Silenced

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “You should be in propaganda. Talk about doublespeak.”

  “Well, let the record show, you turned me down.”

  “So stipulated, Your Honor.”

  “And as for that secretary of yours,” Koontz said, “you know I have dibs on her when mine retires.”

  “Doesn’t she get a say in that?”

  “Only if it’s yes.”

  “Don’t count on it. I treat her right.”

  Tall, black, and direct, Felicia was the kind of woman with whom Paul would discuss such a matter—mainly to nip it before it blossomed.

  The next day, Thursday, January 10, at just after nine in the morning, Felicia said, “You don’t need to worry about that. I wouldn’t work for Bob Koontz unless you died.”

  “That’s comforting. What do you have against Bob?”

  “That was a compliment to you, not a rap on him. Fact is, I wouldn’t work for anybody else ‘less you died.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Maybe so,” Felicia said, “but women talk.”

  “His secretary bad-mouths him?”

  “How would I know? I don’t listen to gossip.”

  Felicia’s headset chirped. She held up a finger and took the call. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “Right away.” She clicked off. “Speak of the devil. You don’t think this office is bugged, do you?”

  “’Course it is,” Paul said. “We’re the NPO. Bob want me or you?”

  She pointed at him. “And right now. Sounds urgent. Remember everything.”

  “No need. You don’t listen to gossip.”

  Of course, it wasn’t gossip and it had nothing to do with secretaries. By the time he arrived in Bob’s office, the International News Network was broadcasting on one of four big screens on the wall, and Koontz was teleconferencing with Washington—Ranold Decenti—and NPO International in Bern.

  Within seconds Koontz’s office was filled with heads of other departments. There was no small talk, just coarse language and grunts of surprise when INN showed simultaneous disasters on a split screen. Black smoke billowed from a crater where London’s Big Ben had been, emergency vehicles noisily swarming. In Rome, the former zoological gardens (which for fifty years had been a Bio Park containing endangered species) had been nearly obliterated, the animals killed or scattered, and hundreds of visitors killed or wounded.

  “A Norwegian whom authorities have been as yet unable to identify has claimed responsibility for both attacks,” INN reported. “He calls himself Styr Magnor and has announced from an unknown location that he represents, quote, ‘the millions of underground believers throughout Europe, brothers and sisters to the oppressed in the USSA, and followers of the one true God who had judged the wicked of Los Angeles.’

  “Magnor threatens more reprisals if the International Government does not lift its ban on the freedom of citizens to practice religion. Head of the International Government in Bern, Chancellor Baldwin Dengler, had this response: ‘We have not, do not, and will not negotiate with terrorists. End of story.’”

  The chancellor’s combative response spurred the room to cheers. Paul had to join in, despite his own waffling on whether this Magnor character was from the true Christian underground.

  Paul traded glances with others and knew they were all thinking the same about the chancellor. He had never seen Dengler so outwardly upset. The man’s jaw was set, his eyes level, and his tone severe.

  This would be called an act of war, and it would be blamed on religion. Whatever gains the USSA underground had made would be dashed. The dichotomy was not lost on Paul. Usually, inside these walls, he tried to keep himself from thinking like the double agent he was. Not thinking for or about the believers kept him from blurting anything that might give him away.

  “What time is it over there?” Paul said.

  “Middle of the afternoon in London,” Koontz said. “After three. An hour later in Rome. Thus all the casualties. Brassy. But who is this Magnor?” A dozen faces folded into scowls as they tried to place the name. Koontz snapped his fingers. “Who is he? Come on! Somebody has run into this kook in some case or another. Paul?”

  He shook his head. “I can check the files, but no. Nothing. No idea. I doubt the underground connection though.”

  “Why? Is this so different from L.A.?”

  “Bombs and carnage?” Paul said. “Hard to blame on God.”

  “If that was God in Sunterra, He snuffed a lot of people there too. Not just government or NPO. Innocent bystanders, just like here.”

