30

London Offices of the Order
at Kensington Palace Gardens

They didn’t make you Speaker of the United States House of Representatives if you were a fool. That should go without saying, but it didn’t. Not in Vit Linder’s experience, in any case. Between the opposition party, members of his own party, and the damn press, defending himself had become a full-time job. He told himself he was used to it. He’d been born an underdog, the third-favorite of the three children born to Ronald Linder and his wife, Mrs. Ronald Linder.

Vit had had to beg and scrabble for every loan his father had given him, and even when he transformed those beans into fame and fortune, Ronald had still preferred his sisters over Vit, threatening to leave all his money to his grandchildren, of which Vit had contributed none.

Vit told himself he didn’t need the money, and he supposed it
was true. He’d built his own empire. And when his father had said
offhandedly that the only real power in the United States fell in the hands of politicians, Vit ran successfully for the House seat of the 1st Congressional District of New York. He’d been nominated to the Speaker position his third term.

His father had lived to see his only son elected 54th Speaker of the House. His congratulations? “That’s all well and good, but you’re still not the president.”

Ronald Linder had suffered a fatal heart attack one month later, a full decade after his wife had passed. True to word, he’d left the entirety of his wealth to his grandchildren. The only way Vit could get even was to become president of the United States of America.

He was third in line. That would all change in two days.

He thought having his people send the email to the Secret Service was a nice touch. Sometimes reporters liked to dig, and his constituents seemed to believe emails were extra meaty evidence. He played the future interview in his head as he left the Order’s London offices.

Reporter: How tragic that the president and vice president have been killed. Thank god you weren’t there too.

Vit Linder, wearing a suitably sad/capable face that he’d have to schedule time to practice: I almost was. The environmental summit leaders had requested my attendance. Almost like they wanted all three of us there, though I don’t want to suggest there was a conspiracy against the United States. No, I would have been there if not for the Secret Service’s monetary concerns. I didn’t want to further weigh down our already bloated budget. Trimming the DC fat will be one of my first priorities as president.

Reporter: Wait, you were supposed to be at the summit?

Vit Linder: You bet. I even communicated with the Secret Service about it. Jeannie, can you round up that email? I’m sure we have a copy somewhere.

Even if a single reporter never saw the email, it was a beautiful smokescreen for the requisite investigation into his involvement in the assassination, a record establishing that it was no less than the Secret Service who presented him his alibi.

While Vit would not attend the summit, he couldn’t help popping into London on his return trip from Moscow. There’d be so many reporters there. He wouldn’t have time to hire a model to wear on his arm, but he could stop by the Order’s London offices. He wanted photos out there of him entering one of the priciest pieces of real estate in London, next to Buckingham and Kensington Palaces. The creamy white mansion was registered as the private residence of a Saudi. Simply being seen entering it would drive up the price of his stock.

Besides, he wanted to see the girl.

The ancient conspiracy shit still hadn’t gotten ahold of him, but he had natural curiosity. She was just a kid, yet the world’s wealthiest men believed she could take them down. What did a girl that powerful look like?

Pretty much like any other blond eight-year-old, it turned out, except this one was scared as fuck. They had her locked up in a basement room behind two-way glass with theater seating on the viewing side of it. Linder wondered who else they’d had locked up in there before. He made a note to ask about getting on the list to watch. He bet there’d been some really interesting women in that room.

The kid didn’t do much, just alternated between shivering in a ball in the corner and launching herself at the glass, spitting and hissing like a feral cat, too slight to make any impact. Vit thought they should at least get her some street clothes. Those fuzzy bunny pajamas she wore made a guy feel bad staring at her.

He stayed as long as he thought necessary so he didn’t look like a coward, nodding brusquely at the other men watching before he took the elevator back to the main floor. He’d hoped to meet the Grimalkin while he was here, but he’d been informed that the assassin was on the road, tailing Salem Wiley. He’d tried to force Clancy Johnson to tell him something, anything about the Grimalkin, but Clancy had been too dumb to know what Vit was fishing for. Vit wanted to be friends with the Grimalkin. He thought someone so respected by the Order would be worth having on his side.

But nope, the Grimalkin was out following Wiley as she solved the secret of Stonehenge. Talk about another load of bunk. If they couldn’t go public once it was solved and there was no serious money in it, who cared?

The Order, that’s who.

Vit knew the twelve of them thought he was a buffoon. That worked swell for him. Kept everyone off balance. He’d surprise them with how well he managed the double assassination and stoked the fires of division in the United States. He’d deliver for them, deliver his whole country, and then they’d respect him.

Once he was president, the whole world would bow at his feet.

It was nice how smoothly the Order’s interests dovetailed with his own—other than them having a Muslim and an African on the board, which he’d discovered on his way out of the Moscow meeting. Vit assumed that was for show. He had no problem personally with blacks, in fact had found them quite useful when it came to upsetting the voters who made up his base, but he didn’t think they belonged at the table of power any more than women did. It wasn’t a global conspiracy. It was the order of things.

Vit paused as he reached the mansion’s front door. I wonder if that’s where they got their name? The Order. Hunh. Made sense.

Together, Vit Linder and the Order would return the world to the way it had always been, with men ruling and women cooking and cleaning and getting fucked. Once he was President of the United States of America, maybe he’d volunteer his time to restructure the Order, modernize them, get the coloreds out. He’d been told the group was originally founded by St. Peter. Certainly there were now better ways to do business. Time for an update.

He was smiling as he stepped outside the mansion, but he quickly swapped out the expression when he saw that the reporters he’d had tipped off were out there. He looked goofy when he smiled—that’s one thing his dad had been right about. He adopted a gruff mien instead, one that clearly conveyed his displeasure at being caught leaving an important business meeting.

It was difficult to keep the serious face. He was so happy.