Harold sat quietly for a long time before speaking.
"You surprise me, Stuart,” he finally managed to say.
For some reason this amused Stuart “I do? Now there's a first."
"Seriously. I never knew you felt this way. You have been a liberal all of your career. Hell, you have argued circles around me when I have said virtually the same things on the Senate floor. Where is all of this coming from now?"
"I honestly don't know."
Stuart rose and poured himself another scotch. He began pacing, gathering his thoughts, as he continued, “You know the old saw, ‘be careful what you pray for, you may get it.’ You know how strongly I feel about people being treated fairly ... how passionately I have fought to help make life a little easier for the disadvantaged. But this is different. I have always favored helping people to help themselves."
"Yes, you have. It is one of the things I have always respected about you. Many of your political allies were too quick to trade goodies for votes. You never were like that."
Stuart nodded his thanks at the compliment. “Now, we are told we no longer have to strive for anything ... it will be given to us, no strings attached. Are you buying that?"
Harold shook his head.
"Goddamn right! There are always strings attached. Thirty years in Washington have taught us both that lesson. And there is one important question which remains unanswered. I'm not sure anyone has even thought to ask it."
"What's that?"
"Once we have it all, what do we do then?"
Harold grew quiet for a moment.
"So you will help me, Stuart? You'll manage my campaign?"
Stuart downed the remaining scotch in his glass and said with a sudden smile, “You're goddamned right, I will."
"Good,” Harold said with satisfaction. Then he smiled.
"What's the smile about, Harold?"
"I was just thinking. I've been planning on running for President for quite some time now, as you know. I always assumed I'd be going up against that thieving, lying, sonofabitch Crowley. Instead, I pick an election in which I will be running against Jesus, in essence."
Stuart laughed loudly at that. “Yes. And you expect me to manage the damn campaign for you."
They both started laughing like school kids. Finally, catching his breath, Harold said, only half in jest, “We're gonna get creamed."
"Maybe, Harold,” Stuart said, suddenly serious. “Maybe not."
Chapter 18
NICOLE WATCHED THE ceremony on television in her hotel room with great interest. This was unexpected. It was becoming clear Jesus was with them, even if he did not realize he was. Was The Council possibly acting according to the long-term plan of Jesus after all? All of her life—all twenty-seven years—she had been taught Christianity was the message of misguided idealists who had little understanding of the true nature of humanity. Yet, here he was, in the flesh, espousing the very ideals that had been fused into her psyche from the moment she was born.
Watching the Pope, the President of the United States, and Jesus stand before the world, united in purpose, made her heart pound with excitement. She was so fortunate to be among the generation that would see the centuries-old goal of The Council come to fruition. With the power of Jesus on their side, the Agenda was unstoppable.
She was disappointed she could not get a better view of Susan Morgan. She remained in the background, and consequently, other than accidental shots of her in the frame, she was not being sought out by the cameras. That was unfortunate. She wanted to get at least a minimal sense of the woman she was about to win the confidence of. But this day belonged to the “big three,” as they were already coming to be known. That was as it should be, Nicole understood. Still, it would have been nice if she could have gotten a better look at Susan. Number Two knew Susan had achieved a great deal of respect as a young reporter before some silly scandal derailed her career. She had watched footage of her, of course, before she left for America—she was not flying totally by the seat of her pants here—but it was several years old. She was a little unsettled that she was not better prepared to deal with her target. She was confident enough in her own abilities to know she would be able to size Morgan up pretty well when they met.
Nicole decided to spend the day touring the city. It was pretty clear the festivities of the day were going to continue into the evening and she was not going to make her contact with Susan that day. She might as well get to know Washington. After all, soon she would be spending most of her time there, once the Agenda was in full operation.
* * * *
MONSIGNOR CASSIDY CONCLUDED the translation for Zugana must be “party on!” These Aztecs, simple descendants of a once great and powerful nation, sure knew how to have a good time. Americans could learn much from their example.
The Zugana began as a serious ceremony. The chief of the tribe, an old man called Chaka, presided over a rather lengthy ceremony in which each member of the tribe filed past Imahoptec, each offering a personal prayer of good will. As each person passed, they shared a sip of wakula—which Billy explained was akin to a sacramental wine, but a bit stronger—well, actually much stronger—with him. So of course, by the time the entire village proceeded past him, Imahoptec was no worse for wear, although Cassidy had to admit, he handled the massive amount of alcohol he had consumed quite well.
After Imahoptec was lubricated with sacramental wakula, the music began. It was haunting, rhythmic music, simultaneously alien and familiar to Cassidy. He found the strange long hollow tube which served as an instrument, not unlike the Australian Didjeridoo, produced a deep, hypnotic sound which involuntarily drew him into an altered state of consciousness. He could only imagine the effect it would be having on Imahoptec, whose consciousness was already seriously altered. Whatever may have been going on inside him, it was clear the music had pulled Imahoptec in. He began dancing—the closest description Cassidy could come up with to describe the body movements of the Aztec priest. It was a dance of total abandonment. Cassidy wondered what it would be like to yield oneself to such abandon. He was amused that Angelino got up with Imahoptec and danced with the same abandon, as if it were a dance he had done all his life. This pleased the other members of the tribe, who cheered and clapped their approval of Angelino's participation.
