Silenced

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “The decree? Yeah. Can’t wait. It’s about time we started turning the screws on these people.”

  “I hear Balaam’s over there.”

  “Yeah, she’s here. I know Decenti sent her to keep an eye on me, but the more I think about it, the less it bothers me. She’s good people, and if I were in the old man’s shoes, I’d probably do the same. Did you know she’s got kids?”

  “I didn’t, Paul.”

  “Yeah. A grown daughter and a son at Georgetown. Pretty proud of ’em, and rightfully so. Well, hey, just wanted to keep you in the loop, Bob.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad you did. Proud of you, Paul.”

  “Well, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  24

  JAE WAS ABLE TO PLACATE the kids about her trip by taking them out for ice cream Sunday, listening to their excited chatter about the football game, and assuring them that her main mission in Europe was bringing their dad home earlier than planned.

  By the time she got them to bed and had endured her father’s endless reminders of what to do and not do, and what to say and not say, she was exhausted and hoped she could sleep despite her excitement. Jae had no idea what was going on with Paul. She was thrilled with how he had handled the planted woman. But though she had told him she believed he was playing the underground as an infiltrator, she was no longer sure. He had sounded so real, especially with Straight.

  Warning Paul about the bug had been the right thing, regardless. Jae was his wife, first, and even if it turned out he was guilty of treason, she owed him the benefit of the doubt initially. Would she turn him in? She didn’t want to think about it.

  Having already packed, Jae found herself digging through her bag to retrieve the New Testament discs. She had left off at the end of Philemon. Next came Hebrews. If nothing else, listening to a chapter or two of that might help take her mind off everything else and allow her to sleep.

  Long ago God spoke many times and in many ways to our ancestors through the prophets. But now in these final days, he has spoken to us through his Son. God promised everything to the Son as an inheritance, and through the Son he made the universe and everything in it.

  How Jae wished God would talk to her that way, and even wishing it made her realize she was making a huge assumption: that God was real. She couldn’t deny there had been times, especially as a teenager, when she secretly wondered if someone wasn’t behind all that she saw in nature. But Jae had never dared mention that, even to her friends.

  The Son reflects God’s own glory, and everything about him represents God exactly. He sustains the universe by the mighty power of his command. After he died to cleanse us from the stain of sin, he sat down in the place of honor at the right hand of the majestic God of heaven.

  This shows that God’s Son is far greater than the angels, just as the name God gave him is far greater than their names. For God never said to any angel what he said to Jesus: “You are my Son. Today I have become your Father.” And again God said, “I will be his Father, and he will be my Son.” And then, when he presented his honored Son to the world, God said, “Let all the angels of God worship him.” God calls his angels messengers swift as the wind, and servants made of flaming fire.

  But to his Son he says, “Your throne, O God, endures forever and ever. Your royal power is expressed in righteousness. You love what is right and hate what is wrong. Therefore God, your God, has anointed you, pouring out the oil of joy on you more than on anyone else.” And, “Lord, in the beginning you laid the foundation of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands. Even they will perish, but you remain forever. They will wear out like old clothing. You will roll them up like an old coat. They will fade away like old clothing. But you are always the same; you will never grow old.” And God never said to an angel, as he did to his Son, “Sit in honor at my right hand until I humble your enemies, making them a footstool under your feet.”

  But angels are only servants. They are spirits sent from God to care for those who will receive salvation.

  Paul was only guessing that Bia Balaam had heard his call to Koontz, of course, but it seemed she was mellower this morning. They met in the lobby at five, and Paul had arranged to have his Paris bureau car at the curb.

  “You look great,” he said, and she did, especially for that time of day. She was not a young woman but her unusual height made her look perpetually trim.

  “Why, thank you, Paul,” she said, apologizing again for his having to rise so early.

  “I have a big day ahead anyway,” he said. “Might as well get at it.”

  “Making inroads, are you?”

