Soon

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “You told me your job was to advise and interpret and interrogate. Have you persecuted anyone?”

  “I sure have. I’ve been responsible, directly or indirectly, for five deaths. I can’t do this anymore.”

  “There may be another way of looking at it.”

  Paul shook his head slowly. “I don’t see how I can go back to the NPO.”

  “I know someone who could help you make that decision. Someone who understands the ramifications. I can’t really say more. Want me to set up a meeting?”

  “I guess so, sure.”

  The following evening Paul had dinner with his family, then announced he would be going out with Straight.

  “What?” Jae demanded, almost out of habit.

  “There’s someone he wants me to meet, something to do with my work.”

  “You’re still on sick leave, but you’re working?”

  “It’s somebody who might be useful down the road.”

  “Hmm. Well . . .” Jae shrugged and noticed Paul’s surprise. He had no idea she already felt so betrayed that a late night with Straight was just one more slight.

  The minute school ends, I’m out of here.

  Straight picked Paul up at nine-fifteen and drove downtown, parking near Michigan and Chicago. It had been months since Paul had seen the Water Tower. For more than 150 years, it had stood as a monument to the end of the great Chicago Fire. Now it lay on the ground, bathed in colored laser beams as a memorial to the great Chicago Earthquake of 2 P.3.,

  Straight and Paul walked north all the way into Lincoln Park, which was deserted at that hour. Straight steered Paul to a bench under a statue of the father and son mayors, Richard J. and Richard M. Daley. Fog had rolled in off Lake Michigan.

  “Lucky it’s a pretty straight shot out of here,” Paul said. “I’d hate to be off the path, trying to find my way.”

  Light footsteps approached.

  “Right on time,” Straight said.

  A figure in a hooded jacket emerged from the mist. He passed the bench, then doubled back. “Hello, friend,” he said to Straight.

  “Hi. Paul, this is Abraham.”

  A hardy man of about sixty, with a white mustache and beard and wisps of white hair poking out of his hood, slid onto the bench next to Paul, boxing him in beside Straight. Despite the hour, the man wore dark glasses.

  “Dr. Stepola, thank you for meeting me,” Abraham began. “I come to you with a proposition. We are responsible for many lives, and as you well know, we are involved in activities punishable by death.”

  “Back up. Who’s we?”

  “We call ourselves the Watchmen. In the book of Isaiah, God tells His chosen people, ‘I have set watchmen on your walls, O Jerusalem. They shall never hold their peace day or night. You who make mention of the Lord, do not keep silent, and give Him’—that’s the Lord—‘no rest till He establishes and till He makes Jerusalem a praise in the earth.’ We believe that is going to happen, Doctor. Soon.”

  Paul turned to look at Straight. “So I’ve gathered. And I’m struggling to understand.”

  “Please have faith, Paul,” Straight said.

  “Doctor, we believe the time of the Lord’s coming is near because there have been so many signs.”

  “What kind of signs?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard what happened with the Reflecting Pool in Washington. Then there was the earthquake in San Francisco—”

  “I knew that couldn’t have been a bomb. It was like the top of the hill imploded.”

  “Exactly,” said Abraham. “Yet it was like no earthquake ever seen. Then there were the pillars of fire in Gulfland and, recently, the withering of the cherry blossoms in Columbia. Most of these miracles have biblical antecedents. And there have been many other miracles, signs that the end is drawing near.”

  “I heard from a wise man that the Lord might come in my lifetime,” Paul said. “And I have had a miracle in my own life. Two actually—the reversal of my blindness and the gift of faith.”

  “That is the gift we share among ourselves, in worship, study, and fellowship.”

  Paul looked at Straight. “I need that.”

  “We all do,” Straight said.

  “We also offer that gift to others, as Jesus instructed: ‘Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations,’ ’’ Abraham said. “And Paul, our numbers are growing exponentially. We’re not just a few isolated fanatics, as the government would have you believe. I can’t tell you how important it would be for us to have someone in your position on our side.”

  “So you are actually organized.”

  “You can understand that I will not explain how right now. But yes, there are Christians all over the country, with a nerve center here in Heartland. We are a movement, a veritable army of God.”

  “But what exactly could I do? My job is to hunt down Christians.”

  “You could save lives, friend,” Straight said. “I would never suggest this if we didn’t need you.”

  “You know the government has been suppressing news of the miracles,” Abraham said. “You could help with leaks to the press.”

  “Risky. Very. I don’t know how I’d manage that.”

  “You’ll have access to government information on the Watchmen factions in each region, so you could warn us about raids or put groups in contact with each other.”

  “Riskier yet. I’m not sure about any of this. This is no easy decision.”

  “I know,” Straight said.

  “There are also false Christian cults,” Abraham said. “You could help alert the legitimate Watchmen to them. With your background, you’d be able to recognize their characteristics.”

  Paul had been wondering how he could accept this challenge and still appear legitimate to the NPO. It wouldn’t take them long to notice if he was ineffective in flushing out Christians. But if he exposed false cults, the organization wouldn’t know the difference. “Are there enough of these weirdos to make me look good?”