It was dark now, and things had quieted down. The men of the tribe were gathered around a large fire. Cassidy wondered if they were merely pausing to catch a second wind for more celebration. No one spoke. They all stared into the fire, almost fixed in a trance-like state. After a time, Chaka finally spoke. Billy translated for Angelino and Cassidy.
"For centuries we have been taught about the ‘Time of Reckoning', the time when the earth would be transformed into a world of peace and prosperity. The arrival or our honored guests,” he gestured toward them, “has been the sign the transition into this time has begun.
"The Aztec nation is blessed to have an individual among us who embodies the inherited mission of assisting in this great event. The great Gathering has begun. Our three guests, along with our revered Imahoptec, are members of The Twelve Knights of the Ascension. Soon the whole world will know the purpose of their mission. Each, along with the others who will soon join them, possesses an aspect of spiritual perfection that manifests every two thousand years. So many seek answers in books and in the teachings of others. But the God Who Made All Things placed the treasures man seeks in the place he will least be likely to look—within himself. And he placed the Spirit of Man in the living souls of the Knights of the Ascension, so that spirit might be clearly demonstrated by living acts, rather than the cold sterile words of books, however wise and true might be the words they contain."
He stood and lifted his wooden chalice of wakula, looked in their direction, smiled and said loudly, “All of Mankind salutes you. May God be with you."
The rest of the village repeated the toast and stood to honor the mission of Angelino, Cassidy, Billy Red Deer, and Imahopt
ec
* * * *
DARKNESS DESCENDED UPON Washington, and the city, weary from an emotionally charged day of celebration and revelry, grew quiet, as much from exhaustion as anything else. Crowley, Jesus and the rest of his staff lounged casually in the cabinet meeting room, clearly reveling in the aftermath of one of the greatest days in the history of modern civilization. Crowley lit a celebratory cigar and offered one to each of them. All declined except Jesus, whose eyes lit up with delight at the taste of his first puff. This brought a wide grin to the faces of Crowley and Mathias. Champagne flowed freely.
"Well,” Crowley finally said, “I would say it has been a good day."
Murmurs of agreement filled the room. Susan remained silent, content to observe the testosterone-induced sense of victory. It was not clear to her what victory they were celebrating. As far as she could tell, all that was accomplished was an alliance of powerful influences. That did not bode well for the American people, nor, she suspected, for the people of the rest of the world. She felt vaguely troubled something was beginning which would not be stoppable once it gathered sufficient momentum. Even more troubling, it was becoming apparent to her this “something” was a New World Order which would offer a world of hope and plenty, but which would very rapidly degenerate into a world of oppression and tyranny. Then she realized something which made her dizzy with terror ... she was the only one who could stop it. She didn't know what made her think that, but as soon as the thought raced through her mind, she knew it was true. How was she to do that? She felt her stomach tighten into a thick acidic ball.
Mathias, never one to miss an opportunity to grab center stage, stood and proclaimed loudly, “May I propose a toast?” The others gave him their attention.
"Here's to Jesus, Savior of Mankind. Blessed are we who are so fortunate to witness his return."
All lifted their glasses in response. “Hear, hear,” they said with just the right tone of propriety. Susan did not raise her glass. Her eyes locked with Jesus', who seemed to be the only one who noticed her failure to participate in the toast. He nodded at her and smiled wryly. Susan did not avert her gaze as she usually did. She met his eyes without defiance, but without deference either.
She was seeing this room of men in a different light tonight. She sized each of them up.
First, there was President Crowley. Gregarious, with eyes that could convey the deepest of concern for the plight of others until one looked a little deeper into them. Then one saw that behind the facade there was ... nothing. No central core of principles. In Crowley's eyes, Susan saw only cold steel.
Then, there was Mathias. He was smiling broadly, as were most in the room. She stifled a smile whenever she contemplated him. His small beady eyes always made her think of a white laboratory rat. His demeanor ... furtive yet arrogant ... added to the illusion. He was a man who had spent a lifetime telling others how they should live their lives, never bothering to assess his own life with the same zeal. She could see he was giddy with his contact with the seat of power. It seemed clear to her that Mathias felt he had been placed in the midst of these historic events by the hand of Providence. He was the one Jesus seemed to trust the most, probably because he was the first friend Jesus had made in this incarnation. It would require no mental effort at all for him to make the next step of logic to assume it was so because God had engineered it so.
Next there was Harvey Thatcher, Crowley's Chief of Staff. He was the only one in the room Crowley seemed to trust to any degree. Susan figured that was because their association went all the way back to the president's days as a councilman in Atlanta. He was particularly jubilant tonight. For all of his toughness and his gruff demeanor, Thatcher was, in the final analysis, a hanger-on of the president's. All of this was payoff to him, in his own mind, for years of unquestioning loyalty to Crowley. Behind his smiling eyes, Susan could almost hear his mind calculating exactly where he would end up in the pecking order of the ruling class and finding the answer quite pleasing. Quite a long road up the ladder for the son of a poor Georgia farmer whose parents had sacrificed much to see he got a proper education and hence the advantages in life such an education afforded.
