The Atlantis Prophecy a-2

by Thomas Greanias

  "Can you recognize your wife, at least?"

  Harold shot him an angry look. "I'm pretty sure I can."

  "Then take me to her in the ballroom," Seavers said.

  ***

  The gigantic ballroom was as big as a football field. The domed ceiling a couple of stories high only added to the aura of an indoor sports stadium.

  Conrad, now free of Meredith, slipped between hundreds of round tables with white cloths and gold chairs toward a table to the right of the stage. It was near the staff door to the hotel's main kitchen, where hundreds of waiters shuffled in and out.

  He picked an empty seat at the table, the least desirable chair because its back was to the stage, but perfect for him. He sat down and faced the wall by the kitchen entrance and six smiling table companions: a young couple from California, an older self-proclaimed "Lake Wobegon" couple from Minnesota, a middle-aged rabbi from New York, and a tall black woman from D.C. It was a United Nations of faith.

  "You're never going to see anything good looking this way," joked the rabbi. "Would you mind passing the cantaloupe? They pray later."

  Conrad looked down at the table full of fruit, pastries, juices, and coffee. Because of security issues and the crowd, everything had been prepped beforehand, and he had to remove a clear plastic wrap from the chilled plate of cantaloupe.

  "Here you go," he said and passed it over. As he did, his eyes swept the ballroom for Serena. She was already on stage with various generals and senators, including the presumptive Democratic and Republican party nominees for the presidency in November. They were waiting for the president.

  Most everybody else in the ballroom was seated, except hundreds of waiters attending to the tables. Conrad helped himself to some coffee and looked over the navy blue program with gold leaf trim in front of him. The opening prayer was to be offered by Sister Serena Serghetti following a contemporary rendition of "Amazing Grace" by the rock group U2's lead singer, Bono.

  Conrad was about to pour himself a second cup of coffee when the young California man, who was Asian-American, said, "You might want to think twice about that. Security won't let you go to the bathroom while the president and first lady are in the ballroom."

  "Thanks, I'll hold off…"

  "It's Jim," the man said, offering his hand and Conrad shook it. "Jim Lee."

  Conrad cocked his head. "Like Pastor Jim, the bestselling author?"

  The black woman and the rabbi snorted a giggle. Conrad didn't get the joke.

  "Pretty much," said Pastor Jim. "That's me."

  "Oh!"

  Conrad suddenly realized that Meredith from Texas had known from the start he wasn't Pastor Jim.

  The old-timer from Minnesota said, "Is it true that there are more Christians in China than America, Pastor Jim?"

  "Yes," said Pastor Jim. "But my family is Korean."

  "From Seoul?"

  "Burbank."

  The old-timer, realizing he perhaps made some sort of faux pas, nodded enthusiastically. "You people make good citizens."

  "Thank you." Pastor Jim smiled.

  The black woman next to Conrad said, "He sells almost as many books as Bishop Jakes, you know."

  Conrad nodded absently and, scoping the room for any sign of Seavers, said, "You sure don't see this kind of event in any other country on Earth."

  "You mean elected officials acknowledging they're not God?"

  "You got it," Conrad said, surprised by her dig. "You must work for one of them?"

  "All of them. I'm a sergeant with the Capitol Police."

  "I'd have never guessed," Conrad said slowly. There was something very familiar about her. But if she was feeling likewise she wasn't showing it. "Tell me, is it true what they say about politicians here in Washington?"

  "What's that?"

  "That the only ones with convictions are in jail?"

  "You're funny! I'm Wanda, by the way. Wanda Randolph."

  "J-Jack," he said, glancing over at Pastor Jim, who was now talking to the rabbi.

  She put out her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Jack."

  "The pleasure's mine."

  The instant Conrad grasped her hand he knew it belonged to the woman who held his in the ambulance the night before, the same one who pumped several bullets his way in the tunnels beneath the U.S. Capitol a couple of days ago.