  “You bet,” he said, opening the car door for her. “It’s interesting to know something my targets don’t know: about the decree today. That should put them in a tizzy.”

  “I just hope it silences them,” she said, “once and for all.”

  “We can dream,” Paul said. “My biggest fear is that the clampdown might spook Magnor. I’ve got a pretty good idea where we’re going to find him, and I’m very optimistic about getting to him.”

  “You have been busy, Agent Stepola. I’m impressed.”

  As they headed south toward Orly, Paul said, “I’m always a little skittish at this point in an operation, especially when things seem to have been going so well. It’s as if the luck has to change.”

  She nodded. “Bumps in the road. Can’t avoid them. But if you go by the book, they’ll even out. You have a reputation for turning bad situations into good ones.”

  After dropping Chief Balaam off, Paul found himself whistling as he drove back to his hotel to switch to the second of his rental cars. Then it was off toward Tours. He had hardly slept, and that would catch up to him eventually. But he fully expected Chappell Raison to hear from Styr Magnor again this morning—if not before the 8 a.m. announcement, then surely once the underground manifesto made the news.

  Niggling at his brain was the prospect of Jae’s showing up late that afternoon. He longed to see her, to hold her, touch her, kiss her. What he really wanted was to tell her the truth about himself. But he had no idea whether it would be prudent. Was she really believing in Paul at this point, or was that just something she had to say? She had saved his life by warning him of the bug, but she remained the most dangerous person in his life. He prayed for her as he drove.

  Paul reached the original chicken-coop-cum-meeting-place at a little after seven in the morning. Lothair sat in a chair by the stove, barely moving, apparently hardly awake. On his lap lay a late-model, high-tech radio receiver, tuned to an all-news station.

  Chappell was pacing and looked stony. “I don’t like this, Paul. I really don’t. I hung up on Magnor last night, just like you said. And there’s been nothing since.”

  “Patience, man. He’ll call. He needs you. What’d you think of the manifesto?”

  “Brilliant. That your work?”

  Paul nodded. “Your people ready to disseminate them?”

  “As soon as we hear the proclamation from Bern,” Chapp said. “All our groups get printable versions, our e-mail contacts get a Net version, and all our press contacts get both.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Not in my book,” Lothair said. “And I’m afraid I speak for everybody but Chapp. Fact is, we’re praying God won’t do this.”

  “We’d better come to some conclusion,” Paul said. “The thing is ready to go. Do we threaten the government with the power of God and then pray that God won’t deliver?”

  Lothair nodded.

  Chapp shook his head.

  “God’s going to do what God’s going to do,” Lothair said. “We have to trust He knows best, even if we seem to be obligating Him to something He might not do.”

  “As for Magnor,” Chapp said, “he is not going to call back, Paul. I was too convincing, too dead-on.”

  Lothair nodded. “He was, Doctor. If I were Magnor, I wouldn’t call him again.”

  But Chappell was wavi
ng wildly, shushing them. “Hello, Styr,” he said, as if he’d just lost his best friend. “Not bad, and you?” He hit a switch on his earphone that allowed Paul and Lothair to hear without it sounding to Magnor as if he was on a speakerphone.

  “You don’t sound that well,” Magnor said with a distinct non-Norse accent. Paul immediately thought he sounded familiar. Where had he heard that voice? What was that accent? Welsh?

  “I’m really no better today than yesterday or the day before,” Chapp said. “And I thought I was clear with you last night.”

  “Clear? My friend, I thought we got cut off! Are you telling me you were so rude as to hang up on me? Surely not.”

  “And I will again if you keep wasting my time.”

  “Raison, Raison,” Styr cooed, “please. Did I not avenge the loss of your family? London was for your wife. Rome for your son. Paris for your daughter. What more must I do to show we are compatriots? The loss of the young woman is nearly as personal to me as it was to you, even though I never knew her, because she was your friend. And because it was so heinous. How dare Dengler and his lot attack us for a basic human right?”

