Underground Zealot 01 - Soon

by JERRY JENKINS

  Straight was right. With Paul’s new faith and new life came new responsibility. Paul had an idea what kind of a husband he should be.

  What was he going to do about his marriage? There were no options. He had to work it out. Rebuilding with Jae sounded like a chore when his heart wished he could start over with Angela. This would be a true test of his faith.

  The news on the car radio trumpeted the arrest of Jonah, the religious figure who had duped hundreds and had been responsible for the overdose deaths of sixteen. Paul decided to see what it looked like on TV. Besides bringing down a monster, he was grateful for what it would mean to him as a mole within the NPO. The brass wouldn’t know the difference between Jonah and his misguided followers and the real believers.

  The walk from the elevator to his room seemed to take forever, and he realized how bone-weary he was, both from the tension of the day and his talk with Angela. He felt as if he could sleep twelve hours. Maybe he would.

  He pushed open his door, but before he reached for the light he noticed the thick silhouette of a man sitting on his bed. Paul dropped to a crouch and pulled his weapon.

  “Put it away,” a familiar voice growled. “You wouldn’t shoot your own father-in-law, would you?”

  Paul held his breath. “Tell me Jae and the kids are all right.”

  “Sit down. They’re fine.”

  Paul collapsed into a chair. Then what? Did Jae show him the letter?

  Have I been tailed? Am I busted?

  “You’re going to tell me who she is. And then you’re going to get rid of her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You think I’m ignorant, Paul? You used a woman in this operation today.”

  “She was working locally. Had a contact with my suspect.”

  “Yeah? Well, you know what? She was in the background in some of the TV reports. Looked real familiar to me. Know why?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of her before.”

  Paul fought to maintain composure. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. What’s her name, Paul?”

  “I never share names of informants.”

  “She’s an informant now?”

  “She was in this case.”

  “What was she in Washington? and Toledo?”

  “Sir?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No! I don’t know what you’re—”

  “You certainly do, Paul.”

  “You’re so smart, you tell me.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me, boy. That’s Andy Pass’s daughter. We had her on file.”

  What?

  “How do you know she’s not a subversive like her old man? You’d better clean up your act, Paul. This is my daughter you’re cheating on.”

  “I’m not cheating at all—on anyone.”

  “Fix it, Paul.”

  Of all the things to be caught for . . .

  “But that’s not why I’m here,” Ranold said. “There’s trouble brewing in Sunterra. Shaping up to be a terrible crisis.”

  “What’s going on?”

  The old man scooted up so he could rest his back on the headboard.

  “Christians. The regional governor himself made an appeal to the agency.

  The Zealot Underground task force will be involved, but you don’t have the know-how or manpower—or the guts—for a major operation like this.

  It’s Special Projects.”

  Ranold grinned. “I always knew this day would come, Paul, ever since we saw those first little snakes in the woodpile. Congress and the agency lacked the will to crush them then. The new generation is a bunch of liberal pantywaists—careerists and politicians with no firsthand war experience—

  and they were scared of public outcry. At least they knew they needed a tough old wizard behind the curtain. That’s when I founded Special Projects.

  “I set the best protocol they’d let me: Lop off leaders for intimidation, set up a task force, leak selectively to the press to avoid creating martyrs. I warned all along they were trying to shoot a bear with a popgun, and now they see I’m right. In just six months, snakes have overrun our country.

  Terrorists don’t slink away—they proliferate.

  “So while you task-force types have been investigating and making arrests, I’ve been watching for the right opening to drop the bomb on the pit of vipers. This is it, Paul. Congress has granted me emergency powers, and I’m calling out the army. Sunterra is where we smash this insurrection once and for all.”

  “Ranold, I’m . . . shocked is the word, I guess. I figured you were handling something major but—”

  “You didn’t know how bad things had gotten. Paul, you were out of commission a long time. What you’ve seen is just the tip of the iceberg.

  We’re finding Bibles everywhere, along with what they call ‘tracts’—little brochures with the ‘gospel’ in them. Plenty are turning up in your own backyard, all over Michigan and Ohio. We don’t know where they’re printed. And the same stuff’s flooding the Internet. We’ve got laws against that, but they’re almost impossible to enforce.”

  Paul nearly burst with pride over what his brothers and sisters were accomplishing—just as he had been told in the salt mines—but he maintained a disconcerted look.

  “The movement is bigger and stronger—more ruthless and cunning—

  and more widespread than you know. That’s why it’s time.”

  “What’s happening in L.A.?”

  Ranold turned and put his feet on the floor, warming to his topic. “The zealots there are pervasive and bold,” he said. “And I’m sure you know how important the film industry is to our government.”

  Paul massaged his eyes. “Important enough that all the studios have been conglomerated into one.”

  “One government-run studio, right. L.A. Idea Co. And why? Because movies are more than our most important propaganda tool. They are also among our most valuable exports, both in terms of culture propagation and income. Well, the zealots are trying to sabotage the business. But they’ve made a fatal miscalculation.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “You’ll see. We’re heading out there tomorrow.”

