Her cell phone chirped, and she saw the call was from an unknown number in Chicago. What now?
* * *
Was Bia on to him? That was all Ranold B. Decenti wanted to know. Of course she was. Otherwise why would she have stranded him at the airport and made no attempt to contact him? He’d had to mention to Hale that he could use a ride to the office. “My people are all on assignment, as you can imagine. A significant underground strike is pending.”
Hale asked his driver to slide shut the window separating the front seat from him and Decenti. “Forgive me, General, but are you mad? I mean, do your planning, but surely you’re not going to attack an underground during the current popular climate.”
Ranold wouldn’t have minded putting a couple of rounds into Hale right then. “The current climate reeks of cowardice, Governor. Someone needs to step up. Are we going to turn tail and run because we lost a battle? It’s time to win one.”
Decenti’s phone rang and he saw it was Commander Balaam. “Where are you?” he began.
“On my way to meet you at your office, sir. Terribly sorry about the disconnect, but I knew the governor was coming to greet you and hoped you might be able to arrange transport through him.”
“Well, I did, but I should have heard from you.”
“My apologies again, Chief, but I was in the middle of some clandestine arrangements, trying to stay on pace for the operation at the end of this week, in light of the loss of our colleague. By the way, that talisman plant was a stroke of genius. You never cease to amaze me.”
Decenti cleared his throat. “Yes, well . . . then, it will be good to reconnect in a few minutes.”
“You can’t talk, I take it?”
“That’s correct, Commander.”
“Well, let me just say again, I was impressed anew. Not wholly surprised, because you have a long history of these kinds of things. Forgive me for gushing, but it’s an honor to serve you, sir.”
33
“HE IS RISEN.” Felicia was taken aback. Who was this on the phone?
“He is risen indeed,” she said, her throat constricted.
A mature male voice introduced himself as a confidant of Paul Stepola’s. “He asked that I see if I can be of any assistance during your time of grief. I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Thank you. Needless to say, I will need to confirm—”
“With Paul, certainly. I understand. If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll assume he has vouched for me and that you are willing to meet with me. Do you know Ray Radigan’s?”
“In Kenosha? Of course. It’s just up the road. But I doubt I’ll feel like eating.”
“Well, I will. And it’s a good place to meet and talk. If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll meet you there at six.”
“How will I know you?”
“I will know you. Paul has described you. Let’s just say both of us will be easy to recognize.”
* * *
Bia Balaam had a snub-nosed .38-caliber pistol in a holster tucked into her belt under her blazer at the small of her back. She didn’t expect that Ranold Decenti would kill her in his own office, but look what he had done to Baldwin Dengler. She simply wanted to be prepared, and she would certainly be on the lookout for any suggestion of meeting elsewhere alone.
To her utter amazement, when Decenti’s secretary ushered her in, Ranold actually came from behind his desk and opened his arms to embrace her. She didn’t recall his ever so much as touching her hand in all the years she had known him. She prayed his hands wouldn’t stray to her waist, where he would be sure to notice her weapon.
Behind the closed door, he smiled as he sat at his desk. “So you figured it out, eh?” he said.
“As soon as I saw that talisman, it all came together. You are unbelievable.”
“You’re the only one who knows, Commander.”
“That was my second thought. I sat there shaking my head at your cleverness; then I felt overwhelmed with pride and gratitude that you would entrust me that way. I’m honored to be your confidante, sir.”
Unless he really was as good as she was implying, Bia believed she was getting to him. His ego knew no bounds, and while she wanted to rein herself in and not make him suspicious by too much flattery, he had enough self-love to go around.
“So,” he said, still apparently trying to keep from grinning, “now that we have the pansy out of the way, where are we on the attack?”
Bia sat forward to keep the gun from gouging her back. “Everything’s come together well, despite the loss of the project leader.”
“No real loss or I wouldn’t have done it.”
“I assume you knew things about Aikman that I didn’t,” she said.
“Of course, but I might have wished you would have given more credence to my suspicions. I knew something was up with him.”
“Granted.” If Ranold could feign remorse over misreading his own man, so could she. “I totally missed it, sir. It’s made me reconfirm my commitment to try to be as meticulously observant as you.”
“Well, don’t beat yourself up over it. When you get to be my age, few things slip past you.”
“I can only hope,” she said. “I was wondering though, sir, how you’re feeling now about the target date of the attack.”
“Why?”
“The current climate of public opinion being what it is.”
“You sound like you’ve been talking with Hale.”
Bia shook her head and snorted. “Hardly. I’ve met the man once or twice to shake his hand.”
“Well, he said the same thing. But tell me, how would a successful operation like this negatively affect the so-called current climate? Might we not turn the tide of public opinion back our way?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Curious whether even another week might make a difference.” She handed him an envelope thick and heavy enough to contain a full notebook. “Bedtime reading,” she said.
* * *
Felicia Thompson found herself amazed at how the prospect of a meeting with a secret believer could actually allow her to burrow her grief deep inside, even if only temporarily. When she allowed herself to think of the horror of how the love of her life had left her, she understood for the first time what depression was all about.
