True Path

by Graham Storrs

  It was too big a risk. Keeping her eyes down, she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I was startled. I didn’t mean to be rude.” She didn’t look up, willing Polanski to take the ball and play it from there.

  “As you can tell by the accent, sir,” Polanski said, not missing a beat, “my wife is a foreigner and is still learning our ways. But she’s a good Christian and she’s keen to be instructed.”

  “She’d learn a mite quicker if you took the strap to her more often,” the SOB said. He seemed to have relaxed a fraction. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. A man takes a pretty wife and he lets her get away with too much. A man’s gotta take responsibility for his wife’s salvation and not let her fall into error. It ain’t a kindness to put a woman’s soul in peril.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s good advice. I mean to chastise her as soon as I get her home. I think you’re right, I’ve been lax in my duty.”

  -oOo-

  The train picked up speed as it left Charlottesville, the last leg of their journey. Sandra stared out of the window at the procession of towns and farms sliding by. On the whole, things seemed a lot more prosperous than they did in the South.

  Polanski leaned close and said, “Thank you. We could have been in big trouble back there.”

  She turned abruptly, making him flinch. “Even if you don’t care whether innocent people get hurt, I do.”

  He seemed to want to retort but restrained himself. She turned away and gazed at the scenery again but she wasn’t taking anything in. When she looked back at him, she found him still watching her.

  “Tell me about the timesplash,” she said, full of anger she needed to dump somewhere. “You and your friends aren’t crazies who live for kicks. You’re … organized, steady, conspirators …” She nodded towards the man and woman sitting opposite. “All these people working for you all over the country, helping you smuggle me in … You’re not some kind of lone gunman, or even an isolated domestic terror cell. Why do you want to make a splash?”

  Polanski thought about it for a second and then drew a deep breath. “OK. The first thing you should know is that none of the people you’ve met work for me, except Peter here. The rest are part of another organization altogether, an underground railroad. A group of brave people who risk their lives, day after day, to help smuggle people out of the country into South America or Canada.”

  “I can see why people would want to leave,” she said. “Especially women.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing. You’ve had the smallest glimpse of what’s going on here. You’ve met the Sons of Joshua.” He shook his head. “Well, you just wait till you meet the FBI. You’ve seen some poor folk out in the country, but just wait till you see the Alley Shanty, or the Great Lakes Marshall Law Zone, or the labor camps, or the Manhattan Ghetto …” He paused, as if reluctant to let himself get worked up about it, but then continued with even more passion. “You think women have it bad because some preaching fool from the SOBs tells me to slap you around more? Down in Alabama they have witch trials in permanent session. In Seattle, they just changed the city ordinances so that a man can kill his wife or daughter if he suspects her of immoral conduct. He doesn’t have to prove it, mind you. Just the suspicion will do. In Atlanta, they—”

  “You don’t have to convince me the place is a shithole. I agree, you guys make the Middle East look civilized. Just tell me about the splash.”

  He narrowed his eyes. She thought he was probably thinking how nice it would be to knock her teeth out. Then he looked away, as if the sight of her staring him down was too much to bear. When he looked back, he seemed to have himself under some semblance of control again.

  “You talk like we’re all part of some big, half-assed cult but it ain’t like that. Nothing like that at all. We took a wrong turn, that’s all. Thirty-some years ago, people were desperate. People were starving. Millions died. The economic system had collapsed. Just gone. Things kept going in a patchy, hit-and-miss kind of way, God alone knows how. Criminal gangs moved in to fill the vacuum left by Government agencies that were closing down. The only people to stand up and offer any kind of leadership was the Republican Party which, by then, had degenerated into a radical fundamentalist Christian party that wasn’t getting a lot of votes any more. They said they had a plan and people listened. They got elected and that’s when the real trouble started.