  Paul could only shrug. “You have a point.”

  “We’re Code Red,” Koontz said. “Ultimate security. Everybody on this until we know what we’ve got and can advise Washington and Bern.”

  2

  AT TIMES LIKE THIS, Jae longed to be working again. She heard the news from Europe while out running errands, and she expected a call from Paul telling her he had been called over there. She had no doubt he would be, and at the worst possible time for them. Things were going so well. Part of her wanted a pledge from him that he would remain faithful to her, but another part of her knew that if she still had to require that, they weren’t healthy.

  She resolved to bury her worries and suspicions and concentrate on loving and supporting him. If he remained the new Paul, he would be in frequent communication with her, and she would be able to tell from the sound of his voice whether he was behaving himself. The more she told herself she would give him the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise, the more she knew she was lying to herself. The fact was, he had so far succeeded only in softening her and persuading her that he was trying. If he cheated on her again, she would not be able to forgive him, even if she wanted to.

  Jae made sure the kids were occupied when Paul got home that evening, and she steeled herself to avoid an accusatory tone. She wanted to demand to know why he had waited to tell her about the trip when he had to have known that morning. But that he hadn’t called also gave her a glimmer of hope that perhaps he would not be sent overseas.

  He looked preoccupied when he walked in, and she knew. “Where will you be and how long will you be there?” she said.

  “Better sit down,” Paul said. He draped his heavy coat over a chair and laid his hat atop it, kicking off his boots.

  “You see?” she said, dropping onto the couch. “This is what happens in the name of religion. Who is this kook anyway?”

  “The one taking credit? He’s new to us. Might not even be true. He was only the first to claim responsibility. You had to like Dengler’s response though, eh?”

  “‘Never have, don’t, and never will’? What else could he say?”

  “He didn’t have to say that much. I was proud of him. I’ve always found him a little soft.”

  “Oh, Paul! We were just getting back on track. Didn’t you think so?”

  “That doesn’t have to change, Jae.”

  “I won’t change,” she said, regretting it as soon as it came out of her mouth. Without accusing him in so many words, she was, well, accusing.

  “I won’t either,” he said, looking directly at her. “But let me say it before you do: actions speak louder and all that.”

  Jae was angry with herself. Could she not just once have an unexpressed thought, if only to keep the peace? She would never again allow herself to take the blame for Paul’s indiscretions, but she knew a bad attitude on her part had to contribute. That didn’t justify anything. He had given her plenty of reasons to roam during their marriage too, and she never had. She took vows seriously. She bit her lip to keep from saying even that.

  Jae wanted to push, to ask if it were possible that Paul imagined her not worrying about this all day. But he had his way and his timing for such announcements, and though she knew the inevitable was coming, she would just have to wait. She imagined herself saying, “I could deal with this—or start dealing with it—if I could just get my mind around the scope of it. Where and for how long?”

  But she hel
d her tongue.

  Paul began with a sigh. “The initial posture is to wait, to see whether the response from the chancellor cools things. Face it, he laid down the gauntlet. If he will not negotiate with this terrorist, what will he do? Dengler is the ultimate peacenik. Could be whoever’s behind this will push him to violence, even to war.”

  Peacenik. How long had it been since Jae had heard that archaic term? “And if he takes the bait, forces Dengler’s hand?”

  “Then I’m to be over there within hours.”

  Jae crossed her arms and stared out into the late-afternoon blackness. How she hated the short days of winter in Chicago, especially at times like this.

  “It’s not my choice, Jae, and I didn’t volunteer.”

  Jae started at the edge in his voice, something she hadn’t heard for a while. She quickly moved to his side. “I’m not blaming you, sweetheart,” she said. “I just hate that you’d have to go now. What if it’s this weekend?”

  “We’ll see. Maybe I won’t have to go at all.”

  “Be serious. Anyone with the cheek to attack London and Rome has to respond to Dengler’s challenge.”

