The Multiple Man Read Online Free Page A

McMurtrie said at me. "He's on the plane, on his way back to Washington. I talked to him ten minutes ago." He jerked a thumb toward the picture-phone on the desk.
    "Then who . . ." My voice sounded weak and cracked, as if it were coming from someone else, somebody old and badly scared.
    McMurtrie shook his head, like a buffalo getting rid of gnats. "Damned if I know. But we'll find out. Believe it."
    I was beginning to register normally again. Taking a deep breath, I straightened up in the chair and looked around the glareless white room. Four of McMurtrie's men were standing around. They had nothing to do, but they looked alert and ready. One of them, closest to the door, had his pistol out and was minutely examining the action, clicking it back and forth. The ammo clip was tucked into his jacket's breast pocket.
    "Somebody's made a double for the President," I said to McMurtrie, with some strength in my voice now, "and your men killed him."
    He glared at me. "No such thing. We found this . . . man . . . in the alley. Just where you saw him. He was dead when those two cops stumbled over him. No identification. No marks of violence."
    I thought about that for a moment. "Just lying there stretched out in the alley."
    "The cops thought he was a drunk, except he was dressed too well. Then when they saw his face . . ."
    "No bullet wounds or needle marks or anything?"
    McMurtrie said, "Go in there and examine him yourself, if you want to."
    "No, thanks." But I found myself staring at the corpse in the misty cold chamber. He looked exactly like Halliday.
    "Are you in good enough shape to walk?" McMurtrie asked me.
    "I guess so."
    "And talk?"
    It was my turn to glare at him. "What do you think I'm doing now?"
    He grinned. It was what he did instead of laughing. "There're a few reporters out at the front desk. The local police and two of my people are keeping them there. Somebody's going to have to talk to them."
    I knew who somebody was. "What do I tell them? Disneyland's made a copy of the President?"
    "You don't tell them a damned thing," McMurtrie said. "But you send them home satisfied that they know why we're here. Got it?"
    I nodded. "Give 'em the old Ziegler shuffle. Sure. I'll walk on water, too. Just to impress them."
    He leaned over so that his face was close enough for me to smell his mouth freshener. "Listen to me. This is important. We cannot have the media finding out that there was an exact duplicate of the President running loose in Boston tonight."
    "He wasn't exactly running loose," I said.
    "Not one word about it."
    "What'd he die of?"
    He shrugged massively. "Don't know. Our own medical people gave him a quick going over, but there's no way to tell yet. We're going to freeze him and ship him down to Klienerman at Walter Reed."
    "Before I talk to the reporters," I said, "I want to check with The Man."
    McMurtrie grumbled just enough to stay in character, then let me use the phone. It took only a few moments to get through on the special code to the President in Air Force One. They were circling Andrews AFB, about to land. But one thing the President insists on is instant communications, wherever he is. He's never farther away from any of his staff than the speed of light.
    In the tiny screen of the desk-top phone, he looked a little drawn. Not tired or worried so much as nettled, almost angry. I reviewed the situation with him very quickly.
    "And McMurtrie thinks I ought to stonewall the reporters," I concluded.
    His public smile was gone. His mouth was tight. "What do you think?" he asked me.
    One of Halliday's tenets of faith had been total honesty with the press. He was damned fair to the working news people, which is one of the reasons I was attracted to him in the first place. Completely aside from Laura.
    "I'm afraid he's right, Mr. President," I answered. "We can't let this out . . . not right now."
    "Why not?"
    It was a question he always asked. Working for him was a constant exercise in thinking clearly.