Before Ray could respond, the line went dead. He felt disappointed. There were so many questions he had wanted to ask. But they were right to be cautious. As he hung up the phone, there was a knock on his door.
"Come on in,” he called out.
The door opened and a tall stranger entered his office. He had a distinguished bearing, reminding Ray of the sophisticated, urbane socialites depicted in movies of the 1930's ... William Powell came to mind. He wore a finely cut black suit, a crisply laundered white shirt complete with French cuffs, and a black and silver silk tie. A red boutonniere graced his lapel. His bearing spoke “European old money” and spoke it loudly. In contrast, Ray was coatless, with the sleeves of his stay-pressed shirt rolled up, his tie loosened, and his top shirt button opened. Old Money extended his hand in greeting and spoke with a refined French accent.
"Mr. Cutler, I presume?"
Ray eyed Old Money with amusement, took his hand and shook it politely. He noticed that the handshake from Old Money was strong, unlike the dead-fish handshake of many Europeans. “You presume correctly,” he replied. “And you are...?"
"My name is unimportant, Mr. Cutler. May I sit?” Ray nodded and gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Old Money closed the door behind him and occupied the chair, sitting upright and proud.
"What can I do for you?” Ray asked, a bit puzzled by Old Money's desire for anonymity.
"May I get directly to the point, Sir?"
"Please do."
"You recently ran a story about a renegade priest known as Angelino."
Ray nodded. So, that's what this was about. The mention of Angelino's name immediately put him on guard. Too many people in too many high places were expressing an interest in this man, while at the same time proclaiming him a sociopath and crackpot. Every voice that added to Angelino's lack of credibility convinced him that Angelino was credible indeed.
"Yes, we did Mr...."
Old Money ignored the crude attempt at extracting his identity. “I am here to appeal to you to retract that story, Mr. Cutler."
Ray was taken aback by Old Money's bluntness. “That's quite a request. I assume you have a reason I should do that."
"Mr. Cutler, allow me to be frank. I represent a consortium of financial interests in Europe who are gravely concerned about the effects of Angelino's irresponsible accusations in our respective economies. Too many people have taken those accusations seriously, and that is partly because you have lent your considerable reputation to them. The financial structure of Europe is threatened."
"Surely things cannot be as bad as you paint them."
"At this moment, our stability is safe. However, those I represent are charged with protecting important interests over the long term. I think you can understand the threat to those institutions should people start to take the rants of this silly priest seriously."
Ray considered this. He tapped the eraser of a pencil on his desk repeatedly as he formed his response. “I'm curious as to why this particular priest and this particular set of allegations concerns you so much. People have been making similar claims against established power for as long as it has existed. Why come all the way over here to America to address this specific claim? If Father Angelino is, as you claim, imbalanced and irresponsible, what possible threat can he pose to your ‘established order'?"
If that question caught Old Money off-guard, he did not betray it. In fact, the quickness of his answer indicated to Ray that he had expected it and was prepared for it.
"Under ordinary circumstances, you would be correct. But the situation in Europe is not ordinary. We are not certain why, but for some reason the people believe this Angelino. There are rumblings of the creation of private currencies and calls for more and more decentralization of our economy. These pressures are coming from the common people. I do not need to tell you the threat that this poses for our established families and institutions."
"To be honest, I doubt that most Americans would have too much sympathy for the plight of your landed gentry. We tend to take a dim view of aristocracy here."
"Oh, come now, Mr. Cutler,” Old Money admonished. “I know you Americans like to portray the fiction of being a classless and egalitarian society. But your very revolution was fought as much to protect your own continental aristocracy as it was for independence from the Crown. The disparity among your economic strata are as clear and distinct as any of our ... how did you refer to it ... ah, ‘landed gentry'."
Ray was not about to get embroiled in a debate on the relative merits of American versus European society. “Perhaps that is a debate best left for another time. I appreciate your problem, even if I cannot sympathize with it too much, but I don't know what I can do to help you."
"I already told you what you can do, Mr. Cutler. You must retract your story and admit that you were duped by a lovable, though mentally unsound, scoundrel."
Ray began to lose patience. “You don't ask much, do you? Might I point out that I have spent the past thirty years building a solid reputation for honesty, as you generously conceded. Now you are asking me to chuck that because some Lords in Europe are feeling a bit of a squeeze?"
"I have offended you, Mr. Cutler. That was not my intent."
"Bullshit, Highpockets. You could have had no other intent, if you seriously thought I would consider doing such a thing. Listen, I don't know if this Angelino fellow is on the level or not. One of my most trusted reporters seems to think he is, and I value her opinion a great deal. But whether he is or not, we don't make it a policy at NBS to pull stories because they make certain people uncomfortable. To make my point even clearer, sir, when people like you start to squirm, I begin to believe Angelino a little more. It seems that a whole lot of powerful people are going to a whole lot of trouble to stop a ‘crazy lunatic.’ Now, why is that?"
"I have already explained to you..."
"Oh, I know what you said, but forgive me if I don't quite believe you. Could it possibly be that Angelino isn't quite as crazy as you people are making him out to be?"