  “Probably.”

  Paul ran a hand through his hair. “Well, you’ve heard the expression ‘don’t kid a kidder.’ I’d have to be crazy to go undercover in a spy agency.”

  “God would help you,” Abraham said. “He would give you the strength, show you what to do. Let God lead you to the right decision.”

  “I’ve never had a death wish, but if the NPO brass found out about me . . .” Paul drew his finger across his neck.

  “I don’t want to talk you into anything,” Straight said. “But doesn’t it seem there’s a reason God has put you in this position?”

  “I’ve wondered.”

  “Think on this awhile; pray over it,” Abraham said. “Go back to work and see how it feels.”

  “I could do that.”

  Straight put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “If you decide to do this, you’d be a double agent. Did you ever imagine that?”

  17

  PAUL WAS BACK TO WORK by the second week of June. A big Welcome Back banner hung over his desk, and his coworkers high-fived and backslapped him as if he were a conquering hero. Paul was warmed by the reception, despite the stab in his gut. He was an impostor, regardless of whether he committed to working with the Watchmen. He’d worked undercover before, but not against his “own people.” This was literally a life-or-death proposition. He couldn’t help wondering if it was a mistake to return as if nothing had changed.

  Koontz had breakfast catered in the conference room for the staff. He feted Paul, concluding, “He regained his sight for a reason: to see his way clear to lead the way in stamping out the sub-versive menace.”

  Paul pasted on a smile and held up both hands to stem his coworkers’ applause. How he might have enjoyed this just a few weeks before.

  Afterward Koontz privately asked Paul, “So how are you feeling? How’s your energy level, your stamina?”

  Paul shrugged. “I’m snapping back.”

  “Really ready to get back in the saddle?”

 
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Be honest with me, Paul, because your next case is no picnic. We can put it off, put someone else on it.”

  “No, Chief. I want whatever you’ve got.”

  I’m fooling everybody but myself.

  “We need you at your best. You’d leave Wednesday morning for New York City—if that’s not too soon.”

  “I love New York.”

  “Strange things going on there, Paul. I almost envy you.” He handed Paul a folder labeled “Demetrius & Demetrius.” “Heard of ’em?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “Wall Street brokerage firm. Precious metals. Apparently a whistle-blower tipped off the cops that the company attempted a run on the silver market, trying to corner it. Which, as you know—”

  “Is illegal.”

  “Of course. Anyway, this whistle-blower claims that bizarre occurrences—”

  “Here we go again.”

  “Right. Bizarre occurrences are stopping the run, not the law. It’s complicated stuff, and we’ve inherited the search warrants from local authorities, including authority to search the main vault. There’s been a report, from the older of the two Demetrius brothers, Ephesus, that a woman on his staff accused him of manipulating the market. He dressed her down, and she supposedly responded with a note containing a Bible verse. He took it as a curse and fired her. It’s in your file.”

  “A curse?”

  “Manhattan is one of the most superstitious places on earth. All those high rollers tied up in speculations—at least in Vegas they call it what it is. In New York everybody’s trying to get an angle on the market, so they’ll use seers and psychics and horo-scopes—anything to give them an edge. So yes, a curse, ridiculous as it sounds, has the company spooked.

  “The company had been aggressively buying silver, but right after the curse it stopped cold. Its own traders were confused, available silver plummeted, and the market went squirrelly. Ephesus Demetrius has gone missing, and the last two guards to visit the vault were found on an elevator nearly catatonic, their hair instantly turned white. Some are claiming something supernatural has happened. So it’s your turn.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Could be unpleasant, Paul. Just so you know. Personally, I think Demetrius the elder absconded with the money. Either way, your job is to eliminate the religious angle.”

  That night Paul called Straight and asked if he had contacts in the Christian underground in Atlantica.

  “No, but we know about them. And there’s something you’ll need. I’ll bring it over.”

  Straight sounded thrilled, but he didn’t ask if that meant Paul had made a decision about joining the Watchmen. Paul was grateful that since the meeting with Abraham, Straight had never again broached the issue, apparently recognizing that Paul had to choose for himself.

  Meanwhile, Paul checked his file for the so-called curse verse. It was Job 27:19: “The wicked go to bed rich but wake up to find that all their wealth is gone.”

  Ephesus had mocked her, calling her a witch and challenging her to make his wealth disappear. She denied having that ability but warned that greed and duplicity would be punished, if not by the government then by a higher power. She castigated him with Revelation 21:8: “The corrupt, and murderers, and the immoral, and those who practice witchcraft, and idol worshipers, and all liars—their doom is in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur.”

  Ephesus had said, “Doom? Prove it.” He fired her then promptly disappeared. Local authorities were seeking her for questioning. In the meantime, the vault seemed to hold the answer, but since the guard incident no one had dared approach it.

  Was it booby-trapped? Or had something supernatural happened? As an NPO agent, Paul could never ask that question.

  Straight showed up an hour later with a handful of green compound leaves.

  “What are those?” Paul said. “They look like they’re off a weed tree.”

