Lauren glanced down at her notes, then rose. “I’ll have your secretary set up the camera link,” she said, moving toward the door that opened to the reception area.
Daniel leaned back against the sofa, watching his companions in the resulting silence. On any other occasion they might have told jokes or shared political gossip, but an uncomfortable stillness hung over the room, an almost palpable residue of grief.
The heavy atmosphere dissipated to a remarkable degree when Lauren returned. “Francine will be right in,” she said, sinking to the sofa next to Daniel. “She says Mr. Romulus is already on hold.”
Francine Johnson, the president’s secretary, entered a moment later, then moved to a tall wooden cabinet and opened the polished doors. A twenty-two inch monitor sat on a shelf inside, and Francine pressed the power on, then stood back and watched as Adrian Romulus’s image filled the screen.
“Mr. Romulus,” she said, gazing up at the tiny camera which sat atop the monitor, “can you see everyone in the room?”
“Yes.” Romulus’s chiseled, handsome face was furrowed with sadness. He turned slightly, seeming to seek out the president’s eyes. Daniel had to remind himself that Romulus was staring into a camera, just as they were.
“Mr. President.” Unspoken pain was alive and glowing in Romulus’s eyes. “Please, sir, allow me to extend my sincere condolences on the loss of your beloved wife. I did not have an opportunity to meet her, and I shall always regret that unkind twist of fate. But, if it is any comfort, know that her memory shall always remain in my heart. The joy and graciousness that characterized her daily walk and the beauty that she exhibited shall continue as long as I am alive to recall her.”
The president made a small, strangled sound deep in his throat. From where he sat, Daniel couldn’t tell if anger or grief moved the president.
“General Herrick—” Again, Romulus’s eyes seemed to move and find the man he sought—“let’s postpone the discussion you were scheduled to hold today. Why should we talk about military bases when our hearts are heavy with sorrow? Let us allow President Stedman to keep council with his own thoughts.”
If Herrick was surprised, he gave no sign of it. “Of course, sir.”
“President Stedman.” Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Romulus’s image grew larger and seemed to fill the screen. Intrigued, Daniel leaned forward. A professional had to be running the camera in Europe, zooming in for effect at just the right moment.
“This is an uncertain world,” Romulus went on, his dark eyes artless and serene. “And it is all the more important that you join us on January 1, 2000, as we proclaim an International Day of Peace. We have already garnered the support of more than three dozen world leaders who have agreed that their governments and citizens will lay down their weapons for a single day—January 1—and issue a proclamation of peace.”
“You want me to issue a general stand down to all American troops on a given day?” The president’s voice, so flat a moment ago, vibrated now with restrained fury. “You want us to leave our national defenses open to whatever enemy might want to approach us—an enemy that might have had months to prepare for an attack? What kind of fool do you think I am, sir?” The lines of heartache lifted from his face as he glared into the video camera. “I am the American commander-in-chief. I took a vow to provide for the continuous defense of the United States, and I intend to keep it.”
Romulus stared blankly into the camera, with only a wary twitch of his eye to indicate he knew he had wandered onto shaky ground. “Please, President Stedman—” his dark eyes widened—“I can understand if your tragic circumstances have led you to become unreasonably suspicious, but the Day of Peace has been under discussion for at least ten years. The concept, in fact, originated with an American in New Jersey. I can assure you, sir, if we all lay down our arms, there will be no one to launch any sort of offensive.”
“The Soviets tried that same line on Ronald Reagan,” the president muttered, swiping at his chin. He looked at Lauren as if for assurance. “It didn’t work on him, and it certainly isn’t going to work on me. The United States will remain strong, we will keep up our defenses, and we will not lay down our arms for even one hour.”
Romulus stared into the camera, his eyes piercing. “You are certainly entitled to your opinion, Mr. President,” he said, his voice oddly formal. “But as I reflected upon your tragedy, one rather ironic thought did occur to me—if you had come to Europe to join us in a celebration of international unity and peace, your wife would be at your side even now. In unity, we find safety. But those who stand aloof from others will always be in danger.”
For no reason Daniel could name, Romulus’s words lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.
Romulus smiled, and the camera pulled back slightly. “Gentlemen, it is a pleasure to see you. General Archer, give my best to your family. General Herrick, thank you for your flexibility. Miss Mitchell, I am glad you were not severely injured. And Mr. Prentice, I am grateful for your willingness to serve the human community in a time of crisis.” Romulus’s eyes, remote as the ocean depths, seemed to rest directly upon Daniel. “I know you will appreciate the fact that things are not always what they seem.”
The camera pulled back again, and Romulus lifted his hand in farewell. “I wish you all a good day.”
The screen went black. Daniel brought his hand to his chin, thinking. Things are not always what they seem? What things? Was Romulus referring to the Millennium Project or something altogether different? And what had he meant by reminding the president that Mrs. Stedman had been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Romulus’s words could almost be seen as a threat, even a confession.
President Stedman lifted a trembling hand and pointed toward the darkened monitor. “That man,” he said, his voice quavering in a most unpresidential fashion, “is the devil himself. I have suspected it for some time, and now I know—he killed my wife. He wanted to kill me, but he took Victoria instead.”