  “Sure, they got people organized again, they got the gangs off the streets, they got the trains running and the airports open, they got the food distributed and they re-opened the hospitals. But they also changed the Constitution so that nobody could get them out of power. When the schools came back, they weren’t teaching the old curriculum, they had new faith-based lessons. I didn’t go to school much myself until I was ten, but when I did, all I got was Bible studies, Christian Morality classes, and propaganda for the new government. Teachers—the good ones who were brave enough to slip in a bit of science or geography—had a habit of disappearing overnight. And you know who was turning them in? Us. The kids. And that became a pattern for the whole country. Everybody was scared of the FBI and the SOBs and the Church. People knew that if they had information about a blasphemer, or an atheist, or some other kind of subversive, they’d be arrested as an accomplice if the authorities ever found out. It was safer by far to turn in your neighbor or your workmate in order to protect yourself and your family.

  “I’ve heard it told that it was like that in Communist Russia, and East Germany. Well it’s like that here, now. And there don’t seem no way to stop it. The resistance is up against a massive and powerful organization. And we never know when someone we trust—a wife, a child, a best friend—might say the wrong thing to the wrong person, or might give you up to save themselves or someone else they love.”

  “So now what?” she asked. The picture he painted was more-or-less what she’d heard about the U.S., only he seemed to think his people were the victims, rather than willing participants in their glorious theocracy. “You plan to take back the power? You’re building up to some kind of armed rebellion? Another War of Independence?” Which, of course, must be exactly what he was planning, and the ability to run timesplashes was going to be his secret weapon. She saw the hard determination in his expression and knew she had it right.

  “Oh shit,” she said.

  Chapter 12: FBI

  At Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla International Airport in Guadalajara, Mexico, Jay called Kapellhof and told him he would be traveling with his daughter. The superintendent’s first reaction was to order Jay to send Cara home. When Jay explained that it wasn’t an option and that the only way she was going back to the UK was if Jay accompanied her, Kapellhof fell silent for a long, worrisome time. Then he said, “The girl is Malone’s only living relative. You took her with you to help with identification.”

  “You’ll inform the Americans?”

  “No. I’ll inform the commissioner’s office. He can liaise with the Standing Committee and then they can talk to the Americans. You say she just got on the plane on her own initiative?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jay supposed he sounded as glum as he felt.

  “Sounds like her mother’s daughter. I’ve been re-reading the files from the Sniper affair. Sandra Malone ran rings around all of us back then, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Definitely, sir.”

  “Especially you, Chief Inspector.”

  “Point taken, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The plane from Guadalajara landed at Ronald Regan Airport, Washington in a cold and gusty dawn. A black, Ford SUV drove onto the tarmac as they taxied to a halt. Jay and Cara were among just a dozen bleary-eyed, exhausted people who filed from the plane into the chilly bluster of that autumn morning in DC. No-one spoke. Everyone was wrapped up in their private struggle to stay awake, fight the cold, and keep up their steady shuffle towards the heat and light of the terminal building. They all loathed the prospect of still having to wait for their luggage to appear, then drag it off to wait in line at c
ustoms, and then wait for a taxi, all before they might finally reach somewhere comfortable.

  So, when a cheerful young man in shiny shoes, leather gloves, and smart wool overcoat strode from the black SUV and called out, “Chief Inspector Kennedy! Very pleased to meet you,” Jay received several resentful looks from his fellow passengers.

  The young man, oblivious and smiling, scooped Jay and Cara out of the line to the terminal and led them to the car. He shook Jay’s hand and Jay noticed the small silver crucifix on his lapel.

  “I’m Agent Simmons but you should just call me Zeke. Short for Ezekiel. Always hated the name. I’ll be your liaison while you’re here.” He grinned and winked. “That means I get to drive you around, make sure you’ve got what you need, run any errands. That kind of thing. And this,” turning to Cara, “must be your lovely daughter.” Without breaking pace, he swept up Cara’s hand and kissed it, saying, “Absolutely beautiful.” Addressing Jay, he added, “Don’t worry about suitable clothing, I’ll arrange to have something sent to your hotel.”

