The next few days were a blur to Benjamin. Once Vasily had confiscated their "contraband," he'd acted as though they were merely tourists who'd wandered astray. He'd arranged for them to be transported to Krasnoyarsk-all except Boris, whom Vasily had indicated would be busy for some time answering questions about his "business" dealings. Whatever Boris's other failings, Benjamin made sure Vasily knew that, at the last minute anyway, Boris had been unwilling to participate in Hauser's cold-blooded murder plan.
As for the events at shakhta thirty-four and Boris's cabin… apparently Vasily would obtain a medal for thwarting a terrorist plot to infiltrate the Uzhur-4 base; and it was implied Nikolai would share in that medal, as well as an increase in his pension… as long as he went along with Kalinin's story.
From Krasnoyarsk they'd flown to Moscow, and then, rather than to D.C., to Nice, for a brief rest all of them needed.
It was in Nice that Wolfe had told Benjamin of his intention to go back to the Foundation, to confront Arthur Terrill and give him the chance to fill in the remaining pieces of this forty-year-old puzzle. Benjamin had insisted on going with him, whether for moral support or because he wanted to see the Foundation through new, wiser eyes, he wasn't sure.
He'd also insisted that Natalya wait for him in Nice. Things still needed to be smoothed over with the Russian embassy, and for a while she'd be better off out of the country. He assured her the trip to Massachusetts would take a day or two at the most, then he'd join her in Nice and they could enjoy it properly, like the tourists they'd only pretended to be before.
Now, on the plane from Nice to D.C., Benjamin and Wolfe spoke of what would happen with the Foundation's all-important contract. Benjamin was certain it would all lead to an investigation of the Foundation.
"Once I go back to the library and get the real Bainbridge diary, reveal what Morris's ancestors were up to and how they've been covering up ever since…"
Wolfe turned to him, smiled indulgently. "Benjamin, your commitment to optimism astounds me. What on earth makes you think the diary is still there?"
"I concealed it fairly thoroughly after I was done. Besides, this is the Library of Congress, not the Morrises' private estate. How could they…"
Wolfe shook his head. "Haven't you learned anything about the reach and fanaticism of power from what we've been through? The Morrises aren't just backers of the Foundation; through Montrose and his contacts they have friends in nearly every branch of government. Especially with this administration. Once they learned the diary still existed, they'll have had the library scoured for it. And without the diary, you have only your notes for evidence of this huge conspiracy, the notes of a young postdoc fellow who fled the Foundation in possession of secret government property, entered the Russian Federation on a false passport, and was involved with a known smuggler and other shady characters in a plot to steal nuclear materials and sell them to terrorists."
"What!" Benjamin shouted. Wolfe shushed him, indicating the other passengers around them. "That's not what happened," he continued, lowering his voice to a near-whisper.
"No," said Wolfe. "But I bet that or a similar version is just waiting to be spread all over the Internet, should you make a stink about the diary." Wolfe patted his knee. "Whatever results will be far more subtle. Enjoy our first-class ride," he said. "Anton's paying for it."
Benjamin decided, for now, to take Wolfe's advice. He summoned the stewardess, ordered some champagne, tilted back, and tried to focus on Natalya waiting for him in Nice.
A day later, they were driving up the winding, graveled road to the manse. Benjamin was eager to confront Terrill. And he was angry.
The day before, while in D.C., Benjamin had gone to the Library of Congress, to see if Wolfe had been right.
There had been no trace of the diary. And no record of a crate of books from the Morris family.
So now the only remaining evidence for all the intrigue they'd uncovered was on the walls of the manse at the American Heritage Foundation.
"When we get to the manse," Benjamin said to Wolfe on the drive out, "I'll show you that damn mural, and you can tell me then if you think I'm insane. It's just too much of a coincidence. First King Philip's War, then the Newburgh plot, then Arthur's little arrangement with the Soviets. And the Foundation is connected to them all, one way or another."
Wolfe looked just as skeptical now as he had when Benjamin first told him about the mural.
"Coincidences are just an improbable alignment of events," Wolfe said flatly, echoing Anton. "Not evidence of collusion. And think what you're suggesting. While I might allow that some of your Puramists survived to the Revolutionary War, and perhaps even had their own agenda, to suggest they continued for another two hundred years…" He shook his head. "The Morrises are an old and powerful family. Of course they have connections throughout American history. But that doesn't mean they're at the center of some arcane conspiracy." Wolfe pulled through the Foundation's gates. "Just show me this sinisterly suggestive mural of yours, and we'll go from there."
As they drove through the Foundation's gates, Benjamin thought back to how he'd felt two weeks before, passing through this same portal. He recalled his burning eagerness to be admitted through those gates and into the world of power and privilege of the Foundation; how, in Arthur Terrill's office, he'd thought of the Foundation as a sort of magnificent theater, one in which he desperately desired to know the machinery behind the stage. Now, that theater seemed to him like a papier-mache facade concealing not tantalizing secrets, but brittle fossils.