  The way he says Dengler, Paul thought. I have heard this voice before. He hates Dengler personally. Why?

  “I want to take the offensive yet again, Chappell. Can we not work together? Can you not connect me with others in the underground? We must persuade Bern that the rebellion is widespread, not concentrated.”

  Chapp sighed and looked at Paul, shrugging and pantomiming hanging up.

  Paul shook his head and rolled his fingers, encouraging Chapp to let Magnor talk. Meanwhile, Paul was desperately trying to remember the name of the Scandinavian cell group that vehemently opposed Baldwin Dengler’s appointment as head of the International Government.

  “That’s all you want?” Chapp said. “Introductions?”

  “That’s a start,” Styr said. “My dream is to have you as a colleague, a decision maker.”

  “Not interested.”

  Paul gave him a nod and an okay sign.

  “Chappell, what will it take? What do you want?”

  “An end to the bloodshed.”

  “That is my goal too.”

  “You bomb three major capitals and tell me you want to end the bloodshed?”

  “Think of your history, Chappell. Remember the United States once dropped atomic bombs on Japan to save even more lives in the long run.”

  Paul shrugged and nodded at Chapp.

  “That was the exception rather than the rule, Styr.”

  “That is precisely what such dire times call for. Our target? Bern. Infiltrate the government headquarters when all the top people are there. One more explosion, and we can start over.”

  And it came to Paul. Angry Storm the group called itself. They had pushed for the mayor of Oslo, Erik Buri, to assume leadership of the International Government, and he had come within a few votes of recalling Dengler and doing just that. They vowed revenge, even though the Dengler choice proved providential, as Buri died two years later.

  Paul grabbed a pen and a notepad and scribbled Angry Storm to show Chapp. But as he wrote it, something else hit him. He played with the letters. Styr Magnor was an anagram of Angry Storm. Paul crossed it out and wrote, CR, ask the origin of his name.

  Chappell read the note and squinted at Paul as if bewildered.

  Paul nodded and urged him on.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Styr. What is the origin of your name?”

  A pause. Then, “Why do you ask? Is it so unusual? There are many Styr Magnors.”

  “Just curious. You’re the only one I know.”

  Paul worried now that Chapp had pushed too far. He didn’t want to lose the prey over this. Paul drew a finger across his neck to tell Chapp to drop it.

  “Magnor means ‘fighter.’ It describes me perfectly.”

  “And Styr?”

  “I don’t know. It’s from Norse legend.” It was clear Magnor was bored with this and maybe even suspicious. “Well, if you’re not going to help, you’re not going to help. I can’t keep knocking on a locked door.”

  Paul looked quickly to Raison, who appeared to share his fear that they were losing Styr. Chapp looked as if he was about to apologize and move back to the subject, but Paul was afraid that would shift the balance of power. He repeated his finger across the neck, this time with more gusto.

  “So you finally get it that I’m out?” Chapp said.

  “Regrettably so. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Well,” Styr said, humor in his tone, “at least where to call me.”

  Jae rose while the kids were still in bed and left them notes. Her mother was already up, making a big breakfast and going on about how excited she was to be taking the kids to their new school this morning. Of course, Ranold was camped out in front of the television, monitoring the replays of the great announcement from Bern and swearing about the immediate response from the underground.

  “They want to play,” Ranold fumed, as Jae wandered in. “They think they’re going to fight fire with fire by what, killing our firstborn sons? Well, I say bring it on.”

  It was after noon in France, and while Chapp and Paul snacked on fruits and cheeses Lothair had brought from home, Styr Magnor had been back in touch with Chapp several times.

  “This manifesto is your work,” Styr said. “I’d know it anywhere. No wonder you don’t think you need me. Well, who’s going to pull this off for you? Dengler and his people will never cave in to this, and then you’re going to have to put up or shut up. I have the manpower to start committing these executions, Chapp. And I’d start with Dengler’s own son.”