  The car was a modern, driverless vehicle with a plush, roomy interior. As they wound through the quiet streets, Agent Simmons kept up a nonstop stream of pleasantries, interspersed with commentary and anecdotes about the city and its sights. It took Jay several minutes to notice that he wasn’t getting any useful information at all from his garrulous companion.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, breaking Simmons’ stream of Washington trivia.

  If the man minded his interruption, it didn’t show. “To your hotel first. You might like a nap, or at least to freshen up. Your meeting with the Director is at ten AM, so there’s plenty of time. We’ve booked you into the Hilton and I absolutely recommend the breakfast menu. The eggs Benedict is to die for.”

  “Good, I’m starving,” Cara said.

  Simmons’ smile wavered. “Little girls should not speak unless spoken to,” he said, pleasantly but firmly.

  Cara’s mouth fell open and Jay could see that only her surprise had so far prevented the angry retort that was building. Into the silence, he said, “We do things differently where we come from, Agent Simmons. Do I need to remind you that we are guests of your government and that we expect our customs to be respected? Please do not chastise my daughter again, for any reason whatsoever. If you do, I will make my displeasure known to the Director.”

  Simmons’ eyes widened and his skin paled. Jay felt Cara turn to goggle at him but he kept his gaze on the FBI man. No doubt they had chosen Simmons for this job because he was considered smooth and urbane. To upset his charge enough to receive a complaint even before they reached the hotel would not reflect well on Simmons—nor on whomever had chosen him for the job.

  “Of course,” Jay went on, briefly turning to Cara, “we will also try to respect your customs while we are here. With a little effort, I’m sure we’ll all get along fine.”

  Simmons’ smile flickered back to life. “Of course. A minor misunderstanding.” He regarded Jay with a new wariness, perhaps beginning to see that this might not be the simple assignment it had seemed.

  Jay regarded the man. In all likelihood, Zeke Simmons really was one of the more worldly and open-minded people he would meet here. Simmons had probably been selected to chaperone them because he was considered less likely than most to create an international incident. Now he worried that Cara had, with her very first utterance, provoked him into correcting her behavior. Having her with him in the presence of people he could not browbeat, like the Director of the FBI, would be like walking about with a ticking bomb. He needed to keep Cara out of sight and away from anybody important. The best thing would be to lock her in her hotel room. Failing that, he needed to keep her in the hotel.

  “Zeke,” he said. “Will there be a female agent to look after my daughter while I’m working?” He felt Cara stir beside him, but she didn’t protest. Maybe she had understood something of the dangers of the situation. Maybe she just wanted to hear what he was going to say.

  “A female agent?” Simmons sounded as if the idea was incomprehensible. “In the CIA, maybe. Not in the FBI.”

  “Someone else then? I need a woman to take care of my daughter when I’m not around, someone to keep her out of trouble and to keep her entertained.”

  “I assumed she would accompany y—”

  “She won’t.”

  “Oh yes she will,” Cara said, her face set and angry. “If you think you’re palming me off on some flunky while you swan around finding Mum, you can think again. That’s not why I came all this way.”

  Simmons looked nervous and unsure about what to do. Jay ignored his discomfort and focused an angry glare on Cara. He needed to make her understand. “Cara, these people—the FBI, the Church, the people I’ll be working with—don’t like women. To them, you are something less than a person. Not quite an animal, but definitely not as exalted as a man.”

  Simmons spoke out. “I assure you, we—”

  “Please don’t interrupt me. No, wait. Let me ask you a few questions for my daughter’s benefit. Why are there no women in the FBI?”

  “Well, for a start, all ranks from Special Agent upwards are only open to ordained ministers of the Lord’s True Path Church.”

  “And can’t a woman be ordained?”

  Simmons seemed to think Jay was pulling his leg. “Not in any church I’ve ever heard of!”

  “Are you married, Zeke?”