  “You’ve got an amazing mind, you know that?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Paul.”

  “I’m serious. You could work in our bureau. What you just said was the consensus today. If there was an office pool, we’d all be tied, predicting another attack.”

  Jae appreciated his attempt at flattery, but agreeing with NPO strategists on this wasn’t brain surgery. “So Dengler called him out. Maybe that wasn’t so wise.”

  “Maybe not. My gut tells me you’re right, Jae. We don’t know when, of course, but this isn’t over. When whatever happens happens, I go to Bern.”

  “To meet with NPO International?”

  “Eventually.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m to meet with the man himself.”

  “Dengler?”

  Paul nodded.

  Much as she hated the thought of his going, she was unable to hide that she was impressed. “What’s the purpose?”

  “Humility forbids . . . ,” Paul began.

  “Oh, stop! He asked for you?”

  “Not by name.”

  “He asked for the best, didn’t he?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with that. You would have to be good enough to be the only choice.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Jae punched him playfully. She was proud of Paul, making it even harder to resent his having to go. “How long? What’s your guess?”

  “Truthfully, I haven’t even thought about it. I’m hoping that if this is really the work of this Magnor guy, he’ll blink and my going will be moot.”

  “Be real, Paul.”

  Gabriela Negrutz of Romania and her nine-year-old twin sons, Radu and Nicolas, were in France on holiday as her husband, Lucien, conducted business in Paris. She had been counting the days until today, Friday. Lucien had promised to spend the day with them in a park called the Champ-de-Mars near the Seine River, site of the rebuilt Eiffel Tower.

  The original tower, built by structural engineer Alexandre Gustave Eiffel in 1889 for the World’s Fair, had been destroyed in World War III before Gabriela was born. The rebuilt tower, made of gold-plated steel and iron and porcelain, was three times the height of the original and had become the tourist attraction in Europe. Critics of its garish look and monstrous size called it the Awful Eyeful. A marvel of modern technology, it rose more than half a mile into the heavens.

  The boys were more interested in the park itself, which boasted donkey and amusement-park rides. Gabriela was relieved to find that in response to the terrorist attacks in London and Rome, the park would enjoy tightened security, but it would not be closed. She promised the boys they could enjoy whatever they wanted as long as they were on the glassed-in jetvator, soaring to the top of the tower, by eleven in the morning. The family would eat in the rotating restaurant at the top.

  Gabriela had over packed for the unseasonably warm day in Paris. She and Lucien shed their coats and sat on a blanket, watching the boys cavort. At times Lucien joined in the fun, and Gabriela howled when he awkwardly followed them on a donkey ride.

  Earlier, the boys had ogled the tower but had resisted standing in the long lines waiting for a ride to the top. They insisted that the wait at the top for lunch would be even longer, and indeed looking at the jetvator line confirmed their fears. Every person, item of clothing, and package was being thoroughly searched by a cadre of guards before anyone was allowed onto the jetvators, making the process several times slower than normal.

  Now, as they inched toward the jetvator cars, they passed several shops and restaurants and stands built into each of the four colossal feet of the tower. Gabriela herself grew impatient and began feeling guilty as the line crept along ever so slowly. Was she being selfish to expect the boys to endure this? She considered acceding to their pleas that the family just eat somewhere else, but Lucien overruled them. “Your mother has been planning this day for months, and this is the one thing we will do together that she wants to do. Frankly, all this security makes me feel safer.”

  Gabriela was touched by Lucien’s sensitivity. She only hoped the jetvator ride would be worth the wait. It promised to be fast and provide one of the great panoramic views in the world.

  When they finally boarded the overcrowded car, the boys complained that they could see nothing. So Gabriela and her husband jockeyed until the twins had their noses pressed to the glass, waiting for takeoff.