  Paul was nodding, urging Chapp to keep him talking.

  “You would?” Chapp said.

  “For sure. Cripple the head, and the tail soon dies. Listen, are you going to take credit for this manifesto? Because if you’re not, I am.”

  “The manifesto is what it is. We’re all behind it.”

  “That’s all I needed to know.” Click.

  Within moments the news carried the report that Styr Magnor had claimed responsibility for the underground manifesto, and the international vitriol began. All over the world citizens who feared a repeat of the L.A. fiasco went to the streets, demonstrating, pleading with the government to negotiate with Magnor. Others called radio and television stations and newspaper and magazine offices, urging Dengler to laugh in the face of this ridiculous threat, to never negotiate with terrorists, and reminding the chancellor that within forty-eight hours, the underground would be the laughingstock of the world.

  Paul surfed the Internet, studying name origins, and found that Magnor was indeed a name from Norse legend. Specifically it meant “supporter of Erik.” That cinched it for Paul.

  He knew who Styr Magnor was.

  “When Styr calls back, Chapp, let’s reel him in.”

  25

  “RANOLD,” MARGARET CALLED OUT, “the message light is blinking on the phone.”

  Jae followed him into the kitchen, where he mashed the speaker button and played a long message from Bia Balaam:

  “General, I know it’s after midnight there and you’re not likely to get this until morning, but you may want to rethink sending Mrs. Stepola. I know this will sound strange, but instinct tells me Agent Stepola may be legit. I have too many years’ experience to go off half-cocked, but unless he’s the best I’ve ever encountered, he’s convinced me. I got a brief update from him on the way to the airport this morning, and I fear his wife might be in the way as he closes in on Magnor and the underground. It’s your call, of course, but that’s my professional opinion. I’ve got to get on a plane here in a second, but let me play you this recording of a call he made to Chief Koontz in Chicago last night and also of our conversation today, and you be the judge.”

  Jae’s heart sank as she listened. She could tell what Paul was up to. Once she had told him of the bu
g, he used it against Balaam. He was a master, but if his brilliance had cost her the chance of seeing him over there, she was not going to be happy.

  When the recording finished, Bia rang off.

  Ranold was preoccupied. “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “Maybe he’s onto us. Didn’t she think of that?”

  “Frankly, Dad—and this is not easy for me to say—but I trust your judgment on this. He’s always had a way with women.”

  “He has, hasn’t he? Let’s get some grub and get you in the air; what do you say?”

  Paul and Chappell sat listening to news reports over Lothair’s radio. International response to the threat from the underground reminded Paul of the reaction the Los Angeles warning had generated. Only the California result seemed to temper this a bit. There were pockets of atheistic loyalists who didn’t want the government to test these waters. Callers to talk shows ran the gamut from hysterical laughter to mockery to disdain, but also included cooler heads. These were the ones who said, “Maybe if religion were not outlawed but rather ignored or even tolerated, it wouldn’t have such an appeal to weak minds. Let them be.”

  Others said they were convinced now that Styr Magnor and his international cabal of terrorists would target firstborn sons around the world and try to make it look as if some angry God had acted. “This man,” one woman said, “wants to inflict terrorist attacks on families one at a time. I agreed with Chancellor Dengler’s initial response of never negotiating with terrorists, but isn’t it time for at least a sit-down, a meeting of the minds? Find out what has this man and his followers so upset.”

  When Dengler’s official response came on, Paul was particularly intrigued. He had gotten to know the man somewhat and was persuaded that the chancellor was well-intentioned. He was a man of character and principle, and while Paul was diametrically opposed to his worldview, it had not always been that way. Baldwin Dengler personified what Paul had once believed with his entire being, and the man articulated it better than anyone. He truly seemed to believe that a government and a society of peace depended on the abolition of religion, racism, and—of course—terrorism.