The future looked bleak, dark. Felicia couldn’t imagine having the motivation to rise from her bed even once, let alone every morning for the rest of her life. All she had left was Paul and what she might do for him and her new brothers and sisters in the underground. And there was Hector Hernandez, whom she hardly knew. And Trudy Nabertowitz.
But to go back to work, back to the office where she was now a mole and her exposure meant capital punishment? What was the point anymore?
Radigan’s, an ancient steak place just north of the Illinois-Wisconsin border, was busier than she expected. But when she spotted the tall, graying black man who stood as she entered the small foyer, she felt suddenly safe.
She noticed his slight limp as he used the handrail when they mounted the steps. As he had hinted, they were the only African-Americans in the place. By the time they reached their table, he had gushed his life story in a gravelly baritone. College prof, lost his whole family—and his foot—in a crash he caused while driving drunk. Lost his job. Got sober, came to Christ, now served the underground and worked as a greeter and encourager at PSL Hospital.
Felicia told him how she had found God after The Incident.
“Sad,” he said, “that it took such devastation.”
“Tell me about it,” she said.
Straight ordered a generous meal. Felicia picked at a salad. Between bites, the big man spoke softly. “I know the timing is awful, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. “And I can only imagine what you’re going through. I do understand grief. I understand shame. And believe me, I understand what the future looks like when your world has collapsed. But as your brother in Christ, I am going to make a suggestion and challenge you to do the hardest thin
g you have ever done in your life.”
* * *
Was it possible, Ranold wondered that evening at home, that he would not have to eliminate Bia Balaam? That would be nice, actually. Oh, he could do it. If he could take out the international chancellor and walk, he could certainly find a way to accomplish the same with another of his own people.
Ranold had considered her collateral damage right up until she recognized his brilliance. He was above being swayed by flattery; he really believed that. But Bia had always been one of his most trusted and best operatives. He put her in the same category as Paul.
Paul. Talk about a disappointment. And Jae standing right with him. Ranold had always had such high hopes for her. Bright girl. Or so he thought. Now she was little more than a female Berlitz, apparently a dim bulb under all that pretty hair.
Ranold changed into his robe and stretched out on his back on the bed, tearing open the package from Bia. She had really done her homework. Much of it was a rehash of Aikman’s early work, but the plan had now been finalized, with implementation steps and all the rest.
It called for cooperation with the army, of course. No problem, with Ranold’s history there. The documents showed the location of the Columbia underground—much bigger than Ranold expected—and reported on the population. He knew that included his son-in-law, which made him want to spit or rub his hands together; he didn’t know which. It also included his daughter and grandchildren.
He looked away from the cold, bureaucratic pages and stared at the ceiling, remembering Jae’s birth. How proud he was. What a wonderful child she had been. And the grandchildren. Should he be feeling something beyond nostalgia? Could he really arrange for air-to-underground missiles that would annihilate this place and all these people, even with his own blood down there?
He’d never gone soft before, and he wasn’t about to now. He’d lost nearly an entire army once in a tsunami in the Hawaiian Islands. Life and death were the price of war. And despite the namby-pamby weaklings—one of whom had sat in the chancellor’s chair and the other who now occupied the West Wing—war was still what this was all about.
War against God? Dare he admit it? Okay, fine, sure. So God did exist. This was a battle of wills, of ideologies. Ranold had never faced an enemy that gave him pause, let alone that produced in him fear or even hesitation. No question, this was his most formidable foe ever. That would make victory that much sweeter.
Ranold B. Decenti had tangled with the world chancellor and won. Now he was going to face God Himself and let the chips fall where they may.
* * *
Felicia sat shaking her head.
“Too much?” Straight said. “Too soon?”
“Too something,” she said. “Too much to imagine, for one thing. I’m to stay inside, keep working the NPO to Paul’s advantage?”
“Not just Paul’s. The entire underground. We need you there. You’re crucial. Besides, what else are you going to do? You sit in that empty house all day every day and you’re going to be no good to anyone. Stay in the game and you could make a life-and-death difference to believers all over the world.”
34
TWO WEEKS TO THE DAY after Bia Balaam lost her only son in The Incident, she sat on the couch in the living room of her Georgetown duplex, staring at the blank TV screen and wondering how she was supposed to feel.
She’d never had to consider it before, but now she wondered, When does the sharp pain of grief give way to the dull ache of mourning? Despite having to stay focused on kissing up to Ranold B. Decenti and searching her own soul for where she now stood on the subject of God and, yes, her own salvation, the deep bite of her loss was constantly with her.
At times Bia nearly collapsed under it. Did time really heal all wounds? This one had come so quickly and cut so deep that it seemed all she could do was try to survive until its piercing abated. Waiting and suffering gave her a new perspective on time. Surely she had never before considered two weeks a long period; she had recovered from minor surgeries in that time.
If this had happened to someone else, no, Bia would not have expected them to snap back within fourteen days, but she likely would have thought they would start to see light on the horizon.
