Silenced

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Paul had left his watch with the rest of his belongings at the London headquarters, but his innate sense of time told him he would arrive at Horsehead’s a little before seven. He would have to work at not looking around, gawking really, to be sure the SWAT team was in place. He was going to feel vulnerable and exposed, but it would sure help to be reassured that he was not alone.

  The tone in his mouth told him he had a call and that he should have blocked the device. He knew it couldn’t be Jae. She knew better. But Paul thought he’d better take it. He looked right and left, ahead and behind; determining no one was within earshot he pressed his fingertips together. “Stepola,” he said.

  It was Lothair.

  “Man,” Paul said, “you know I’m on undercover assignment.”

  “If you can’t talk or even just listen, hang up on me.”

  “I’ve got a few seconds. What is it?”

  “Do you believe God sometimes gives messages to us through other people?”

  “I don’t know . . . sure. Why?”

  “’Cause I believe He gave me something for you. I don’t get it, don’t know why, but Chapp agreed it was worth sharing with you if you had time to hear it.”

  “How long is it?”

  “Just two verses.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s from First Kings eighteen, verses thirty-six and thirty-seven. I just feel the Lord led me to the passage and wanted me to read it to you.”

  “Hurry, Lothair,” Paul said, feeling rude but worried because he was coming into the busy section a few blocks from the pub.

  Lothair read: “‘O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, prove today that you are God in Israel and that I am your servant. Prove that I have done all this at your command. O Lord, answer me! Answer me so these people will know that you, O Lord, are God and that you have brought them back to yourself.’”

  Paul felt his knees weaken and he almost stumbled. That would have been all right, he decided, because he was to look unstable anyway. “That is powerful, Lothair. Thanks for that, and forgive me for being short.”

  “Believe me, man, I understand.”

  “And could you do me a favor, friend?”

  “Sure, Paul.”

  “Could you and Chapp and anyone else you’re in contact with pray for my wife, Jae? I’m going to reveal the truth about myself to her, probably tonight—if I survive this. And I have no idea what will come of that.”

  Jae had grown so restless that in spite of herself, she switched channels between the news and vapid entertainment. Too much television was inappropriate, even for her, but she couldn’t stand hearing the same news one more time. Once, however, when they were rehashing the underground manifesto, she made sure she was at Paul’s computer and followed along. His last draft matched word for word what was read on the news.

  Suddenly Jae found herself prostrate on the couch, compelled to pray for Paul. It was the strangest feeling she had ever had, and she was conflicted over whether she dared pray to a God about whom she had not come to any conclusion. If He rewards those who seek Him, but they have to believe that He exists, will He hear my prayer about something else?

  Jae didn’t know. All she was sure of was that she had to pray for Paul. “God, protect him. Be with him. Bring him back to me.” Tears welled and sobs racked her throat. Jae couldn’t stem the tide. “God, please!” she wailed. “Please!”

  Paul noticed the pub from a distance but kept his face pointed at the pavement. When he was sure no one was watching, he lifted his eyes to the faded, creaking sign with the rudimentary horse’s head and glass of ale depicted on it. He slowed as he passed, as if thinking about going in, then went around the block.

  Seeing nothing and no one out of the ordinary, he reminded himself to draw zero attention and followed three rowdy young men through the front door.

  The place was already wall-to-wall people, mostly drunk men and a few women who had seen better days. To not appear new to a place like this, Paul forced himself not to cough, despite the thick blue cloud that permeated every inch of breathable air. Pipes, cigarettes, and cigars contributed, and the occasional opening of the front door seemed to have no effect on the haze.

  Paul pushed a crumpled bill onto the bar and ordered a dark ale, taking it to a tiny table on the sidewall, facing the back. Near him a tableful of men rose to leave, and Paul surreptitiously grabbed two of their empties and pulled them alongside his full glass. He leaned into the wall and appeared to doze.

