us,” Jack pointed out.

“That victory is aging like Chinese gunpowder,” Hawke said.

“No, it's part of an ongoing series,” Jack said. “We drove, we flew, we telephoned, we split the atom, we went to the moon, we invented PCs and wired the world. Even you—there was a time when you were about the thrill of discovery. Americans may not have invented the idea of crossing new frontiers but we made it our own. The Chinese have followed, in our shadow. They're not angry at us. They're ashamed.”

“Well, you seem to know all there is to know about the Chinese,” Hawke smiled. “Why did you ask me?”

Jack had let Hawke talk because that was what journalists did, he had reminded himself—even as each blow landed. The man was no amateur; he knew just what bruises to press. But there was a point at which even journalists had to go on offense to get results.

“I ask you because I think you're doing what the Chinese do, Mr. Hawke, these ‘elite Chinese' of yours. The Chinese can't beat us unless they break our spirit. So they play corrosive games, the same way you do. I talked about this on my show. To them, a psychological victory is more important than a tactical or logistical one. Even when we discovered and rooted out their cyber attacks, exposed their artificial currency deflation, they withdrew and looked for another way in. Like you said, they haven't done anything significant for over a millennium. The only way they catch up is by making us doubt ourselves, by causing us to undermine ourselves.”

“And you see me that way?” Hawke asked.

“You flew me here, didn't you? For what? Not to inform, not to educate, and I'm guessing not to try and bribe. You just wanted to play.”

“Remarkable,” Hawke shook his head. “Apart from overstating your market value, you see me and China as all that is bad, you and America as all that is good. What was it Cervantes said? ‘So educated, but so misinformed.'”

“I wouldn't know,” Jack said. “I'm more of a Bible man myself, and I hold dear Proverbs 3:7—‘Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and shun evil.' I don't run my life by whim or presumption but by evidence. We're all a work in progress. That's why
I
agreed to come here.” Jack rose. “Mr. Hawke, I want to thank you for your hospitality and the fifty thousand-mile checkup.”

Hawke's expression was as dark as the sky outside. “You're not a ‘work in progress,'” he said menacingly. “You're finished. Pierre!”

The young man appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Pierre, see that this self-styled
vox populi
gets as far as possible as quickly as possible.” He looked at Jack for the last time. “If the water here weren't just ten meters deep, that is the direction I would choose to send you.”

Jack rose. “That's OK. I know how to swim. Incidentally, what you just told me was the other business that brought me here.” He looked down placidly at the hostile face of the titan of industry. “I wanted to look in your eyes, know for certain that you'd kill to get your way.”

“Only people I know,” Hawke said. “I want to be sure I'm doing the right thing.”

“I'll make sure you get another chance,” Jack said.

“Not advisable.”

“But we're not finished.”

“I think we are.”

Jack grinned. “Then I guess you
don't
really ‘know' me.”

Hawke's body was tense as he stood and turned from Jack.

“This way, sir.” Pierre was at Jack's side, between him and Hawke. His arm was extended toward the staircase.

Jack walked ahead, the aide following closely like a mobile quarantine unit.

The Aquariva speedboat was revved and waiting for him. It sped away at once. Utako did not acknowledge him, other than to wait until he was seated before instructing the driver to depart.

The night air was decidedly chilly. Yet that wasn't what caused the goosebumps running up his arms. It was the personal power this man had amassed and the certainty with which he used it. Unlike Hitler, he didn't need ministers and foreign allies and a compliant British prime minister. He had technology that put his influence everywhere, from outer space to government offices to individual cell phones—his own, now that he had read that text on Hawke's flexible display.

He never doubted that Hawke could kill if it suited his design. He had nearly said as much during that segment of
Truth Tellers
. The question that bothered Jack was: what
was
his design? Are the Chinese involved and, if so, how? To what end?