  Gabriela noticed small signs printed in several languages informing passengers that the car was programmed to stop due to any minor malfunction, including a change in weight or balance or trajectory. It also stated that the jetvator shaft had a series of brakes every so many meters, and the car was designed not to drop more than two meters, regardless. “Should the apparatus stop, do not panic and do not attempt to leave the car. Notification will have already been sent to Security. Help will appear momentarily.”

  That made her feel better, and the boys’ expressions of delight let her know they had forgiven her. They whooped, and it was all their mother could do to keep from squealing when the jetvator took off, making her feel as if her stomach had dropped to her knees. She felt Lucien’s arms around her waist, and she turned briefly to smile at him. He looked pale but had pasted on a brave smile.

  Gabriela turned back to the view. The farther the jetvator rose, the more of the park came into view. Thousands milled about in the sunshine. The sky was brilliant with just a few wispy clouds, and Gabriela believed she could see a hundred miles, maybe more. It felt as if the car was picking up speed and that they would soon shoot through the top of the tower, but a voice announced in several languages that they had just reached the halfway point. She could tell from the oohs and aahs that most, like her, could hardly believe they would actually go higher, but all the while, the ground receded and the clouds seemed to move down.

  Gabriela heard a horrific explosion and instinctively grabbed for her sons when the entire jetvator shaft rocked as if in an earthquake. People cried out as the massive brakes slowed the car to a quick stop. People tripped and fell into each other, screaming and grabbing one another, trying to stay upright.

  The entire tower pitched toward one corner, and Gabriela felt the weight of all the other bodies pressing her into her sons, whose cries were quickly muffled. She watched in horror as full carloads around her suffered likewise, with terrified, vacant, helpless eyes staring back at her as the tower began to tip. The great beams groaned and screeched as an incongruous voice came over the PA system. “Please do not panic. The jetvator has stopped due to the computer sensing a slight malfunction. Do not attempt to leave the car. Help is on its way.”

  But by now the world’s tallest structure had tipped more than forty-five degrees and was heading to the ground. Gabriela was now flat against the glass, the crushed bodies of her own childr
en beneath her. She felt her ribs and pelvis give way. She could not breathe. Glass broke and bodies fell from other cars. Her last sight, before asphyxiation claimed her, was of thousands of panicking people in the park beneath her running for their lives.

  3

  AT 4:30 A.M. IN CHICAGO Paul was awakened by a sound audible only to him through an implant in one of his molars. He left the bed quietly, hoping not to wake Jae or alarm her if he did. He shut the bathroom door for his hushed conversation with Koontz.

  Paul’s hope that Jae might assume he had simply risen to relieve himself was dashed when he tiptoed back out to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, her reading lamp lit. Her dressing gown was wrapped around her shoulders, and while her head was bowed, she raised her eyes expectantly.

  He sat next to her and put his arm around her. She embraced him, pressing her face between his neck and shoulder. “It’s nearly noon in Paris,” he said.

  “Paris?”

  “Yeah. About fifteen minutes ago, Bern was warned. Guy claiming to be Styr Magnor said the next bit of news they heard should be interpreted as his response to Baldwin Dengler’s challenge.”

  “He called it a challenge?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Don’t tell me it was the tower again.”

  “It was, Jae.”

  “Full of tourists?”

  “And customers and workers. It’s unseasonably warm there today. Nearly sixty degrees. I can’t imagine the final death toll.”

  “Bombed?”

  Paul nodded again. “The front right leg took a massive hit. The thing shifted to that side, of course, then disintegrated and fell in seconds. Koontz thinks Magnor, or whoever, designed it to make sure it didn’t fall into the Seine.”

  Jae shook her head. “What about the play areas, the attractions for kids, all that?”

  He looked at Jae sadly. “Half a mile of iron and steel fell into the Champ-de-Mars.”

  “And this in the name of God.”

  “So Magnor says,” Paul said. He hoped and prayed that Christians weren’t really behind this. Who could justify that? It seemed a little out of character for Jae to state the obvious, but he didn’t have the emotional resources to pursue it. “My flight to Bern leaves in four hours.”