  She knew it, too. Her smile froze and she looked down at his hand, not letting go. Her eyes widened like she had just been shocked with an electric buzzer.

  "This your first time here, Jack?" she asked him, even as she glanced over her shoulder at the small army of plainclothes security surrounding the ballroom.

  "First and probably last," he told her, not taking his eyes off her.

  "Why is that, Jack?"

  "I just feel like I don't belong, you know? Like I'm a criminal here with all the saints."

  There were glances around the table. Then a few vigorous nods.

  "We all are, brother," said the man from Minnesota. "But too few of us are honest enough to admit it and seek forgiveness at the foot of the cross. Isn't that right, Pastor Jim?"

  Pastor Jim, his mouth full with an almond croissant, could only nod.

  Conrad looked at Wanda as her hand reached into her purse. He slipped both of his own under the table and for a wild second was ready to upend it if necessary.

  But her hands emerged with a card and a pen. "I know from the ballistics report that you didn't kill my man Larry last night," she whispered to him as she wrote a phone number on the back of her card. "But I can't yet prove that Max Seavers did." She slid the card across the tablecloth to him.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  "That's the number to Prison Fellowship. It's a charity that ministers to men and women behind bars. You're going to need it if you don't scram this second."

  Conrad looked at her. "And why is that?"

  "Because I see Max Seavers and two Secret Service agents walking straight toward our table."

  ***

  From the stage Serena saw Max Seavers, too, and decided to jump the gun on the prayer breakfast by standing up, walking to the microphone stand, and offering up her opening prayer a good seven minutes ahead of schedule.

  "Let us rise for the opening prayer," she said, and bowed her head, aware that the president hadn't arrived yet and that she had caught the senators on stage off guard. But there was nothing they could say at this point as everybody in the ballroom rose to their feet and effectively blocked Seavers from reaching Conrad.

  "Almighty God," she prayed. "We make our earnest prayer that Thou wilt keep the United States in Thy Holy protection, and Thou wilt incline the hearts of the citizens to cultivate a spirit of subordination and obedience to government, and entertain a brotherly affection and love for one another and for their fellow citizens of the United States at large…"

  She kept her eyes open, along with every member of the security detail stationed throughout the ballroom, and she could see Seavers seething in the back, craning his neck as he searched for Conrad.

  "…And finally that Thou wilt most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with that charity, humility, and pacific temper of mind which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed religion, and without a humble imitation whose example in these things we can never hope to be a happy nation. Grant our supplication, we beseech Thee, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen."

  ***

  As soon as everybody sat down again, Seavers, a furious frown on his face, marched toward the corner of the room where Yeats sat. Bono, who was supposed to open the breakfast with a song before the opening prayer, now began to sing "Amazing Grace."

  This prayer breakfast was like an absurd nightmare, Seavers thought, walking among the well-dressed deluded whose minuscule brainwaves were directed to a deity that did not exist, and who actually believed that the Founding Fathers sought to establish a Christian nation. That Conrad Yeats believed he coul
d find refuge here was even more absurd.

  Yeats had his back to him as Seavers approached and recognized the policewoman from the Capitol. Was there any place he could avoid that woman?

  Seavers glared at Sergeant R.A.T.S. as the two Secret Service agents took positions behind her opposite Yeats. Seavers then placed his left hand with the stump of a finger on Yeats's left shoulder.

  "Time's up, Yeats."

  But instead of Yeats, Seavers found himself staring at the face of a Latino server, who was holding a pot of coffee.

  "This is Pablo, our server," Sergeant Randolph explained. "We had an extra seat and in the spirit of this event invited him to join us in prayer."

  "Goddamn you, where is he?" he said, drawing sharp glances from nearby tables.

  "Relax, Dr. Seavers," she said, eyes like daggers. "Where's he going to go? He's not armed and you've got an army of security people down here."