Daniel listened in bewilderment, then looked to General Herrick, expecting a storm of denials. But Herrick only stared at the president, his face locked in an expression of remarkable sorrow.
“Surely it isn’t true.” Lauren’s whisper reached Daniel’s ear. “Tell the president it isn’t true, General Herrick.”
The general stood, bowed sharply to the president, then looked at Lauren with a smile gleaming in his dark eyes. “Of course this irrational accusation is not true,” he answered, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “He is beside himself with grief. But my presence here is causing him stress, so I will return when your president is in a more agreeable mood.”
He turned and walked away, followed by General Archer, leaving Daniel with a thousand unanswered questions. One broke lose from the pack and sprang to his lips.
“Lauren,” he whispered, turning toward her as the president rose from his chair and moved toward his private study, “who called him?”
Lauren looked at him and blinked hard. “What?”
“Last Sunday morning. The president was about to get into the car, but you stopped him. The reporter said that he had gone inside to take an urgent phone call. Who called?”
She slowly brought her fingertips to her lips. “It was only Charlie Marvin.”
“And he is—?”
Lauren lowered her gaze in confusion. “He’s nobody—at least, nobody political. He’s a young minister and a friend of the family who calls them from time to time. The Stedmans financially supported him while he went through seminary, and I knew they wouldn’t want to miss one of his calls.”
Daniel glanced down at his hands, marveling at the irony. President quietly supports preacher; preacher quietly saves president.
“Have you considered that this Reverend Charlie Marvin saved the president’s life?” Daniel turned to Lauren again. “If he hadn’t called, Samuel Stedman would have been inside that car when it exploded. My mother would say that God orchestrated the entire thing.”
She
managed a tremulous smile. “Then why,” her voice broke, “couldn’t God have managed to save Mrs. Stedman, too?”
Daniel dropped his hands and looked her straight in the eye. “I’m no theologian, Lauren. I guess that’s a question you’ll have to ask Reverend Marvin.”
TWENTY-FIVE
9:00 A.M., Thursday, July 22, 1999
CNN’S NEWSCASTERS DUTIFULLY TURNED THEIR CAMERAS TOWARD BRUSSELS and the inner sanctum of the European Union’s Council of Ministers. With his fellow councilors gathered around him, Adrian Romulus gazed into the camera and announced that a new world community was about to be born.
Daniel watched the announcement from a television set up in the Oval Office. He and Lauren sat on one of the sofas before the wide television screen, both of them benumbed by tragedy and a sense of loss. The White House hummed with quiet activity; a host of dignitaries had gathered in the East Room to attend Victoria Stedman’s afternoon funeral service. But Daniel’s thoughts about the recent tragedy fluttered and died as Adrian Romulus declared that a new global order had been conceived with a spark of inspiration from the glorious Millennium Code.
“As the millennium turns, so do the dates on our computers and the methods by which we conduct our lives and our business,” Romulus said. A flush of pleasure brightened his face, as if the idea had caused younger blood to fill his veins. “I want to assure the world community that our European Union government, in cooperation with the private sector, has taken steps to prevent any interruption in services that rely on the proper functioning of computer systems. We cannot have the European people looking to a new century and a new millennium while obsolete computers endanger our lives. Due to the extraordinary Millennium Code, that will not happen. And the Millennium Chip has guaranteed that we will move confidently into a new millennium, a nation of many nations. Our diversity, alive in our unity, is the source of our creativity, our inventiveness, and our ability to communicate in the global community. That is why I have called upon world leaders to observe the International Day of Peace on January 1, 2000.”
Lauren hissed softly at the mention of that project. She’d told Daniel that the president had been upset for hours after Romulus’s call. If President Stedman didn’t agree to celebrate peace, the media would paint him as a warmonger; but the idea of completely dropping America’s defenses ran contrary to his principles.
“We have come to the end of a thrilling decade that has seen the fall of Communism and the rise of democracy throughout the world,” Romulus continued. “Our world’s scientists have succeeded in mapping the mysteries of the human body and the terrain of Mars. We have created new ideas in art and literature. Now we have begun the most important exploration of all—discovering and affirming our common identity as human beings in a new and different time, coming together as one world community.”
“Notice that he gives credit to the world,” Daniel whispered, elbowing Lauren. “When it was American scientists who mapped Mars.”
Romulus shifted his position and played to a different camera. “For centuries, people have wondered what the new millennium would bring. Would it signal an apocalypse or herald a brave new world of unparalleled opportunity? Would it mark a time of decline or a time of renewal? Whatever our hopes and fears, the new millennium is no longer a distant dream. It has arrived. We are present today at the birth of the future, a moment we must define for ourselves and our children.”
“All around the world, citizens of this new community are planning ways to celebrate the new millennium. The United Kingdom will build bridges, museums, new parks, and a new university. Germany will hold Expo 2000, the first World’s Fair to mark a millennium. Australia will host the 2000 Summer Olympics. Iceland will celebrate the thousandth anniversary of Leif Ericson’s voyage to the New World. And we of the European Union will begin our celebration today, as we move forward to accept the implementation of our Millennium Chips.”