  Paul sat there, barely moving, for more than half an hour as people came and went. When he had the chance, he grabbed empties from here and there and settled back into his repose. By now, a dozen of Garuda Vibishana’s agents had to be among the patrons, but Paul didn’t look closely enough to guess. He just trusted that they were here and would not let him down.

  A giant clock showed 7:45 when two women and a man started a dart game that seemed too close to other patrons for Paul’s taste. But no one seemed to mind. If someone was walking through when it was time to throw, either the thrower or the walker waited. In the front, a group of boozy people started a sad drinking song.

  And as Paul appeared to doze, shoulder and head resting on the wall, eyes barely open, Steffan Wren strode confidently through the back door. He looked to see that his table was empty, then went straight past Paul to the bar. He was a big but compact man, probably five-ten and two hundred and twenty-five pounds, wearing tan boots, brown corduroy pants, a horizontally striped sweater, an unbuttoned peacoat, and a matching stocking cap with blond curls poking out. Wren had a ruddy complexion; bright white, even teeth; and green eyes. He looked confident, self-assured, and as if he knew where he was going and what he was doing.

  Paul nearly panicked, wondering if he should immediately give the signal. But no one else knew what Wren looked like. All they knew was where he was supposed to sit. But as Wren paid for his pint, Paul noticed a couple of men sit at his back table. Were they with him, or would there be trouble? A confrontation could throw the whole operation out of whack.

  Paul couldn’t imagine what Wren would do. It didn’t make sense for him to draw attention to himself, but he didn’t seem the type who would sit somewhere else or hang around waiting for the other two to leave. When he was halfway back to his table, Paul could tell Wren noticed the interlopers. He reached into the pocket of his peacoat, and Paul was again tempted to give the signal. Was Wren armed? And what was he going to do, threaten men for choosing an empty table?

  Paul heard him call the men “gentlemen,” but it was also clear he was asserting his right to “my table.”

  One of them stood and asked what he planned to do about it, and Wren produced a bill from his pocket. The other man stood quickly and grabbed it, and both men tipped their caps and took their drinks elsewhere. Looking satisfied with himself, Steffan Wren pulled the table a few more inches from the wall and settled himself behind it where he could survey the entire place, all the way to the front door. He didn’t seem to notice Paul, and if he did, he didn’t appear suspicious. He took a foamy swig of his brew, set it down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Still appearing unconscious and propped against the wall, Paul moved languorously and caught one of his empties with his elbow. As he straightened his arm, the glass hit the floor with a crash. No one seemed to notice, except that in the next second a flash bomb went off and the place went up for grabs.

  As Paul’s eyes readjusted to the light, he expected to see Wren ducking out the back door into the waiting arms of Vibishana’s team. But no. He had stood so quickly that the table and his drink went flying. And here he came, directly past Paul toward the front door. Could he be that fast a thinker, realizing his escape route was blocked?

  SWAT team members poured through the back door, and as Wren produced a handgun and lowered his shoulder to ram the crowd already backed up to Paul’s table, Paul reacted instinctively. Though unarmed, he rose and bent both knees. As Wren came with
in range, Paul sprang toward him, hands clasped at his chest, arms akimbo. Before Wren even noticed, Paul smashed into the man’s face with his forearms, knocking him off his feet.

  “Gun!” one of the SWAT team members yelled, and two opened fire, riddling Wren with bullets.

  Jae’s distress and helplessness had exhausted her, and she had not even realized she was dozing until she heard the high-pitched tone from the television and looked up to see BULLETIN . . . BULLETIN . . . BULLETIN . . . scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

  “We have late-breaking news from London at this hour, where International Government intelligence and security personnel report the capture and shooting death of Styr Magnor. Chancellor Baldwin Dengler is about to speak live from Bern on this development, and we will take you there as soon as we get word.

