by C. S. Graham
Peering over the stone banister, Jax stared down at the crowded rows of pews filling the nave below. At the eastern end rose the high altar, a gilded Rococo extravaganza at the top of a series of wide shallow steps carpeted in scarlet. Half a dozen thronelike chairs with pale silk coverings and carved wooden arms had been set up on either side of the chancel. Already, a number of dignitaries were milling about, taking their seats. Jax spotted a sumptuously vested cleric he assumed must be the archbishop, several women he didn’t recognize, the mayor of the city, and the distinguished senior senator from Louisiana, Cyrus Savoie.
Glancing across the open space of the nave to the opposite aisle, Jax’s gaze met October’s. She shook her head. Nothing.
He looked at his watch. It was three minutes to eleven.
Despite the crowd, the cathedral was cold, a dank chill radiating off the old stones. Yet Jax was aware of a bead of sweat forming along his hairline, beneath his trooper’s hat. Swiping the back of one navy sleeve across his forehead, he ran his gaze over the soaring columns of the altar, the lecturn with its bulletproof shield.
If I were going to kill the President, he thought, how would I do it?
His attention shifted to the lattice screening that formed a section of the walls to either side of the chancel. “Shit,” he whispered, just as a stirring of movement beneath the south gallery drew his gaze to the sacristy door.
The door flew open and President Pizarro, surrounded by dark-suited Secret Service agents, strode into the nave. The people in the pews surged to their feet, cheering and clapping enthusiastically, for Pizarro was young and newly elected and promised them a bright and different tomorrow. He was smiling, one hand raised in greeting, as Senator Savoie, leaning heavily on his cane, stepped forward to welcome the President.
A movement halfway down the north gallery caught Jax’s attention. A young woman with long flaxen hair, her navy windbreaker splashed with the giant letters FBI across the back in bright yellow, was striding rapidly away from him, toward the east end.
It was only then, watching her, that he realized the gallery did not continue in an unbroken line all the way to the apse but was bisected near the sanctuary steps by a stout masonry wall a good three or four feet thick. Reaching the partition, the woman swung about to press her back against the solid protecting wall.
It was Special Agent Brockman.
He watched her tip her head to first one side, then the other, her hand going up to each ear in turn. And he realized suddenly what she was doing.
She was putting in earplugs.
“Stop her!” he shouted and started to run.
Pushing through the TV crew, he sent the cameraman flying. “Hey, watch it!” the guy yelled.
Jax kept going.
Deafened by her earplugs and focused on her task, Brockman didn’t hear Jax’s shout. Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she drew out a small olive green plastic box with a plastic trigger and a metal wire. Jax knew instantly what it was: a detonator for a directional antipersonnel mine known as the Claymore in honor of the venerable Scottish swords of old. All she needed to do was flip the safety out of the way and squeeze the lever, and the altar below would turn into a fiery rain of death. And the flame of God’s sword shall devour the wicked . . .
She was bringing the detonator up when Jax reached her. He saw the puzzlement on her face, then the flare of outrage as she recognized the man beneath the broad Louisiana State Trooper’s hat.
“You!” she spat as he grabbed her wrist in his left hand. He wrenched it up, hard enough to break her hold on the detonator, and slammed his right fist into her face.
She staggered sideways, blood streaming from her nose, the detonator tumbling to their feet. Her eyes narrowing with determination, she lunged for it.
Jax threw himself on it, just as three FBI agents jumped him.
“Keep him down! I’ll get help,” Brockman shouted, and took off running for the tower stairs to the ground floor.
Tobie was on the south gallery near the east end when she heard Jax’s shout. She saw him grapple with the blond FBI agent, saw Jax go down, saw the woman jerk away to pelt down the length of the gallery and disappear into the corner turret.
“Jax!” Tobie cried, and took off after her.
The blond woman hit the vestibule first and was out the door before Tobie rounded the last tight spiral. She heard the FBI agent yell to the security people out front, “Get inside! They need your help! Incident on the north gallery!”
