The Last Line by Anthony Shaffer Page A

he’d worked at the Fed, slowly working his way up the internal hierarchy. For twenty-five years he’d nurtured his career, built his life. If that life was less than exciting, well, James Walker didn’t like excitement. He liked things … predictable. Sane. Ordered. Rational.
    â€œI’ve had second thoughts, as you put it, all along, Mr. Preston. You know that.”
    â€œBut you did agree to work with us. To work with the Program. ”
    â€œPeople have died, Mr. Preston. If our … our involvement comes under public scrutiny—”
    â€œAh, but it will not, Mr. Walker,” Preston said. “There is no reason for any of this to go public, is there?”
    Preston had a way of looking at him, cold, unemotional, superior. Walker felt exactly as he imagined a mouse might feel when confronted by a hungry snake.
    â€œNo. No, of course not.”
    â€œGood.”
    It took Walker a moment to work up the courage to ask the question. “So … what are you doing over here?”
    â€œFinding you, of course. We’re having a special meeting tonight. The Program’s Central Committee. At the club. You’ll be there?”
    Walker wondered for a moment what would happen if he told the man no, if he said he had other plans, even just a quiet night home with his wife and son.
    Then he realized that it would make no difference at all. The Program, as it was informally known within the group, lately had come to dominate his life, to own it.
    â€œI’ll be there.”
    â€œExcellent. We’ll be discussing the next steps we must take to further the Program. We expect that things will be happening very quickly now.”
    â€œI still don’t understand,” Walker said. “Why the ungodly hurry?”
    â€œFor the simple reason, Mr. Walker, that a secret of this size, of this magnitude, cannot be long kept. We are rewriting history, our little group, and the consequences will affect millions, no, hundreds of millions of people. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that … well … a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, isn’t that right?”
    Walker wondered if Preston had just threatened him. He knew he was the weak link. The others—Logan, Gonzales, Delaney, Fuentes—they’d been in on this from the beginning. They knew the risks, but they’d been willing to push ahead nonetheless. They never seemed to have second thoughts.
    â€œWe are, all of us,” Preston continued, “under a great deal of pressure. But now that things are moving forward for us, the pressure will be less. I promise you that the rewards shall be infinitely worth the current stress and … difficulty.”
    â€œDirecto a México is coming under fire, you know,” Walker said. “If Congress gets too interested, it could be bad. I know it’s only marginally concerned with the Program, but if it comes under intense public scrutiny, everything could unravel. Everything. ”
    â€œDirecto a México, as you well know, James, is completely legal. You need have no fears on that account. As for Congress … well, you leave them to me. They are not your concern.”
    Numb, Walker could only nod.
    â€œGood,” Preston said, standing. “I’ll see you at the club tonight. Be there, James.”
    Walker watched as Preston—arguably one of the most powerful men in the United States government—walked away. He took a last bite of his barely touched lunch, then pushed the tray aside. The cherry blossoms were at their height—clouds of pink beyond the Reflecting Pool and around the Jefferson Memorial and the Tidal Basin farther south.
    Right … completely legal. It was legal, of course, because the insanely serpentine laws had been written that way to make it legal, all while avoiding too much oversight from Congress or unpleasant attention from the media.
    Generally, the