  Seavers snapped his head and scanned the ballroom for Yeats as the Irish lilt of Bono's voice swelled to an unearthly decibel level. No sign of him, only servers with coffee and breakfast items heading into and out of the kitchen entrance.

  "The kitchen," he barked.

  39

  BY THE TIME Serena followed the president out of the ballroom after his remarks to the attendees, it appeared from the anxious faces of the Secret Service agents in the hallway that her prayer had been answered and that Conrad had escaped.

  "I heard you did a good job with the opening prayer, Sister Serghetti," the president said as she followed him and his Secret Service detail past the portraits of previous leaders. "Wish I had heard it myself."

  "I simply recited the official prayer that George Washington offered for the United States of America in the year 1783," she said. "It was printed in the program."

  The president frowned and said nothing more until they entered the gold room, where Packard was waiting beside an American flag and a small spiral stairwell that led to a secret outside door and the president's waiting limousine.

  "You've got sixty seconds before I step outside," the president said.

  Packard broke the news. "That item we've been searching for is waiting for you in the Oval Office, but it's empty," he said, providing no particulars with Serena present. "Brooke Scarborough is dead. Conrad Yeats killed her and is at large on the premises. Seavers is sweeping everything room-by-room."

  The president looked at her. "And I'm to understand that the Vatican has been helping Dr. Yeats?"

  "No, Mr. President, but I have," she said boldly, seeing the shock in Packard's face. "You should, too. And he did not kill Brooke Scarborough."

  She slipped her hand inside her blouse and removed Washington's letter to Stargazer. Packard looked like he was going to pass out at the very sight of it.

  "I had hoped to press my case with you once I had everything, Mr. President, but I'm afraid I don't." She handed him the letter. "But you have everything I do, sir."

  The president looked it over and handed it to Packard. "DARPA will analyze this?"

  "Right away, Mr. President."

  Serena watched Packard slip it inside his dress uniform pocket. She doubted it would ever see the fluorescent light of a lab at DARPA or anywhere else if Packard were foolish enough to pass it along to Max Seavers.

  She said, "What you'll find out, Mr. President, is that Dr. Yeats is simply following the orders of George Washington, commander-in-chief."

  "I'm the commander-in-chief, Sister Serghetti," the president said emphatically.

  "What I'm trying to say is that he believes he is serving the highest interests of the republic. If you could offer him immunity from prosecution, he might come in and give you whatever he took from the globe."

  "I appreciate that, Sister Serghetti, and maybe yesterday we could have cut him some kind of deal," the president said. "But now that he's been caught detonating explosives on U.S. landmarks, slaying federal agents, and has murdered the daughter of one of America's most prominent senators, well, I don't think even I can help him. I swore an oath to protect America."

  "No, Mr. President, you swore an oath to protect the Constitution."

  The president was not pleased with her impudence. "I'll say a prayer for Conrad Yeats, Sister Serghetti. God bless you."

  "And you, Mr. President."

  With that the president marched up the spiral staircase behind two Secret Service agents. He was followed by Packard, who looked back at her with undisguised animosity. She saw a square of light thrown on the curving wall and heard the roar of running engines outside before the thud from an unseen door left her alone in the room.

  She pulled out her cell phone and pressed a button. Benito answered. "Bring the car around. We're leaving."

  40

  INSIDE THE HILTON'S underground parking garage, two policemen stood on either side of the service door as dozens of waiters carried crates of fruit, muffins, and croissants from the prayer breakfast to awaiting vans, which in turn would deliver the food to local homeless shelters.

  One of those waiters was Conrad Yeats. He carried not one but two boxes of ice-packed fruit on his shoulders to the nearest van, but he never went back inside. Using the vehicle line to shield himself from the policemen, he walked out into the garage in search of Benito so he could hitch a ride in Serena's limo with the Vatican emblem and secret cargo compartment.

  The garage was alive with activity now that the president had left and the senators, congress members, and foreign dignitaries were free to leave as well. The limousines and SUVs were already lining up to pick up their VIPs in front of the hotel entrance.

