Read Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style for Free Online Page B

time—though he had become rich. But the President couldn’t understand why the artist had not been acclaimed for the perfect blend of art and emotion. Besides, they were all of young girls. The thing Zhabnov loved most. He wondered if Keane had done any nudes, and made a mental note to have his art collector check into that.
    It had been sunny, fortunately, for days, and Zhabnov, who had been tied up with state affairs, longed to see his garden, too. He went to the door, flung it open.
    He could see instantly that his garden was flourishing—his Rose Garden, which surrounded two entire sides of the White House, hidden beneath barbed wire just in case any of the riffraff ever got through the elaborate security precautions. Roses—row after row of them. Roses—the most beautiful things on the face of the earth, as far as Zhabnov was concerned. Red ones and blue ones, violet and pink. Mixed breeds, hybrids that he himself had bred. It was perhaps the one thing he could actually do well, though half of his crops died of rad-disease. He treated those flowers that survived like his children, walking around the rows, talking to them, patting them, spraying here and there as servants walked behind him handing him gardening implements as if he were a surgeon performing emergency surgery.
    “Ah, the Rosa Carolina, a hybrid tea rose. I have named it President Eisenhower, after the line of succession, as these seeds originally came from his stock. Did you know that, Frederick?” Zhabnov asked the stooped old gardener who bowed to him now. The gardener would wring his hands anxiously at every visit, afraid that he had done something dreadfully wrong—that Zhabnov would find one of his favorite roses dead, and would consequently have the gardener disposed of as well. There had, after all, been six vacancies in the position in the last eight years.
    “What, Excellency?” the Official Gardener asked, hardly hearing the question as his heart was beating so fast.
    “I said, did you know that Eisenhower, President Eisenhower, was a rose breeder, too? Even wrote about it. Why, I have his essay on interbreeding cross-continental strains right in my library. I’ll even let you read it someday, perhaps,” Zhabnov said, as if giving some honor to the smocked man.
    “I’m very grateful, Excellency,” the Official Gardener said, bowing and sweating profusely. “Very grateful.”
    Ah, yes, things were going well, Zhabnov thought as he patted his round belly. He reached down and stroked one particular mix of yellow and pink and red, an odd mix of hybrids that made it look aflame. It was beautiful. And just to show what a generous man he was, Zhabnov would give that flower to Ted Rockson when—and if—the man showed up. The Grandfather would like that, would think it was more subtle than Zhabnov was usually capable of. Yes, maybe he was getting more clever after all. And he’d show his cleverness when— if— the Peace Conference convened.
    “Put an armed guard around this one,” he commanded the gardener, pointing down to the flaming flower. “I want it guarded twenty-four hours a day—until I cut it. Any man touches one petal, scars or mars it in any way—” Zhabnov looked skyward and the gardener gulped audibly, as did four of his tool-toting lackies, who had left a trail of the implements all along the rows of brilliant flowers.
    Zhabnov burped as if to emphasize the idea and then turned and headed back toward the White House. He was getting bored again. And angry. He knew it was anxiety. Anxiety over the coming Peace Conference. It was so important to him that he not appear the fool, that he impress the Grandfather instead of making himself into a dunce. Zhabnov had bitter memories of past meetings where somehow, no matter how carefully he tried to avoid it, he had done something stupid. And all eyes had looked toward him, and though none had dared show it, he knew they were all laughing at him inwardly.
    He let his mind