  “Sure. With two kids and another on the way.”

  “What does your wife do?”

  “Do? You mean like housework and such?”

  “I mean what’s her profession or trade?”

  Jay could see his questions were beginning to needle the young man. Simmons looked suspicious, as if he thought Jay was trying to trick him. “I’d like to think no wife of mine would ever need to earn a living, sir. If a man can’t provide for his family … Well, he isn’t much of a man, is he?”

  “I didn’t mean to imply anything, Zeke. I’m just exploring our cultural differences for my daughter’s education. Tell me, did you ever have sex before you were married?”

  Simmons’ eyes widened. “I don’t think that’s a topic for discussion with a young lady present.”

  “What about your wife? Did she have sex before she was married?”

  The agent’s expression hardened, anger was written in his whole posture. “That is a filthy suggestion. I don’t care where you’re from or who you tell, you take that back right now.”

  Jay raised his hands in submission. “I’m sorry, Zeke. I didn’t mean to offend you. I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything about your wife. But, can I just get this straight? The kind of women who would have sex before marriage—?”

  “Whores and sluts!”

  Even Jay was surprised at the young man’s vehemence. “Er, right. So, if men had sex outside of marriage, it would have to be with these, er …”

  “Whores, sure. What’s your point, Chief Inspector? That American society isn’t perfect?” Simmons was frowning heavily. “Sure, boys sow their wild oats. It’s only natural. As long as there are fallen women, men will be tempted to stray. At least if a man sticks to whores, he isn’t in danger of corrupting a decent woman and condemning his own soul. What are you getting at?”

  Jay took a breath. “It’s this. What if my daughter here was out on the street, with no chaperone, and she smiled at a good-looking boy? What if she started up a conversation, flirted a little? What would people think?”

  Again, Simmons was flustered. “I … I wouldn’t like to say.”

  “They’d assume she had loose morals, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so, yes.”

  “So what if the boy, quite reasonably, assumed she was one of these ‘fallen women’ you mentioned and tried to kiss her? What would he do if she hit him in the face for it and called him names—as well she might?”

  “Why … er …”

  “Do you think he might get violent? After all, she came on
to him, didn’t she?”

  Simmons nodded.

  “He might even drag her off to the police or the militiamen, and denounce her might he not?”

  “He’d be within his rights,” Simmons said, guardedly. “Some might consider it a public duty.”

  “And the authorities might impose punishments?”

  Simmons didn’t want to be drawn any farther. “I’ll see what I can do about arranging a chaperone for the young lady, sir.”

  Cara had listened to all of this in shocked silence. “But I’m not going to go off flirting with boys.”

  “Maybe not,” Jay said. “What about swearing at someone who bumped into you? Blasphemy can get you into just as much trouble here as soliciting for sex.” She opened her mouth to protest and Jay raised a finger. “You weren’t just about to take the Lord’s name in vain now, were you?” From the way she shut her mouth and swallowed, Jay saw he had guessed correctly. “Honestly, Cara. It’s a minefield over here. Zeke, tell my daughter what the penalties are for blasphemy.”

  “It depends on how large the offense is. For something small you might only get a fine or a beating. For something major, the punishment is death. It’s really at the discretion of the arresting officer.”

  “Not the judge?”

  Simmons gave a wan smile. “For offenses like blasphemy, law enforcement officers are authorized to impose summary judgments.” He paused, looking at Cara, who was open-mouthed with astonishment. “I’ll make sure I find you a chaperone,” he assured her. “It’s probably for the best.”

  -oOo-

  “Chief Inspector Kennedy, how nice to meet you.”

  The first thing that struck Jay about the Director of the FBI was his immense size. Matthew Jones was a giant—not just tall but massively overweight. Even from across the wide expanse of the man’s office, Jay felt physically intimidated. As he walked across the deep pile carpet to shake hands with Jones, Jay had the sensation that he was shrinking and the FBI Director was growing.