  "Conrad Yeats?" a voice called from the shadows.

  Conrad cursed himself for having ended up in a well lit place in the garage. He turned to see a young brunette whose face he recognized but whose name he had forgotten. She was in her mid-20s, an aide to a female senator from California.

  "Hi, there!" he said, faking excitement as he walked over to her.

  She frowned at his generic response. "It's Lisa from San Francisco," she said. "And what are you of all people doing at a prayer breakfast?"

  "Mending my ways, Lisa."

  He pulled out a knife he had taken from the kitchen and put it to her side as she gasped. He hated himself for doing this to her, but he had no choice.

  "OK, I confess," he whispered in her ear. "I haven't really changed. If you scream or make a sound, I'll kill you. You've seen the TV reports. You know I will."

  "Please," she begged him. "I'll be better for you next time. You can wear the fedora and I'll learn to like the whip."

  "Quiet," he said, jabbing the knife in the fold of her skin. "You're going to help me get out of here, Lisa. Nod if you understand."

  Lisa nodded.

  ***

  Seavers stationed himself outside the main entrance of the Hilton and watched the VIPs get into their taxis, limousines, and SUVs. The prayer breakfast was over, incident-free as far as its guests were concerned. The announcement about Brooke Scarborough's death would not reach them until they were on their way back to Kansas or Iowa or wherever the hell they came from. By then, of course, the Alignment's agenda would be unstoppable.

  The only X factor, he thought with rage, was the elusive Yeats.

  Seavers watched the junior senator from California and her aide get into her limousine and drive off as a sleeker limousine with a Vatican flag pulled up. He turned his head to see Serena Serghetti emerge from the front entrance and make her way to the open rear door and climb in.

  Seavers motioned two Secret Service agents to the limousine. They halted the driver and swept the underside of the car with long, extended mirrors.

  The rear door opened and Serena stepped back out and watched the scene. And because she did, a small crowd behind her did also.

  "Lose something, Max?" she asked, putting on a great show of being held up. "I confess I brought out a couple of chocolate croissants for Benito. He loves them so."

  "Tell your drive
r to open the trunk," Seavers demanded and walked to the back as two agents drew their guns.

  He was aware of the scene he was causing with the curious dignitaries, but he didn't care, even when a press photographer started taking pictures. He knew he couldn't force her to open up-the car had diplomatic plates, after all-but if she didn't the world would know she was hiding something, and so would he.

  Her swarthy driver came out and, getting the nod from Serena, opened the trunk. Besides a garment bag and small suitcase, it was empty.

  Serena put her hands on her hips and an amused expression on her face for the cameras. "You want to search those, too, Max?"

  Seavers turned red with rage when one of his agents came up. "Sir, we found something," he said and led Seavers to the rear seat of the cabin.

  Seavers then waved the good Sister over from her photo op and pointed into the limousine. "Open that seat compartment or I'll tear it open with a knife. Your choice."

  "Max." She turned serious. "You do understand that in some countries I've been forced to smuggle out missionaries and political prisoners. If you let the press and public know about this, then some of those prisoners will lose their last option."

  "Your choice, Serena."

  She leaned into the back of the limousine and felt for a hidden latch that released the flap beneath the rear seat. As it opened, she was pushed back by one of the Secret Service agents.

  "Step back, please, ma'am," he said and pointed his gun into the secret compartment.

  But it was empty.

  Seavers burned inside as Serena turned to face him with her beatific smile. "Told you, Max."

  Aware of the television cameras, he leaned over and whispered. "Your friend the fugitive is a murderer and an American traitor. You don't want anything to do with him."

  "No, Max. I don't want anything to do with you anymore. You can keep your vaccines." She got inside and nodded to Benito to go.

  Seavers watched the limousine drive off and turned to the Secret Service agent who had examined the secret compartment. "Did you place the GPS nano tracker on her person?"