Romulus’s expression stilled and grew serious as he stared into the camera lens. “We must now decide how to think about our commitment to the future. Thomas Paine, a great American, once said, ‘We have it in our power to begin the world over again.‘He was right. We must now take it upon ourselves to commit ourselves over again for our children, our children’s children, for the people who will follow us in a new century. It is the future of a united humanity we celebrate today.”
A burst of applause—probably canned, Daniel thought with a wry smile—greeted the conclusion of Romulus’s speech. Lauren clicked the remote and shut the TV off. For a moment they sat in silence, then Daniel reached for Lauren’s hand.
“Nice speech,” he said, squeezing her fingers. “Very positive, very encouraging. If I lived in Europe, I’d be inspired enough to go out and get my Millennium Chip today.”
“Really?” Her tone was flat. “He had the opposite effect on me. If I could rip that blasted chip out of my hand right now, I would.”
She gave him a look of regret and despair, then pulled her hand away and stood. “Sorry, Daniel, I’ve got to see to some of the funeral arrangements. I need to go now.”
She ran out of the room, her eyes brimming with tears, leaving Daniel alone on the couch, wondering if he had done something wrong . . . again.
While rockets and fireworks commemorated Europe’s unity, Lauren stood between Daniel and the president and smoothed the wrinkles from her black linen skirt. The day was bright and clear; the sky above Arlington National Cemetery a faultless wide blue expanse. The national army band played softly as a long parade of mourners moved from the long line of black limousines, and Lauren’s gaze fell to the golden casket beside the open grave. An elaborate spray of red roses covered the coffin, their sweet perfume wafting on the warm breeze that caressed her cheek like the soft touch of Victoria’s hand.
Lauren glanced up at the suffering president and silently wished she could take his hand as a daughter might. An air of isolation clung to his tall figure, and he looked vacant, spent, as though all his emotions had been smoothed away.
The politician’s curse, Lauren thought. More than two decades of public life had taught him how to hide his pain and cover his anger. She had thought herself fairly skilled at hiding her private face from the public eye, but her eyes filled with tears every time she looked at the president.
So she looked at the coffin instead, and felt her anguish fade away. For Victoria, at least, sorrow had ceased to exist. Death had taken her instantly, the doctors said, without time for pain. And so she had not suffered but was now resting in the arms of the one to whom she had trusted her life.
The band began to play another tune, and Lauren felt her spirits lift at the sound of it. Victoria had often sung the melody around the office, her voice cracking on the high notes. One particular phrase came back to Lauren’s mind: I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I’ve committed unto him against that day.
Lauren knew Victoria would have approved of this ceremony. The president had given Lauren complete control over the arrangements, asking only for final approval, which he had given without hesitation. There had been no black-draped procession, no somber funeral music, no black wreaths upon the White House doors. The flag had flown at half-mast for three days, but Lauren had insisted that it be restored to its proper height for the funeral. A children’s choir had sung gospel songs at the memorial service, and the Reverend Charlie Marvin stood at the graveside, his open Bible in his hands. The humble young pastor had been surprised by the call from the White House, but Lauren had convinced him to put his reluctance aside in order to honor a woman he had long admired and cherished.
“We are gathered here today to celebrate a home going,” Charlie was saying now, his eyes sweeping over the crowd on the green hillside. “Victoria Stedman was not afraid of death. Though she did not expect to meet it last Sunday morning, I know she greeted her Lord with a cry of joy.”
The minister’s brown eyes gentled as they came to rest upon
the president. “If some of us are sorrowing today, it is because we will miss her soft touch, her words of encouragement, and her courageous example. But Victoria never wanted to be idolized—she much preferred to reflect glory upon Jesus Christ, her Savior and Lord.”
While the minister paused and glanced at his notes, Lauren looked again at the president. He stood with his head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him. Cameras clicked from a discreet distance, and Lauren knew the papers would print this picture above a caption that said, “President grieves for murdered wife.” But they didn’t know the truth—Sam Stedman wasn’t sorrowing . . . he was praying.
The air vibrated to the long trill of a robin’s song, and the minister waited until the sweet sound faded before he concluded his remarks. “Unlike many of you, I knew Victoria’s daughter, Jessica Stedman, before her untimely death several years ago. Jessica had entrusted her life to Jesus Christ, too, so I know that today they are together with the Lord. We may never know the reason why Jessica preceded her mother to heaven, but I have to wonder if our merciful Lord wasn’t sparing Jessica from the heartbreak of this tragic situation.”
“It is on your behalf, Mr. President—” the minister paused until President Stedman lifted his gaze—“that our prayers will ascend to the throne of heaven. I know the Lord has a purpose for sparing your life, and I know he will preserve you until his purposes are complete.”
Sam Stedman’s chin quivered, and for an instant Lauren feared he would lose his composure. But he drew a deep breath and gave the minister a brittle smile, then lowered his head again as the children’s choir began to sing the last verse of “Amazing Grace.”
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we first begun.
As her own heart filled to overflowing, Lauren took Daniel’s strong arm and followed the president from the graveside.
Flee The Darkness Page 27