BY TEN THE next morning, the World President’s Residence had mostly returned to normal. Ministers bustled through the halls with papers and portfolios as kitchen workers carried glassware, trays, and unopened champagne bottles back into storage.
In the basement security room, a team of analysts played and replayed the scene from the previous evening’s disturbance. The man’s mask thwarted the facial recognition software, but in one viewer’s mind, at least, there was no doubt about the identity. Sonor Breece leaned over the monitor.
“It’s Lamont Cranston,” he said. “There’s nobody else it could be.”
Breece noted the current time on the monitor display. This was a big day. The Most Beautiful Day. And he was already late for his next appointment. No matter. Last one into the room is the most powerful, no matter what the size of the meeting.
“Tweak the algorithm,” said Breece to the analysts. “Keep trying. And the woman with him. The one in white. Find her, too. Nothing can interfere with today’s event. Nothing!”
Breece walked down the stairs to the first floor and moved briskly down the long corridor. Across the hall from the dining room was a small study with a view of the rear garden. It was Breece’s favorite room for morning meetings because it got such beautiful sun. Breece pushed the door open.
As Breece entered, both visitors jumped to their feet.
“Sonor Breece,” the chief of staff said, shaking hands with the men in turn as they introduced themselves.
“Creighton Poole, attorney at law,” said the first.
“Julian Fletcher. Doctor Julian Fletcher,” said the other.
“Ah, a man of medicine,” said Breece. He gestured to both men. “Please sit.”
“Chemist, actually,” said Fletcher.
“Noble profession,” said Breece with a smile. “I’m a bit of a chemist myself.”
The door opened again. An attendant entered, holding a tray with three flutes of champagne.
“We had some festivities here last night,” said Breece. “I thought we might enjoy some of the leftovers.”
The attendant set the tray down on the glass table in front of the sofa and quickly left the room.
“But first,” said Breece, looking at Poole. “About your message. Very intriguing.”
“Yes, Mr. Breece,” started Poole. “If you’ll allow me to lay out the parameters…”
Breece knew the start of a lawyer’s speech when he heard it. He held up his hand.
“You have information on Lamont Cranston—is that correct?”
Poole recalibrated. Less was more.
“Yes,” he said. “We do.” He shifted his eyes toward Fletcher. Fletcher cleared his throat.
“Mr. Cranston,” said Fletcher, “was the subject of an experiment in my family’s laboratory.”
“In the 1930s,” added Poole.
Breece kept his eyes on Fletcher. “Experiment?”
“Mr. Cranston was…ill at the time,” Fletcher continued. “My ancestor had devised a process that allowed for preservation of the human body in a form of suspended animation.”
“Cryogenics?” said Breece.
“A modification of that theory, yes,” said Fletcher. “But one that permits the body to function and survive over a long period of time without significant cellular deterioration.”
“Fascinating,” said Breece. “And Mr. Cranston was the beneficiary of that process?”
“He was,” said Fletcher. “I performed the revivification myself.”
“And may I assume your laboratory is the only one of its kind?”
“The only one that works, that’s for sure!” said Poole, looking for a way back into the conversation.
“And Mr. Cranston?” asked Breece. “Where is he now? Alive and well, I presume?”
“I saw him three days ago,” said Fletcher.
“Doctor,” said Breece. “I salute your achievement. Let’s drink to science!”
Breece handed a flute of champagne to Fletcher and lifted one of his own.
Fletcher took an eager sip. Instantly, his eyes widened and a stream of white foam began to spill from his mouth. He collapsed forward onto the glass table, cracking it with his skull. Poole jumped to his feet. In a corner, a pair of finches fluttered in their cage. Breece shifted slightly in his chair.
“I’m sorry that was so unpleasant, Mr. Poole, but I don’t wish to give Mr. Cranston another chance at…What was the term?”
Poole’s lips trembled with the word. “Revivification.”
“Exactly. And now, Mr. Poole, about the other matter you mentioned?”
Poole’s hand shook as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a folded document wrapped in blue legal paper. On the top fold in legal script was the title “Last Will & Testament of Lamont Cranston.”
“What have we here?” asked Breece.
Poole cleared his throat and wiped the sheen from his upper lip.
“In 1937,” he began, “my great-ancestor was Lamont Cranston’s attorney. He advised Mr. Cranston to write a will. But Mr. Cranston didn’t want to bother. He had no wife. No children. Thought it was a waste of time. So on the night when Mr. Cranston met his…unfortunate fate, my ancestor wrote a will for him and forged his signature.”
“An ethical breach,” said Breece, pursing his lips.
“No question,” said Poole, “but one designed for Mr. Cranston’s ultimate benefit. And I believe that what I know about certain provisions of this will would be of value to you. Provisions that Mr. Cranston, of course, is totally unaware of.”
Breece took the document and unfolded it.
“The final page,” said Poole helpfully, “the inheritance clause.”
Breece glanced at the legal text. He folded the document.
“This could be useful indeed,” said Breece. “And nobody else knows about this forgery?”
“I’m the last of my line,” said Poole. “The secret dies with me.”
“In that case,” said Breece, “why don’t we discuss your retainer?”
Breece tucked the document into his pocket and put a hand on Poole’s shoulder.
“But first, I’ll need the location of that laboratory.”