Tobie had to fight her way through the resultant stampede of police officers, plainclothesmen and Secret Service officers all rushing in the doors at once. By the time she burst down the steps, the blond FBI agent was already racing up the side of the square.
Tobie sprinted after her. They dodged silver-painted mimes on platforms, babies in strollers, sidewalk artists sheltering beneath colorful umbrellas. A tourist carrying a giant takeaway daiquiri cup staggered into Tobie’s path. Tobie tripped over her and careened into a juggler to send his oranges flying.
The FBI agent was almost at the street. In another minute, she would be swallowed up by the crowds milling around the French Market.
Looking frantically around for help, Tobie spotted an unmarked black Crown Victoria parked pointing the wrong way on Decatur, across from the Café du Monde, the driver’s door open against the curb. A man sat at the wheel.
“Stop that woman!” Tobie yelled as they pounded toward him. “She just tried to kill the President!”
The driver pushed to his feet. He was a big guy, dark and handsome. Reaching beneath his suit jacket, he drew a Glock from his shoulder holster, chambered a round, and calmly pumped four bullets into the blond FBI agent’s chest.
The crack-crack-crack-crack of the gun sent tourists and sidewalk artists scrambling for cover, their screams echoing around the square.
The big bullets spun the woman around. Tobie saw the look of astonishment in her face as blood poured from her mouth and her eyes rolled back in her head.
“Oh, my God,” said Tobie, dropping to her knees beside the woman’s bloody body. She could hear the footsteps of the shooter approaching and looked up, furious. “Why did you—”
She broke off as he raised the muzzle of his gun to her face. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” he said, his finger tightening on the trigger.
From half a block away, Noah Bosch shouted, “It’s Duane Davenport! Look out!”
Davenport jerked the muzzle of his gun toward Bosch.
And Bubba Dupuis emptied Jax’s Beretta into the FBI man’s big body.
Chapter 68
Noah sat in a hard, straight-backed chair, his elbows propped on the cold tabletop, his chin resting on his palms. He was so tired his mind was dull and his body ached for sleep. With him around the table in the frigid, windowless room were Jax Alexander, October Guinness, Bubba Dupuis, and Colonel McClintock. They’d been interrogated separately for hours by nameless, solemn-faced men in suits. Now they had been brought together.
They had been told nothing.
“Well,” said Alexander, tipping back his chair so that it balanced on its rear legs. “At least we haven’t been taken to some basement room and shot.”
“Yet,” muttered Bubba.
Noah supposed it was meant to be funny. But as far as he was concerned, these guys had a sick sense of humor.
A flurry of movement and voices in the hall drew everyone’s attention. The door opened and Senator Savoie entered, leaning heavily on a cane. He was followed by some nameless suit carrying a cardboard box. Setting the box on the table, the suit nodded to the Senator and left.
“Ensign Guinness,” said Savoie, glancing around the table, “gentlemen. What I am about to tell y’all is not to leave the confines of this room. If you speak of it to anyone, it will be categorically denied.” He threw a long, penetrating stare at Noah. “Understood?”
“Why?” said Noah. “What is the government denying?”
“Everything.”
McClintock raised one eyebrow. “And the two dead FBI agents?”
“Were unfortunately cut down in the crossfire of a local drug war.”
“No one is going to believe that,” said Guinness. “There were witnesses.”
Savoie cleared his throat. “It’s the oddest thing, but people tend to believe what they’re told. In all the confusion, with bullets flying and everyone ducking for cover, who can say what actually happened?”
“I can,” said Noah.
“Only if you want to lose all credibility. Even as we speak, Agents Davenport and Brockman are being hailed as fallen heroes on all the major cable news channels.”
Guinness said, “That’s just fundamentally wrong from so many different angles.”
“This isn’t about what’s true or what’s right; it’s about what is necessary.” Lifting the lid of the cardboard box, Savoie drew out the MLFI and nudged it toward the center of the table. “None of you has ever seen this. It doesn’t exist. If you claim it exists, you will be ridiculed and discredited.”
Alexander gave a soft laugh. “And the other four devices that are in circulation?”
Noah felt a chill run down his spine. There were four more of those suckers out there?