No such luck for her. It still felt as if Bia’s son had been there one instant and was gone the next. If someone had told her it had happened the day before, she would have wondered, That long ago? She finally understood the cliché that time can seem to stand still.
Oh, God, she found herself praying silently, let me up, let me breathe, let me know this is something that one day I will be able to live with. That was all she wanted. Not instant relief, though that would have been nice, but just to know that some passage of time would make a difference. That her pain had not abated an iota in fourteen days scared her. For how many more days, weeks, months could she bear such an aching hollowness in her heart? She could not remember crying since elementary school, and she didn’t cry now. What was wrong with her?
Strangely, part of Bia didn’t want the injury to lessen, for wouldn’t that be an insult to her son? She would never forget him, never get used to his absence, and it would never become okay. She just had to know that life would be worth living again one day.
She had prayed. That gave her pause. Paul Stepola had urged her to try to talk to God the way she talked to him. That seemed bizarre. What little exposure she had to ancient religious rites made them all seem formal, rigid, ceremonial. She knew international protocol. Could she really chat with the God of the universe when she wouldn’t dare speak informally to a head of state or even a midlevel bureaucrat?
And yet she just had. Bia had acknowledged that God had the power to give her some relief or at least some knowledge. She was long past wondering if He existed. The very idea of atheism seemed silly now, and she wondered if her boss was the only man left on the planet who lived in such denial.
When first confronted with the idea of a God who was there and active and, apparently, vengeful and out of patience, Bia had been overwhelmed with fear. In an instant, she had become a believer. It was like discovering that the great face and voice in the flames of The Wizard of Oz turned out not to be a ruse but real and great and powerful and terrible.
But to now consider Paul Stepola’s notes on how to connect with that fearsome Being left her confused and restless. It was a short trip from where she was to admitting that she was nothing compared to a cosmic force like Him. But did that make her a sinner, one separated from Him, one who needed to acknowledge her evil and receive the gift of a bridge to God?
Bia could hardly fathom it. And yet, in some disconcerting way, she felt pursued. Was she feeling pressure from Paul or from God Himself? Was fear a legitimate reason to humble herself? Paul’s notes seemed to point to a God of love and forgiveness and reconciliation, and yet she simply feared Him. “God, show me,” she whispered.
* * *
Ranold Decenti had an appointment with the General of the Army, Chester “C.C.” Creighton, whom he had known since World War III. Though they had had little contact during the last decade, C.C. had been one who showed true compassion for Ranold when he lost most of the charges under his command to the tsunami that obliterated the Hawaiian Islands more than thirty years ago. “You don’t need me telling you, Dece, that there was no way for you to foresee or forestall such an eventuality.”
That hadn’t made Decenti feel any better, but he never forgot the effort.
Legend had it that General Creighton, even in his late sixties, still worked out every day and weighed virtually the same as he had three decades before. Ranold decided C.C. would be impressed if he showed up in his army uniform, displaying the same achievement.
Ranold was shocked to discover that he had been lying to himself for years. The mirror did not lie. Neither did the old uniform. He had told himself that just because he had gone up a couple of suit sizes, that was merely a sign of age and that—while he would not be as comfortable—he could still squeeze
into his old uniform.
Wrong. He could barely yank the trousers up over his thighs, and there was no room for his expanded derriere. The clasps at the front were nearly three inches apart, even when he bent and twisted and tugged. The jacket was binding at his shoulders and chest, and there was no buttoning that either.
Ranold was angry at himself as he returned the uniform to its hangers and entombed it again in the thick, transparent plastic. He would just have to wear his finest suit.
Half an hour later his driver dropped him at the steps of army headquarters, an ornate, grand building that had largely been ignored and forgotten since the end of the war, when the attempted eradication of religion had succeeded in eliminating conflict. The U.S. military was a shell of its former self and had been engaged in merely minor skirmishes in third-world countries and attacks on its own citizens—the zealot underground. There had not occurred what anyone could refer to as a real war in all that time.
Ironically, weapons of any kind were verboten at army headquarters—no exceptions. Ranold had known enough to leave his nine millimeter at home, though it would have been fun to reminisce with C.C. about their training with it.
Ranold liked the décor and quaint formality of the headquarters even more than the ostentation and opulence at the international government building in Bern. While many considered the vastly deflated U.S. Army a relic, it was Ranold’s proud heritage, and he loved every inch of this facility.
Chester Creighton and Ranold Decenti were a study in contrasts. In fact, Ranold took pride in that if the uninitiated were to see them side by side, nine of ten would guess Ranold as General of the Army. Creighton was short and muscled to Ranold’s tall and broad beefiness. They saluted each other and shook hands warmly.
General Creighton ushered him into his office, and again, Ranold preferred it over the chancellor’s in Bern. Here everything seemed to be purposeful, functional, with little thought to glitz and glamour. It was pristine, and everything was centered. Every plaque and photograph gracing the walls appeared to have been secured so as not to angle out of square, ever.
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