Franklin Morris, Crowley's press secretary, was perhaps the most sympathetic of the group. His sad eyes never lost their etched-in appearance, no matter how much the rest of his face was smiling or laughing. Susan saw him as a man in conflict. He had come to this position bearing a naive idealism which had been whittled away slowly over the past two-and-a-half years. As an honest man too often called upon to mislead and dissemble, he was in deep conflict. It was a conflict that did not trouble the rest of Crowley's inner circle, who had risen to this position on a staircase of lies and deception.
Roger Harmon, Crowley's Chief Counsel, was not all that well known to her. He was rarely seen around the White House except when attending meetings with the president concerning Arnold Wills’ ongoing investigation. Susan mused those meetings would occur with less frequency now that Crowley was tight with the Son of God. When one had Jesus on their side, of what consequence were the Arnold Wills of the world?
Finally, there was Jeremy Dale, Vice President, a relative non-entity in an administration that had more light on it than any since FDR's. Stiff and awkward in movement, he nevertheless possessed a rugged handsomeness even Susan found appealing. She had often mused that Dale's concern for preserving the trees was as much an act of self-preservation as it was a deep-seated concern for the environment.
With a sudden sadness bordering on the profound, Susan realized all of these men, despite their outward differences, shared the same raft floating on the same sea of spiritual desolation. They were pitifully small men holding offices too big for them. She was thunderstruck to understand with crystal clarity that each of them ... excluding Jesus ... was driven by fear! Understanding that, each of them stood before her stripped of all pretense. Whatever worldly power they might possess, at their core they were, in fact, without any real power at all. How could she have trembled like a mouse in their presence before? How could she have been so blind to their innate weakness?
Jesus, however, was another story completely. There was never any doubt in his eyes, never a trace of fear or uncertainty. On the contrary, Susan could not shake the feeling that crept up on her over and over again, that all of the events that had occurred in the course of the past several months were being manipulated by him as if he were some cosmic maestro.
True power was wielded by the likes of Jesus and Angelino, men who caused events to happen, rather than men who reacted to events that occurred. Men like Crowley and his sycophants, thinking they were the movers of events, in reality were only players in a larger drama. They succeeded or failed purely in keeping with the greater designs of the truly powerful. And the truly powerful rarely made themselves publicly known, preferring to lurk in the shadows. Angelino had done this for decades, only occasionally surfacing to tweak the nose of the Pope and others who had grown a bit too pompous and self-righteous. Like most people, Susan had barely noticed. Yet now, in retrospect, it was clear Angelino had been moving toward a moment in time ... a moment she sensed was fast approaching. However things may have appeared on the surface, hadn't Angelino been the impetus behind everything that was happening now?
None of the men in the room had stopped to consider that, she knew. They were inflated with their own self-importance. Their egos could not grasp the concept that forces other than them were shaping circumstances. With all the power they possessed, how much were they really accomplishing? These were men to whom the holding of power was an end in itself. Now that they apparently had it in the palm of their hands, they seemed unsure of how to wield it. Susan had little doubt they would exercise it just as others throughout history had exercised unchallenged power. Somehow she would have to find a way to prevent them from seducing the masses with promises whose only purpose would be to more deeply entrench their power. And so it would spiral. Promises to gain power, which in turn
would be used to issue further promises and on and on, until one day all power would be theirs and the people would have nothing that could be said to resemble liberty or individual rights any longer. Would they notice? Would they care, if they did? With deep sorrow, Susan realized the answer to both questions was a resounding “NO."
She lifted the glass of champagne to her lips and took a deep swallow. She was grateful it was not bourbon. The temptation to escape into it would have been difficult to resist.
* * * *
THE MAN FOLLOWING Arnold Wills was clearly not a professional. He had spotted the tail back at the hotel when he had his breakfast of coffee and toast. He noticed the man sitting at a table across the room, watching him with more than the usual interest Americans generally drew from the natives. When he left the hotel for a walk, his shadow left with him. He stopped to pick up a morning newspaper from the newsstand, his shadow stopped with him, pretending to be looking over the magazines. Whoever this person was, it was a good bet he was not from any police or intelligence agency.
Arnold walked back toward the hotel, pretending not to notice his pursuer as he mimicked reading the newspaper. He deliberately adopted a casual gait, hoping to lull the shadowy figure into thinking he was following undetected. He rounded a corner and quickly ducked into a doorwell. He watched from there as the man rounded the same corner and stopped in his tracks, startled that his subject was nowhere to be seen. Haltingly, he moved forward, obviously looking around for some sign of Arnold. As he approached the doorway, Arnold leapt out, pistol drawn, and pulled the man into the doorwell.
In one swift movement, he pinned the man against the brick wall and shoved his pistol in his face. “Would you like to tell me why you are following me, or would you prefer I use this?” Arnold said, through clenched teeth.
The man stared back through wide eyes of surprise. This was no professional. He was a man in his early sixties, sporting a thin mustache. His topcoat was made of cheap cloth. Whoever he was, he was not a member of the French aristocracy, that much was clear. The man began to tremble with fright.
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