  “Reports from Great Britain say Magnor was a pseudonym for longtime Dengler nemesis Steffan Wren of Wales. Officials say Wren was set up in an elaborate sting operation by a crack antiterrorist, antirebel agent of the USSA’s National Peace Organization. The name of the agent is, of course, being withheld to protect the security of his future assignments.

  “Here now is Chancellor Baldwin Dengler, live from Bern.”

  Dengler stood at the lectern as reporters adjusted microphones and lighting, and as soon as the stage was clear, he began. “Ladies and gentlemen of the worldwide community of peace, I bring you good news. Styr Magnor is no more. As news outlets have already reported, it turns out he was none other than political activist and gadfly Steffan Wren. In cooperation with international peace forces, our own intelligence and security personnel were able to lure him to a pub in London within the past hour.

  “As was feared and for which we were prepared, Wren did not allow himself to be taken alive. He has been positively identified as the mastermind behind the terrorist attacks and widespread loss of lives in London, Rome, and Paris, as well as tomorrow night’s threat to the world contained in the so-called underground manifesto. We are confident that the danger to our firstborn children predicted for a little more than twenty-four hours from now has died with Steffan Wren. The decree calling for a written pledge of loyalty from every citizen within the next sixty days remains in force.

  “I know you share my grief over the tragic loss of a misguided and misdirected life, but that you also share my satisfaction and joy over the successful conclusion to a most difficult and complicated operation that puts to an end a reign of terror we have not seen since World War III.

  “As we celebrate this victory and applaud the cooperation between law-enforcement agencies of various nations, let us not forget the grief of the families who lost loved ones in the attacks. And let us live on in freedom and peace so these will not have died in vain. Thank you.”

  There was not a doubt in Jae’s mind that this was Paul’s mission. But how did it jibe with what she believed she had discovered about him? If the underground had anything to do with the terrorist attacks, they all deserved to die. And if Paul was behind this campaign to bring down Styr Magnor, did it mean he was only pretending to be part of the rebel faction?

  She called him but got his answering device. “Call me as soon as you can, Paul. I’m going crazy waiting for you here.”

  Paul was on his way to the airport with Garuda Vibishana and on the phone with Baldwin Dengler. “How soon can you get to Bern, Agent Stepola? I insist that though we cannot make it public, you be adequately rewarded for your part in this.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, sir. I share your pleasure in the outcome, but—”

  “Did you not hear me say that I insist?” Dengler said, a smile in his voice. “Somehow I do not believe you have a choice when the boss of your boss’s boss makes a request like that. Am I right?”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Can you be here tomorrow?”

  “My plan is to sleep in Paris tonight. As you can imagine, I am exhausted.”

  “Then I’ll send a plane for you in the morning. Shall we say ten o’clock? We will schedule a private ceremony for noon. I will be sure that Ms. Balaam will be there. And Major General Vibishana, as well as my cabinet and staff.”

  Paul decided there was no way he could discuss anything with Jae on the phone and that she would just have to forgive him for not calling before he returned.

  As he was getting on the plane, a call came in from Ranold. “I just got the word, boy, and are we proud of you!”

  “Thanks.” It was all Paul could do to remain civil, but he didn’t want to compromise himself or Jae. He’d love to ask Ranold about setting him up, bugging him, even sending Jae to see what she could get out of him.

  “I got to say, Paul, that frankly there were times when I was worried about you, wondered about you. But what I hear from every side is simply that that’s how good you are at infiltrating. Good enough to make your own shop scratch their heads. Jae there with you?”

  Paul told him he hadn’t seen her yet and that he was on his way to her now.

  “Well, I’ll call her directly. Get pictures at the ceremony tomorrow and tell Bia to take good care of you, hear? And you and Jae get yourselves back here soon as you can.”

  “Hug and kiss the kids for me, will you, Dad?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “You just talked to him?” Jae said. “Why hasn’t he called me? I left him an urgent message.”

  “He’s getting on the plane right now,” Ranold said. “You’ll see him in no time.”