“We are endeavoring to track them down,” said the Senator. “And identify the instances in which they may have been used in the past.”
Guinness sat very still. “So you’re saying—what? That Vice President Hamilton’s ‘heart attack’ will remain just that? A heart attack?”
“That’s right. Just as no information on the Claymore antipersonnel mines found hidden behind the latticework on either side of the cathedral’s altar will be released to the public—although, obviously, a thorough investigation is already underway to identify the Secret Service agents involved in both incidents. The organization needs to do some serious housekeeping.”
“It isn’t just the Secret Service that’s a problem,” said Alexander. “The dominionists have positioned people in the military, the FBI, the CIA—”
Savoie cleared his throat again. “The President is not convinced things are that bad.”
Alexander let his chair come forward with a click. “And you?”
Savoie met his gaze without blinking. “I am not the President.”
Guinness said, “What about Patterson and Carlyle?”
Savoie turned to her. “At this point, we have no evidence against either one—or, in fact, against anyone. At least, not anything we can take to court.”
“But . . . Carlyle has the Babylonian Codex and the Inanna Vase. If you got a search warrant and—”
“I seriously doubt a search of Carlyle’s Coeur d’Alene compound would find anything.” Savoie put the MLFI back in the box and carefully repositioned the lid. “By now the entire collection will have been moved.”
Her face flushed with anger. “So you do nothing?”
“I didn’t say that. A number of investigations will be launched. But the President has decided that the important thing right now is to unite the country.”
“Behind a lie?” said Guinness.
“Behind the need to repair the ravages of the last thirty years.” Savoie turned to October Guinness. “You have, of course, been cleared of any involvement in the deaths of Agent Elaine Cox and the night watchman. And I’ve been asked by the President to convey to all of you his sincere thanks for what you have done for your country,”
“His thanks?” echoed Noah. “That’s it?”
Savoie glanced toward him. “Under the circumstances, I’m afraid that’s all that’s possible. Although I have talked to my friends at the Post. You’ll be happy to hear they’re ready to name you as their new White House correspondent.”
Noah drew a deep breath. Once, he would have killed for this kind of an appointment. Now, all he said was, “I’ll think about it.”
Savoie turned toward the door, the tip of his cane tap-tapping on the tiles. “Don’t think about it for too long, Mr. Bosch. Refusing the position would be a grand gesture—but ultimately counterproductive.”
Two weeks later, Jax stood beside a one-way mirror at the Algiers Naval Facility across the Mississippi River from the French Quarter. In the dimly lit, soundproof room on the other side of the glass sat October and Colonel McClintock. She had her eyes closed, her chest rising gently with each deep breath as she settled down into her Zone.
“That’s good, Tobie,” Jax heard the Colonel say. “Relax.”
They had all come together to work with Dr. Elizabeth Stein in an effort to fulfill Elaine Cox’s dream of using remote viewing to track down some of Iraq’s missing antiquities. This would be October’s first run against the artifacts since Elaine’s death.
“Did you hear the news about Carlyle?” said Captain Peter Abrams.
Jax glanced at Abrams, who sat in a chair beside him. The captain’s face was still pale and he had one arm in a sling, but he had insisted on being here.
“No,” said Jax. “What?”
“Murder-suicide. This morning, in Paris. He was supposedly shot by his assistant, Casper Nordstrom, who then turned the gun on himself.”
Jax grunted. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since the naked body of Warren Patterson had been discovered in Atlantic City, in the kind of cheap hotel where rooms rent by the hour. Heart attack, said the coroner. Another prominent dominionist, an insurance-industry magnate named Ross Cole, had disappeared off his yacht in the Gulf of Mexico and was presumed drowned.
“Who do you think is doing this?” asked Abrams. “Our guys?”
“It’s possible. Although I’d be more willing to put my money on the dominionists themselves. Looks to me like they’re eliminating anyone they think might have been compromised.”
“In other words, they’re still out there,” said Abrams after a moment, his attention, like Jax’s, on the scene on the other side of the glass. “Or at least some of them. Sometimes I feel like we’re playing Whack-a-Mole.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
On the other side of the glass, McClintock laid his hand on the paper on the table before him and said, “Okay, Tobie, focus on item number three seven nine four, and tell me what you see.”