Old Money's face reddened. He was obviously not used to being talked to in this manner.
"Mr. Cutler, I am at a loss to understand your position. Surely, you too, must see how far-fetched Angelino's claims are, and the serious damage that can be created if people start to act as if they were true."
"If what Angelino said was a lie, and if people began to act upon that lie, yes, I can see the damage that would cause. On the other hand, what if Angelino was telling the truth? And what if people began believing him, not because they are misinformed and acting on falsehoods, but because they believe what is, in fact, the truth? Your problems would pretty much be the same, wouldn't they? In fact, they might even become more serious."
After a short silence, Old Money replied, “Suppose, Mr. Cutler, we do assume, merely for the sake of argument, mind you, that Angelino is telling the truth. Do you really want to be responsible for the collapse of the entire European economic and political structure? Do you not understand that for thousands of years that arrangement has been all our people have known, and that to pull that out from under them would lead to severe hardships for not just the upper classes, but the common class as well? In fact, the common class would feel it even more than the aristocratic class would."
Ray had to take that question seriously. Old Money had a point. Did he have the right to knowingly disrupt an arrangement that, despite its imperfections, had created a society that basically worked? Did Angelino have that right? Did anyone? Could he live with knowing that his silence could have spared the poverty and perhaps even starvation that a massive economic collapse would bring with it in its wake?
Old Money continued, “I would think that you would seriously reconsider the ramifications of your noble principles.” He almost sneered those last words. “Who do you think you are to decide the fate of an entire continent?"
"Let me point out to you, sir, that it has been you and your people who have
created this situation. It is you who have taken the course of perpetrating a great lie upon them. If there is blame to be assigned, it is yours, not mine ... nor Father Angelino's. The arrogance you have displayed is immense. You play with entire countries as if they were men on a chessboard. As far as I'm concerned, you deserve what you get."
* * * *
Old Money smiled to himself. This crude American was quite predictable in his outrage. He had dealt with his kind many times before. They blustered and feigned their disapproval in an effort to drive the price for their cooperation higher. Money was no object to The Council. Money existed only by their consent.
"I see that you are a man of high principle,” Old Money lied. He believed no such thing. “Perhaps I can persuade you by appealing to your own self interests."
* * * *
Ray couldn't believe it. Was this pompous ass going to offer him money for his silence? He clenched his fists underneath the desk and tightened his jaw in anger. “What do you mean?” he managed to say.
"Let me be blunt, Mr. Cutler. I believe we both know what we are talking about here."
At least he wasn't insulting his intelligence, Ray thought to himself.
"Name your price."
"What did you say?” Ray glowered. He peered out through slits that were his eyes a moment ago.
"I said, name your price. Anything you want, Mr. Cutler. Money? Power? Whatever it is you desire, it is within my authority to see that you get it."
Ray stood and pointed toward the door, “Get out!” he demanded loudly.
Old Money remained where he was. “Mr. Cutler, please. This display of ‘integrity’ is hardly necessary. You do not need to feign indignation to drive your price up. Whatever you wish, it is yours."
He was boiling now. The arrogant cocksucker!
"I said, get out! Now!"
Old Money was not getting the message. He chuckled condescendingly, “Mr. Cutler, you can stop the charade."
That was it for Ray. He bolted around his desk and lifted Old Money by the lapels, crushing his boutonniere in the process. The shock on Old Money's face was almost comical. “Now you listen and you listen to me good, Highpockets. Whoever you are, you go back and you tell your Council masters that they have made an enemy today ... an enemy they will rue the day they created."
"You are making a grave mistake, Mr. Cutler. You do not know the power of the forces you are defying.” Ray was no longer looking at a European sophisticate, just a common thug.
"I've made mistakes before, Highpockets. I'll probably make many more before my life is through."
"No, Mr. Cutler,” Old Money said, smiling at him with menace. “This will be your last."
Ray grabbed the cuff of his guest's collar, opened the door with his free hand, and physically threw Old Money out his office door, sending him sprawling face down on the floor.
"Marge, show Highpockets here the way to the elevators,” he said, while Old Money was still airborne. Everyone in the newsroom gasped as Old Money slid across the floor.
Old Money stood, brushed himself off, and shrugged off the grasp of an intern who had attempted to assist him to his feet. He glared back at Ray, turned, and briskly walked out with as much dignity as the he could salvage from the moment.
A few suppressed laughs rose from the newsroom. Ray surveyed the room for a moment and said, “Ok, people. Show's over. Back to work.” He turned and entered his office, careful not to let anyone see the grin that covered his face.
* * * *
MATHIAS WAS MAKING quick progress teaching Jesus English. He was remarkably intelligent, and seemed willing, even enthusiastic, about learning it. With each passing day, his awareness seemed to grow exponentially. Steven and John attributed it to the awakening of synapses in the brain. It was an interesting phenomenon. They dubbed it "Exponential Synoptic Stimulation" and it would become an integral part of their overall genetic theory.
Jesus was very easy to like. He seemed to have a natural love of life and was amiable and pleasant, even when subjected to seemingly endless English lessons from Mathias, who Steven decided was a person who would drive anyone to the brink of murder after prolonged contact. Steven, however, found nothing in Jesus that distinguished him from other equally amiable men he had known.