  “His phone works from the plane. I’m going to call him.”

  “He may have a reason, Jae. Let him be. He’s on his way.”

  Then I’ll call Straight.

  But Straight wasn’t answering either. That was good for him, Jae decided. She had planned to ask him flat out whether he was a believer. Was Paul? And what did that mean for her, for her kids, for their marriage, for their future?

  29

  BY THE TIME PAUL REACHED his hotel it was nearly midnight. On one hand he couldn’t wait to see Jae. On the other he was as petrified as he had been when Steffan Wren had come through the back door of Horsehead’s. Tired as he was, he was through playing games. Jae was going to get it all, both barrels. She could turn him in, leave him, or whatever, but he was no longer going to live a lie with her.

  He took a deep breath when he got off the elevator. He could hear her hurrying to the door when he slid the pass card in the lock. Paul pushed the door open, and she caught and held it, locking eyes with him. He had never been so happy to see someone, come what may.

  Jae grabbed his arm and pulled him in, letting the door slam behind him. They held each other silently for several minutes, and she led him to the couch. She turned off the television, but Paul could see that his computer was open and the manifesto was on the screen.

  “Where do we start?” he said.

  “Tonight,” she said. “What happened? Were you in there?”

  He told her everything, from setting up Magnor through Raison to calling Dengler to meeting Vibishana. And he told her every detail of what had gone down at Horsehead’s.

  At times Jae covered her eyes. Paul had no idea how she was receiving all this. She had to wonder where he was coming from: supersleuth or secret believer? That he would make plain soon enough, but meanwhile, she leaned over on him, laying her head against his chest as he talked. Had she already made up her mind? Did she already know or think she knew? Or would she tear herself away when the truth came out, threatening to expose him?

  When the story was spent, they sat there, entwined physically if not mentally. “I’m glad I didn’t know how involved you were in the actual event,” Jae said. “I was worried enough thinking you were just an adviser.”

  “I’ll have a bruise or two in the morning,” he said.

  “Poor baby.”

  A long silence. Paul searched for words, praying silently.

  Jae knew Paul had to be scared. He couldn’t know what she was thinking, only that she had questions. She still was
n’t entirely sure about him, but she had known him too long to be totally in the dark. She had seen the change and now too much evidence. Jae decided to make it easy for him, and if she was wrong, he could tell her so.

  “I know, you know,” she said.

  “You do?”

  She pulled back and nodded. “You’re a good mole, Paul. Maybe the best there ever was. But you’re not that good. You’ve turned, changed, flipped, haven’t you? You’re a believer.”

  “Couldn’t fool you, could I?”

  She shook her head. “I know a different man when I see one.”

  “So what does this mean for me, Jae? For us?”

  When she stood and moved away from him, pacing and looking everywhere but at him, Paul died inside. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do about me, he decided. And that can’t be good.

  “Let me tell you something,” she said. “I know the predicament you’re in, or at least I think I do. But can you see that I’m in as bad a spot as you? I found the letter from your father, Paul. And I showed it to my dad. I’ve never felt more guilt, and I’m so sorry about that. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Forgive her? Paul nodded. Sure, he’d forgive her, but did she realize what that could mean for him? Had his success with the mission really erased any suspicion from Ranold’s mind? And Balaam’s? and maybe Koontz’s by now? Had word gotten to Chancellor Dengler that the USSA NPO suspected their own man? Surely they couldn’t have been that monumentally shortsighted.

  “Paul,” Jae continued, “I was sent here to find you out, trip you up, turn you in. And now I’m the only one who knows they were right about you. As always, you pulled a rabbit from a hat at the last minute and have convinced the best espionage minds on the planet that you’re not what you appeared. No, you were so adept at infiltrating that you made your own people think you were a traitor.

  “So where does that leave me, Paul? As a loyal citizen, a dutiful daughter, do I leave you, divorce you, expose you, see you taken from me, from our kids, and perhaps executed?”