  “Does Koontz know?”

  “Of course. And you’ll still report to the NPO through the bureau chief in L.A. Nepotism breeds dissension, Paul. Besides, for this operation, I’ve decided to play the role of General Decenti—military consultant, old soldier called out of retirement to advise. That’s the beauty of Special Projects. I’m spared the burden of public scrutiny and—” he smiled—“the law. It lets me run the show as I see fit. For the day-to-day, I’ve put Balaam in charge.”

  “That agent I met at the awards ceremony?”

  “I told you she was a comer, Paul. She’s made a real contribution on my team, strategically and in detention situations, even if she hasn’t been tested in the field. But I’ll be keeping you close. We’ll travel together, and we’ll bunk together.”

  Ranold stood. “I got a room two floors below. Flight’s at oh-eight-hundred.”

  “Dad, you need to know there is zero between me and Andy Pass’s daughter.”

  “Whatever you say. But unless you’re trying to get next to her for information on the underground, you’re playing with fire.”

  * * *

  Paul phoned Ranold’s room a few minutes later to be sure he was there.

  “What time did you say that flight was?”

  “Oh-eight-hundred. Meet you for breakfast at oh-six-thirty.”

  “Roger that.”

  Paul phoned Angela but got Willie instead. “She’s still talking with some of the girls.”

  “Willie, this is really important. Tell her not to return to her hotel.

  Have someone else pick up her stuff and her kids and find them someplace new to stay. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “This is not negotiable, Willie.”

 
* * *

  Paul’s final call was to Straight, who was horrified about the coming raid.

  “I have to tell you, Paul, we’ve been expecting some kind of backlash.

  One of our Washington people even guessed there was some major muscle behind Balaam. But we never thought it would come down this hard or this soon.”

  “I need contacts with believers in L.A., and I need them fast,” Paul said. “I wish you could be there with me.”

  “Interesting you should say that, Paul. Now that the battle has been heating up, I’ve often wished that I could be more on the front lines. But not just yet.”

  Straight promised to have everything Paul needed within twenty-four hours.

  28

  Breakfast and the flight proved exhausting for Paul, the victim of his father-in-law’s bluster. Everything was about how Paul should be thrilled at this opportunity for visibility.

  “We’re staying at Tiny Allendo’s in Beverly Hills,” Ranold said as they got off the plane at LAX. “You’ve never seen a place like his.”

  Allendo was the studio chief. “We’re staying there?” Paul said. “That sounds like a conflict of interest.”

  “He works for the government too, remember?”

  “He’s paid on profits, Dad. That’s why nobody else who works for the government lives in Beverly Hills.”

  A stretch limo pulled up with Decenti on a card in the window.

  “That’s Tiny for you,” Ranold said as the driver put their bags in the trunk.

  Ranold asked the driver to take them through Hollywood on the way to Allendo’s home. “You’re going to get an idea what’s happening here,” he told Paul. Paul enjoyed the vibrating massage of the passenger seats and the array of radio and TV signals available through his molar receptors.

  “Pull off here a second,” Ranold told the driver. He pointed out to Paul a billboard that announced one movie, yet the hologram depicted another.

  “Disgusting.”

  The billboard advertised a new erotic thriller, but the holographic image was from The Ten Commandments where Charlton Heston as Moses throws down the tablets in disgust at the sin of the Israelites. It played over and over, the tablets breaking to pieces and Moses chastising the people.

  “What’s that about?” Paul said.

  “What do you think? It’s the zealots. They’re convinced Hollywood is immoral, and they’re determined to change it. We can’t let that happen.”

  That Hollywood and her product were immoral was hardly news. Even in Paul’s previous life he could hardly stomach the new movies. All were now holographic and most were interactive, but there was hardly a thing he could enjoy with his family. Nothing was off-limits now.

  “It’s high-tech vandalism,” Ranold raged. “And because this industry is government run, that’s a federal felony.”

  “How hard would it be to stop this?” Paul said.

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Billboard mischief?”

  “We can’t find the source, Paul! We can override it only temporarily with interceptors, but we can’t stop it. That’ll be your job. At least part of it. That’s only the beginning.”

  “I hope so, because you said—”

  “I said it was a crisis, and it is. This is just one manifestation. Driver, take us to where we can see the Hollywood sign.”

  It seemed every house in the area was trying to top the one next door.

  All had fountains and swimming pools. Many had several golf holes and misted landscaping. “You should have seen this city before you were born, Paul. Smog so thick you wouldn’t have been able to see the houses. Thank technology—primarily electric-powered cars and trucks—for cleaning that up.”

  A few minutes later the limo pulled over again, and Paul peered into the Hollywood hills where the famous white sign had been standing for roughly a century. For the last twenty years its letters had consisted of laser light images, and there the vandals had struck again. One of the L s had been snuffed, and the sign now read Holywood.

  “Same people?” Paul said.

  “Well, of course it’s the same people,” Ranold spat. “The problem is not only that these people exist, but also that they are out of control.”