  “They are. Leaves from an ailanthus tree.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s native to China, but it’s hardy and grows anywhere.” Straight handed Paul the two- and three-bladed leaves.

  Paul sniffed them. “Peanut butter!” he said.

  “Don’t try eating them. They don’t taste like they smell. They’re going to taste good in heaven though.”

  “Say again?”

  “The ailanthus is also known as the tree of heaven. The Christians in Atlantica use them as an identification symbol. There are a lot of references in the Bible to the tree of heaven. ‘Blessed are those who do His commandments, that they may have the right to the tree of life, and may enter through the gates into the city.’ That’s heaven. ‘In the middle of its street, and on either side of the river, was the tree of life, which bore twelve fruits, each tree yielding its fruit every month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.’ ”

  Paul vaguely remembered that from his discs. “A tree in heaven,” he said.

  “And just for us. Listen up now: ‘To him who overcomes I will give to eat from the tree of life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God.’ You can’t beat that, Paul.”

  The flight from Daley International to Giuliani International took a tick over an hour on the supersonic projectile. Paul used the time to study the Atlantica file and to pray. Bizarre, he thought, that talking to God was now so natural. After a lifetime of assuming He didn’t exist, now Paul talked to Him about everything. Especially about Jae and the kids.

  He also prayed—in futility, Straight told him—about his remaining sense of guilt over killing people he knew were now his brothers and sisters in Christ. “I’m not diminishing your sin,” his friend had said. “I’m telling you that once you’ve confessed it and asked forgiveness, God casts aside your guilt as far as the east is from the west. I know it’s not something you can simply put out of your mind, but to wallow in it is to fear God didn’t do His part. That’s a lack of faith, Paul. If God could save you and heal your blindness, He can forgive you, and He has.”

  Paul wished he could feel it.

  Today, though, his prayers took on a new urgency. This was his first foray into a new dual role. Paul hoped that, as Abraham had promised, God would give him wisdom and show him what to do. But he would keep his options open. It might just be impossible, and he hadn’t actually committed to the cause yet. Such a move would endanger more than just himself. There were his wife and kids to consider. He prayed that someday they would also become people of faith. But in the meantime, who was he to plunge them into such danger?

  Paul took a cab to the Pierre Hotel, marveling at the dark beauty of Manhattan. He had visited New York a couple of times as a youngster, but it seemed all the new buildings designed since then were black. It gave the island, particularly midtown, an ultramodern look and feel. While some of the ancient landmarks—the former Empire State Building (now the Atlantica Tower) and the former Chrysler Building (now the Northeast Building)—retained their gray-granite charm, sleek black sky-scrapers with black tinted windows dominated the skyline.

  After lunch Paul took the bullet train to the Wall Street financial district, which boasted some of the most spectacular examples of the new architecture and color scheme. He got off a block and a half from the Demetrius & Demetrius Building so he could take in the full scope of the celebrated structure. It didn’t disappoint. The main part of the building rose thirty stories and supported another six-story pyramid that made the entire complex look like a magnificent nontapered version of the Washington Monument, only in black.

  Staring up at the building, Paul was jostled and whirled to find himself face-to-face with a street person. It had been years since he had encountered one, what with modern anti-delusional medications, strict no-loitering laws, and aid programs more profitable than panhandling. But a few renegades always slipped through the social safety net—drug addicts or alcoholics in flight from treatment. In a shabby fedora and a huge grimy tre
nch coat despite the June heat, the scruffy character looked incongruous against all the gleaming black glass, a rumpled stowaway from another century.

  Flushed with a compassion he had never known before, Paul shoved a bill into the open hand and headed into the cool glass lobby.

  18

  THE DEMETRIUS BROTHERS’ EXECUTIVE OFFICES were located in the pyramid atop the building. The lobby guard told Paul to take the glass jetvator to the thirtieth floor. From there he could switch to another bank of jetvators or, to get the full dramatic impact of the design, walk the rest of the way—five floors up a glass staircase—to the office of the younger Demetrius brother, Arthur.

  The first two floors of the pyramid were filled with back-office operations. Hundreds of clerks and clerical workers hunched over computers and high-speed calculators, ignoring the spectacular views outside their maze of cubicles. No one seemed even to have the time to chat, all were so busy keeping up with the mass fortunes of the brothers Demetrius.

  Paul found the next two floors equally fascinating, but for a different reason. Here fewer people just as obsessively filled vast offices and sat before banks of flat screens, trading slavishly with brokers all over the world. Word was that the place never shut down. Three shifts worked around the clock to keep up with all the international markets.

  The fifth story of the pyramid boasted an extravagant reception area that divided the floor in half. Marveling at its marble and gold and silver and mahogany, Paul couldn’t imagine a more opulent piece of realty anywhere in the world. Discreet signs pointed to the right for the offices of Ephesus Demetrius, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer, and to the left for Arthur Demetrius, President and Chief Operating Officer.

  The sixth and top floor, Paul knew, comprised the utilities for the entire structure.

  In the bowels of the place, beneath the street level, sat one of the largest vaults in the USSA. Supposedly it was jammed with more precious metals than any repository outside Fort Knox.