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But today the Malian conspiracy was exposed and in utter wreckage. The Grenadian regime was wiped out. The
Singaporeans had had a revolution. Even the European data bankers-Los Morfinos-had lost their safe havens and were scattered to the winds. (Applause.)
Even Vie
Rizome was stronger than ever. They had proven their right to the future. They-the Lodge perso
Everyone applauded. They were shiny-eyed. She was get- ting much better at this sort of thing. She had done it so many times that all the fear was gone.
The formality broke up and people began circulating. Mrs.
Delrosario, Mrs. Rodriguez, were both in tears. Laura con- soled them. She was introduced to the Lodge's new coordina- tor and his pregnant wife. They bubbled on about how nice the place was and how much they were sure they'd enjoy it.
Laura did her "humble Laura" number, patient, detached.
People always seemed surprised to see her speak reason- ably, without hair-tearing or hysteria. They had all formed their first judgment of her from watching Gresham's tape.
She had seen the tape (one of the i
exactly once, and had turned it off before the end, unable to bear the intensity. She knew what other people thought about it, though-she had read the commentaries. Her mother had sent her a little scrapbook of them, carefully clipped from the world press.
She would think about those comments sometimes when she was introduced to strangers, saw them judging her. Judg- ing ' her, presumably, by the kind of crap they'd seen and read. "Mrs. Webster was thoroughly convincing, showing all the naive rage of an offended bourgeoise" Leningrad Free
Press. "She recited her grievances to the camera like a cavalier's mistress demanding vengeance for an insult"-Paris-
Despatch. "Ugly, histrionic, gratingly insistent, a testament that was ultimately far too unpleasant to be disbelieved"-
The Guardian. She had read that last one ten or twelve times, and had even considered calling up the snide little creep who'd written it-but what the hell. The tape had worked, that was enough. And . it was nothing compared to what they said about the poor wretched bastards who used to run Vie
All that was old news now, anyway. Nowadays everybody talked about the submarine. Everyone was an expert. It was not, of course, an American Trident submarine-FACT had lied to her about that, small surprise there. She had told the whole world that she'd been on a "Trident" submarine, when a Trident was actually a kind of missile.
But Gresham had asked her for a description and the description had made it clear. The boat was a former Soviet
Alfa-class missile sub, which had been sold years ago, to the
African nation of Djibouti, and reported sunk with all hands.
Of course it had not sunk at all-the hapless crew had been gassed by FACT saboteurs onboard as mercenaries, and the whole sub captured intact.
Almost the whole story was out now, new bits and pieces coming in every day. They had the FACT computer files, captured in Bamako. FACT agents overseas were surrender- ing right and left, naming their associates, ruining their for- mer employers in a septic orgy of confession.
The Countess herself was dead. She had shot herself in her bunker at Bamako and had her remains cremated, leaving a long, rambling, lunatic testament about her vindication by history. So they claimed, anyway. No genuine proof of her death. She'd seen to that.
They still weren't even sure of the woman's true identity.
There were at least five solid candidates. wealthy right-wing women who had vanished at one point or another into the underworld of data piracy and global spookdom. That didn't even count the hundreds of goofy folk tales and bullshit conspiracy theories.
The weird, sick thing was that people liked it. They liked the idea of an evil countess and her minions, even though the testimony and confessions were showing how squalid it was..
The woman had been mentally ill. Old and trembling and out of it, and surrounded by people. who were part zealot and part profiteer.
But people couldn't see it like that-they couldn't grasp the genuine banality of corruption. On some deep unconscious level people liked the political upheaval, the insecurity, the perverse tang of nuclear terror. The fear was an aphrodisiac, a chance to chuck the longterm view and live for the moment.
Once it had always been like that. Now that she was living it, hearing people talk it, she knew.
Someone had invited the mayor. Magruder began explain- ing to her the complex legal niceties of reopening the Lodge.
He was defensive about what he'd done, in his own aggres- sive way. She fended him off with empty pleasantries. "Oh, wait," she said, "there's someone I simply must meet," and she left him and walked at random toward a stranger. A black woman with a short fringed haircut, standing alone in the corner, sipping a soda-and-ricewater.
It was Emily Donato. She saw Laura coming and looked up with an expression of pure animal terror. Laura stopped short, jolted. "Emily," she said. "Hi."
"Hello, Laura." She was going to be civilized. Laura saw the resolve for it stiffen her face, saw her control the urge to flee.
The hubbub of conversation dropped an octave. People were watching them over their drinks, from the comers of their eyes. "I need a drink," Laura said. A meaningless utterance, she had to say something.
"I'll get you one."
"No, let's get the hell out of here." She pushed open the door and stepped out onto the walkway. A few people out on the landing, leaning on the rail, watching seagulls. Laura walked through them. Emily tagged after her, reluctantly.
They walked around the rampart, under the awning. It was getting cold and Emily, in her simple short-sleeved dress, clutched her bare brown arms. "I forgot my windbreaker....
No, it's okay. Really. " She put her drink on the wooden railing.
"You cut your hair," Laura said.
"Yeah," Emily said, "I travel pretty light these days."
Thudding silence. "Did you see Arthur's trial?"
Laura shook her head. "But I'm glad now you, never introduced me to the son-of-a-bitch."
"He made me feel like a whore," Emily said. Simple, abject. "He was F.A.C.T.! I still can't believe that some- times. That I was sleeping with the enemy, that I spilled the whole fucking thing, that it was all my fault." She burst into tears. "And then this! I don't know why I even showed my face here. I wish we were back in Mexico. I wish we were in hell!"
"For God's sake, Emily, don't talk like that."
"I disgraced my office. I disgraced the company. And God knows what I've done with my personal life." She was sobbing. "Now look what I've done-I've betrayed my best friend. You were in prison and I was sleeping with your goddamned husband! You must wish I was dead."
"No, I don't!" Laura blurted. "I know-I've been there.
It's no good at all."
Emily stared at her. The remark had stu
Rizome morale much good. Complaining, abusing people, drinking too much. I said, my dead pal would want me to look after David. I tried to do something really good, and it was the worst thing I've ever done."
"I'd have done it too," Laura said.
Emily sat in one of the folding lounge chairs and pulled in her legs. "That's not what I want," she said. "I want you to tell me how much you hate me. I can't stand it if you're so much nobler than I am."