  * * *

  Tiny Allendo was not, of course, tiny. His was an ironic nickname for a man six-foot-eight with wavy black hair, supposedly bright blue eyes, and an easy smile. Paul wouldn’t see those eyes until late in the evening, because Allendo wore wraparound gold-mirrored shades, even indoors, until past dark. He dressed in black on black, was a paragon of style, and proved a generous host. Nearing fifty years old, he looked ten years younger. He enjoyed carrying the conversation and, while pleasant, was unable to hide an underlying rage about what was happening in Hollywood.

  Tiny had a staff that rotated in sets of eight, and after the butler, whom he referred to as simply a doorman, welcomed Paul and Ranold, they were shown to their respective rooms—in opposite wings of the sixteen-thousand-square-foot home—by valets who unpacked their bags and hung up their clothes. They were invited to relax until brunch, which was to be served by the pool at ten.

  Though Tiny was technically a government employee, Paul was not comfortable with the arrangement. The marble-and-stucco home was the most lavish Paul had ever seen. Everything was sleek and ultramodern and custom-made, from the furniture to the draperies and linens. Paul’s private bath was as large as his living room at home. Lights came on when he entered a room and went off when he left. A valet stood at the end of the hall, waiting to be paged if he needed anything, anything at all.

  Paul didn’t know whether to dress for the pool or for work. He decided he was there on business and should look the part, even if he was dining poolside with one of the wealthiest men in Hollywood. He put on light slacks and a sport jacket. His only concession to the weather and the location was a pullover rather than shirt and tie.

  His valet escorted Paul to the pool, and he arrived the same time Ranold and his chaperone did. Ranold showed up in a three-piece suit, looking wholly uncomfortable and promising to buy pool gear that day for a swim that evening. The pool was filled with at least two dozen bronzed and bikinied lovelies.

  Tiny had changed into a skimpy gold thong to match his sunglasses, black flip-flops, and a white dress shirt as a cover-up. He enthusiastically welcomed his guests and directed them to sit facing him at a round table, placing his female secretary and his young male assistant at his sides. The five of them were served a light brunch of fresh seafood by the hovering staff.

  “And you two are related somehow, do I have that right?” Tiny said.

  Ranold explained the relationship and waded through the formalities of greetings from Washington.

  “I’m grateful you’re here,” Allendo said.

  “In just days, you’ll be even more grateful,” Ranold said. “Washington will be working within the National Peace Organization bureau headquartered in Los Angeles, to which Paul has full access, owing to his advisory role with the Zealot Underground task force. Agent Bia Balaam and I, representing the Congress of the United Seven States of America, have all the resources of the federal government at our beck and call. I assure you, Mr. Allendo, that these attacks on Hollywood will never have the chance to spread. We will not leave here until we crush the efforts of these zealots to destroy the movie industry.”

  “That’s a relief,” Tiny said. “This is more than a nuisance, you know.

  These people are trying to overthrow us. And regardless what they think about our product, is it just me, or are these people breaking the law simply by practicing religion?”

  “Of course they are,” Ranold said. “That’s why it is imperative that the uprising be quashed and the underground dismantled as quickly as possible. We have marshaled a formidable army contingent. By this evening it will have encircled not just Hollywood but also the entire city of Los Angeles.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Quite. I
t’s a huge area, of course, but not such a difficult job. Our men will interface with your local NPO bureau, which, under the guidance of our Agent Balaam, has already been investigating, infiltrating, and attempting to apprehend those responsible for the attacks against your operation.”

  Infiltrating? That was what Balaam had bragged about doing in D.C.

  too.

  Allendo proved a dainty eater for a big man. He dipped his hands in a water bowl to wash the drawn butter from his fingers and dried them on a towel. “The press would love the operation, Mr. Decenti, so—”

  “You may call me General Decenti.”

  “Very well. How do we keep this from the press?”

  Ranold dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “So far, we’ve managed to control the spin rather well.”

  “The billboard vandal is just a hacker with access to one old movie,”

  Tiny said. “And the Hollywood sign defacers are pranksters. Their disinformation campaign is a failure. We still beam our message throughout the world.”

  “Exactly. And we’ll continue to spoon-feed the press what we want them to say.”

  Allendo smiled and nodded. “How long do you think a press blackout can be maintained?”

  “Excellent question,” Ranold said. “Not long. The nature of the beast.

  So we’ll make a swift surgical strike. Believe me, Mr. Allendo, we come with a zero-tolerance policy, committed to ferreting out and decimating these zealots.”

  “I see movie written all over a mission like this.”

  Ranold beamed.

  * * *

  When they had finished eating, Allendo said, “I have reservations this evening at a wonderful club, the Studio. General, you mentioned wanting to do some shopping this afternoon. Please feel free to use my limo and driver.”

  “Most generous,” Ranold said, “but I have a government car and chauffeur at my disposal.”

  “And you, Dr. Stepola?”

  “I’m having a car delivered from the agency.”

  “Your car has just arrived,” the secretary told Paul.

  Allendo walked Paul to the front of the estate, where a solid gold replica of Buckingham Fountain shot water a hundred feet into the air.