Through Mathias, they had sat down and explained to him how he had been brought back to life. They had kept it as simple as they could. He seemed to understand, without too much difficulty, that the time in which he had lived was two thousand years in the past. On the contrary, he seemed eager to learn all he could about this new world.
The first thing he asked them to explain was the van and automobile. He had caught a glimpse of them the morning he had wandered outside the cabin, and he would not be deterred from getting an answer as to what they were. The next thing they had to explain was the satellite dish and video equipment. They had had to get a generator to provide them with electricity, but once that had been done, they were tapped in once again to the outside world. They had thought it best to parcel out Jesus’ exposure to that world. Specifically, they were in a quandary over how to explain “Christianity” to him. That one was going to take some doing.
The Son of God had a soft spot for Road Runner cartoons, much to Mathias’ irritation. Steven wasn't sure which he found funnier—the sight of Jesus laughing at cartoons, or Mathias’ distress over it. It was just like Mathias to presume to tell even his Lord what was appropriate behavior. Steven, on the other hand, was grateful for it. It made it easier to keep Jesus off the news channels, sitcoms, and most of all, broadcast church services. What would Jesus think once he saw how far his name had spread and how integral religions founded in his name had become in the modern world?
Mathias and Jesus were sitting off in a corner, engaged in yet another English lesson. John was in the kitchen area preparing some Mountain Bass he had caught earlier in the day. Steven had been pleasantly surprised at John's knowledge of wilderness living. His experience had been a blessing. As a young boy, John and his father spent many weeks over the years camping and backpacking in the hills of his native Virginia. Steven and Mathias were both city born and raised, and beyond the occasional overnight camping trip, had virtually no awareness of what it took to survive in the wild. Mathias had inherited the cabin from an uncle. The only other time he had visited it was when he drove up to see what it was he had inherited. That had been many years ago.
"Dinner is served,” John called out, and brought a plate of steaming fish over to the small table that sat in the middle of the room. Jesus didn't usually need to be told twice when food was being served. He moved quickly to the table, followed by Mathias.
He pointed to the plate and said, “Fish?"
"Yes, ‘fish’ ... very good,” he encouraged.
"I am hungry,” Jesus said. “I eat now."
"He seems to be coming along quite rapidly, Mathias. Good work,” Steven offered.
"Yes he is. He's a good student."
"Good. We can't stay here too much longer. It will be winter before you know it, and I'm not looking forward to spending it holed up here in Grizzly Adams country."
"Steven's getting anxious to reveal his handiwork and take his bows,” John cracked.
"Very funny, John."
Jesus attacked his food with passion, table manners not being a part of the culture in which he had lived. They'd have to work on that a bit. Steven often found himself regarding Jesus’ clone parentally, which was probably natural enough. Jesus looked over at him and smiled. “Fish is good,” he said enthusiastically. Steven pointed to John and said, “John is the one who caught it and cooked it."
Jesus nodded in understanding and then said to John. “Fish is good, John."
John still seemed a bit unsettled at the thought of casual dinner conversation with Jesus of Nazareth, but he managed to acknowledge the compliment with a “Thank you."
They ate for a few more minutes, then Jesus stopped short as if remembering some
thing.
"I had friend John."
John said, “I'm sure you had many friends."
Mathias jumped in. “No, I think he means that he had a friend named John. His disciple."
"Or John The Baptist,” Steven added.
Jesus nodded his head excitedly. “Yes. I had friend named John. Good man. I miss him.” He grew suddenly somber, if not quite sad, as if remembering. Steven and John exchanged glances. This was remarkable. A freshly produced duplicate of a body and consciousness long ago departed was experiencing the memories of the original being. For all intents and purposes, it was like having the original Jesus there with them, here in the modern world. There was no telling how fast Jesus’ full memory would return, or if all of his memory would return. Perhaps only certain portions would return and others would remain forever a mystery. There was simply no way to know.
"Jesus,” Steven asked gently, “what do you remember about, John?"
"What does it mean, ‘remember'?” he asked. Mathias translated for him.
Jesus thought for a moment. “He was killed. Had his head...” He groped for the English word and finished with the Hebrew phrase for “chopped off.” “He was a man of God.” A tear formed in his eye. “He was my cousin."
Steven patted his shoulders gently and Jesus saw the sympathy in his eyes. “He sounds like a very brave man,” Steven offered. Jesus nodded. “Yes. Brave man."
The solemn mood hung over the room. John finally broke the silence. “He definitely needs some tutoring on how to party."
Steven gestured to the plate of food. Jesus shook his head. His appetite had left him. He rose from the table and walked outside. Mathias rose to follow him. Steven stopped him. “Let him go. He's starting to remember things and he needs time alone to sort them out. He won't wander too far."
"I should be with him,” Mathias said.
"Armand, for once put your brown-nosing bullshit on hold. He doesn't even know who and what he was yet, so you're wasting your time. Try to put yourself in his place. Things are going to get very hard for him in the coming days as his memory returns. He needs friends, not sycophants. You'll just alienate him if you press him too closely."
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