They parked outside the manse-once again Benjamin was struck by the almost preternatural stillness of the Foundation's grounds-climbed the portico's steps, and entered the manse's foyer.
And came to a dead stop.
The mural was gone.
From floor to ceiling, the walls had been painted a universal thick, bright white. There wasn't a trace of the mural visible anywhere.
Benjamin could only stare in silence, but Wolfe harrumphed. "Well, now," he smirked. "A preservation project?" He turned to Benjamin. "I apologize. Apparently there was more to that mural than met my eye. Let's see if Arthur's wearing a false beard and dark glasses."
He led the still-stunned Benjamin to Terrill's office, opened the door without knocking.
Arthur was sitting behind his desk, rifling through papers, just as when Benjamin had first met him. Only now Arthur didn't look confident and officious; he looked gaunt and harried.
"Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Wainwright," Terrill said tersely. "I must say I'm surprised but pleased to see you again."
They walked to Terrill's desk, neither choosing to sit down.
"Pleased?" Benjamin said with skepticism.
"Any results of this entire misadventure that would prove fatal were, as far as I was concerned…" And then he seemed to run out of steam and slumped back in his chair.
"Unavoidable?" offered Wolfe. "God, Arthur, what happened to you?"
Terrill looked down at his desk, began to straighten papers, stopped himself.
"I'm not sure you would understand, Samuel." He looked up at him. "I'm not sure you've ever really believed in anything that strongly. Which is why you never really… fit in here."
"Oh, you're wrong there," Wolfe said. "But now I know there's nothing more dangerous than believing the ends justify the means."
Terrill's eyes went bright. "But if those ends are vital to the survival of your country-"
"And if those means change the very nature of that country?" Wolfe said. "What survives then?"
Terrill didn't respond, and Benjamin spoke up.
"I'd like to know one thing," he said. "How did Jeremy become involved in all this?"
Terrill sighed, looked down at his desk. "Old colleagues from RAND recommended him. We gave him money and his head. He'd already written brilliantly about nuclear war and game theory…" He looked up. "When he started to report the preliminary results of this TEACUP program… well, I was against letting him continue. But others saw an opportunity. There'd always been concerns about possible… fault lines. It was felt by some that Dr. Fletcher's work might reveal those fault lines so that we could better… repair them."
Wolfe snorted. "Don't you mean conceal them?"
"Do you really think, Samuel," Terrill said to Wolfe, suddenly energized again, "that the average person wants to know all this, wants to understand how… insane it all was? If we'd told them we couldn't protect them, that no matter how many bombs we had they would be no safer… Do you think they wanted to hear that truth? But by creating an enemy they could understand, we provided our people with unity, with purpose-"
"And stability," said Wolfe sarcastically. "I know the speech, Arthur. From the thirties and in another language. And it's no more convincing now than it was then."
"But surely even you, Samuel, can see that this… arrangement made the world safer-"
Wolfe shook his head emphatically. "You only made the terror acceptable."
Terrill's eyes darted about, as though seeking an answer.
"There were traditions to defend," Terrill said, almost pleading, "ideals to sustain-"
"Ideals?!" said Wolfe, finally losing his temper. "Tell that to Jeremy Fletcher. Tell that to Edith Gadenhower, and who knows how many others." Wolfe calmed himself. "You weren't upholding ideals Arthur. You were merely clinging to power by any means necessary."
Arthur looked at Wolfe with a mixture of resentment and resignation.
"And we noticed the 'renovation' work in the foyer," Wolfe continued. Still Arthur didn't say anything. "It won't matter, Arthur. Not in the long run. I would guess there are other 'fault lines' waiting to be stumbled upon, as Fletcher did."
"I wouldn't look for them, Samuel," Terrill said. Now he looked… frightened.
"Oh, I'm beginning to suspect we're not the only ones looking."
Now Arthur's eyes flashed, as though Wolfe had struck a nerve, but he said nothing.
"You could still salvage something from all this, Arthur," Wolfe said, his tone changing to that of an old friend giving unwanted-but-wise counsel. " You could tell the story. Let people decide for themselves. Isn't that one of the ideals you did all this to sustain?"
Terrill smiled ruefully. "You don't understand, Samuel. Not even now."
And Benjamin realized that Terrill looked not like an arrogant conspirator, not even like the director of a powerful institution… but rather like a man who'd received news he'd been found guilty and would pay the price.
Wolfe hung his head, sighed. He turned to Benjamin. "We should go, Benjamin. I believe Arthur has some… sorting out to do." He looked once more at Arthur. "Good-bye, Arthur," he said.
And then he and Benjamin turned and walked out of the room.
Just as Wolfe and Benjamin were driving out of the Foundation's gates, there was a sharp, short noise from the manse that echoed across the Foundation grounds. The noise sent a flock of crows in the tree outside Terrill's office scattering into the gray afternoon sky.