Beside Jax, Abrams said, “I thought you didn’t believe in remote viewing?”
“I don’t.”
Abrams smiled. “Then why are you here?”
Jax kept his gaze on October. “Because I believe in her.”
Author's Note
Wondering what’s real and what isn’t? Here’s a quick rundown, with sources for further reading.
• The government remote viewing programs, their history, and the various historical incidents described in this series are real. These programs, known as Grill Flame, Sun Streak, Center Lane, and Star Gate (among others), were officially terminated in 1995–96 and some of their relevant material declassified. For an entertaining look at the programs’ history, we suggest Men Who Stare at Goats, by Jon Ronson (the book, not the movie).
• The remote viewing sessions described in this book are as accurate as we can make them within the confines of the story. For a more complete and authoritative analysis of the process, see Joseph McMoneagle’s book Mind Trek.
• The Babylonian Codex is a figment of the author’s imagination. The so-called lost chapter is actually a compilation of verses inspired by some of the numerous Jewish apocalyptic texts extant, including the Sibylline Oracles, translated by M. S. Terry; the Ascension of Isaiah, translated by R. McL. Wilson and M. A. Knibb; the Second Baruch and Enoch, translated by R. H. Charles; The Apocalypse of Thomas, translated by M. R. Jones; and the War Scroll (perhaps the most famous of the Dead Sea Scrolls), translated by M. Wise, M. Abegg, E. Cook, F. G. Martinez, and G. Vermes. For more on this tradition, see James C. VanderKam, The Jewish Apocalyptic Heritage in Early Christianity, and The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature, by John Joseph Collins.
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� The Book of Revelation, also known as the Apocalypse of St. John, is a cryptic, highly symbolic, and intensely controversial book of the Bible. Its history as described to Jax and Tobie by the various scholars follows current historical-critical research. See, Revelation, by J. Massyngberde Ford; Cosmology and Eschatology in Jewish and Christian Apocalyptism, by Adela Yarbro Collins; Jesus: Apocalyptic Prophet of the New Millennium, by Bart D. Ehrman; and The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature, by John Joseph Collins.
• The dominionist movement is both real and powerful. Its adherents’ aim is indeed to turn the United States into a nation governed by their interpretation of biblical law. Also real are Joel’s Army, the Seven Mountains movement, the New Wave Reformation, The New Apostolic Reformation, and the Joshua Generation. See especially Theocracy Watch, a project run by Cornell University’s Center for Religion, Ethics, and Social Policy, at www.theocracywatch.org; American Fascists: the Christian Right and the War on America, by Chris Hedges; American Theocracy: The Perils and Politics of Radical Religion, Oil, and Borrowed Money in the 21st Century, by Kevin Phillips; Spiritual Warfare: The Politics of the Christian Right, by Sara Diamond, and Roads to Dominion: Right-Wing Movements and Political Power in the United States, also by Sara Diamond.
• Rushdoony and Reconstructionism are real. See Rousas J. Rushdoony’s book, The Institutes of Biblical Law; and Christian Reconstructionism, by Gary North, Rushdoony’s son-in-law. The Family or the Fellowship is real. See Jeff Sharlet’s book, The Family. The Council for National Policy is real. Members past and present are said to include Jack Abramoff, Elsa Prince of the Blackwater Princes, James Dobson, Jerry Falwell, Gary North, Oliver North, Tim LaHaye, and Trent Lott. See www.policycounsel.org.
• Mikey Weinstein and the Military Religious Freedom Foundation are real. See www.militaryreligiousfree dom.org. For more on dominionists in the United States military, see Jeff Sharlet, “Jesus Killed Mohammed: The Crusade for a Christian Military,” in Harper’s Magazine, May 2009. The former U.S. deputy undersecretary of Defense for Intelligence, Lt. General William G. Boykin, gained considerable notoriety for numerous speeches and interviews in which he disparaged Islam and cast the War on Terror in biblical terms.