“Naturally, we must proceed cautiously. We have managed to persuade the governors of Cranston that the site is structurally dangerous—as, indeed, it is—and would cost an enormous
siding stAr 91 sum to make safe. At the same time we have pointed out that it is of historic interest and that there might be a public outcry if it were damaged. Accordingly, we have suggested that it be sealed off, and we have offered the services of experts provided by us to oversee the site. The governors have accepted our offer eagerly. The last thing they want is fuss about a historic site. For our part we have virtual control, including control of access.”
She shuffled her papers together and sat back.
Hutton introduced the final matter on the agenda: police inquiries at the academy and Wheatley’s part in allowing them to happen. The formality that had dominated the proceedings up to this point disappeared. Coleman whipped around to face Wheatley.
“You must have been out of your mind to bring the academy into this. Don’t you realize how dangerous that was?”
The chairman stared into space.
Wheatley felt that he’d pulled off something of a coup in getting the book at all, and ought to be praised, not criticized over details. He did not, of course, say so. He assured them that he respected their concern. And regretted the disturbance that had been caused. But he was quite certain that there was no ground at all for alarm. It was, to begin with, perfectly clear that the police officer who called at his home knew nothing. Absolutely nothing. She had been acting on a hunch.
“And what, do you think, caused that hunch?” Coleman said. “If anything, it was probably the file.”
“The file?”
“Yes. The police file. We needed the information in it but I
should merely have had it copied. Deleting it from their records was, on reflection, a mistake—for which I take full responsibil- ity. And, in my view, it’s the only thing that’s made the police look twice at this matter.”
The fact was he had deleted the file because he could and because it had amused him to frustrate the police. But he meant what he said. It was a mistake.
“And now that they’ve looked?”
“Now that they have looked—what good will it do them? What in fact, is there for them to discover?”
“Plenty,” Hutton muttered.
“Ah, yes—but not about this. We must remember what the
police actually think they are investigating. The death of Nikos Kakoyannis. We didn’t cause that death. We knew nothing of it. There is therefore nothing for them to learn.”
“Rubbish,” Hutton said. “You’ve lied to the police. You’ve given them a forged document. You’ve hacked into the police mainframe. And you’ve forced us to lie. What if they find that lot out?”
“And you know as well as we do,” Coleman said, “that if the police once really become interested in this academy, there’s a great deal for them to discover. It’s only a question of time.”
“Exactly! Time. And time is the one thing they haven’t got. Consider the position. Of course I’ve taken a risk. And of course the police will get closer to us, and to me. Eventually. But for the present, they have no idea what they’re looking for, and if the inquiry here didn’t satisfy them, they’ll be running routine checks. On the academy. On me. On you. All of which will produce very little to start with. A question here. A coincidence there. And while they spend time on that, we already have the book, thanks to me. And on Friday, it will be Samhain. The supreme night for the Ceremony of Power. We can do it! And once we have, it won’t matter two pins what the police discover.”
He thought he’d summed it up pretty well.
“It’s still damned dangerous,” Hutton said.
“Of course it’s dangerous. And so is what we’re about. Whoever achieved anything without taking risks?”
*** Once more, the chairman decided this had gone on long enough. He coughed.
“Samhain. It is fitting. The police”—he looked directly at
Wheatley—“suspect something of you, but you are right—it is nothing to the purpose.” He looked into space once more. “They also suspect the academy, but of what, they do not know. You are, again, correct. Arrange the ceremony. And inform the agents. At once.”
He rose and left them. Again there was silence. Wheatley began gathering together his papers. He noted that Hargrove had refrained from taking part in the criticism, no doubt suspecting which way the wind might blow. So he wasn’t surprised when he leaned forward, plainly poised to capitalize on the situation, and said, “If I may venture an opinion, ah, lady and gentlemen, it seems to me that we owe, ah, a considerable debt to the initiative of our esteemed colleague Dr. Wheatley. I should like to place on record—”
But Hutton had plainly had enough.
“For Christ’s sake, Hargrove, you thought he was up the pole as much as any of us. The only difference between you and us for the last twenty minutes was you had enough bloody sense— or maybe were just gutless enough—to keep your mouth shut.”
“Mr. Hutton, I must remind you—there is a lady present.”
“Oh, Jesus! She’ll be here on the thirty-first”—he indicated Coleman with a jerk of his head—“for the same reason as the rest of us. What she can get out of it. Muck and brass. They go together. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Coleman slid a cigarette into her holder and lit it. She had spoken her mind to Wheatley and that, so far as she was concerned, was an end of it. Tom Hutton’s outburst troubled her not at all.
In fact, she was rather amused by it. At least he was a man, which was more than she’d say for either of the other two…
Luxuriously, she drew on her cigarette.
Wheatley zipped his briefcase, then sat back for a long moment. Hargrove’s wealth and the prestige of his name had made
his support worth having in the past. On the other hand, with
the coming of the New Order these assets would be comparatively worthless, and Wheatley rated the man’s abilities in other
directions at about the level of a chimpanzee’s. Hutton was different. Rough. Crude. Overly direct. But concerning his intelligence and ability, there could be no doubt. His support under
the New Order could be invaluable. In the past, Wheatley had
ignored him, having other fish to fry. The time might be coming
to change that. Of course, he could do nothing at this moment,
save perhaps sow seeds that might be watered later. Hargrove was blustering on. “One is, of course, aware that
the, ah, development of the New Order will require certain
individuals taking to themselves certain, ah, burdens of office.
Members of this board will naturally be qualified in that direc-
tion. But one envisages only the highest sense of public duty—” “You make me sick,” Hutton said.
“On the whole,” Wheatley said, “I agree with you, Tom.” “What?”
“I said, on the whole, I agree with you. It’s nonsense to
talk about high motives and burdens of office. We’re all here
because we want power. I want it. You want it. Even the chairman wants it—more than he has. And to get it, we need each
other.”
Hargrove said, “But, good God—”
“I don’t like you, Wheatley,” Hutton said, “and you’ll not
win me over by smooth talk. So don’t try.”
“I’m perfectly aware you don’t like me.” Wheatley was careful to be as precise and polite as ever. “In general, I regard that as an advantage. Affection is a muddy affair that clouds the true basis of relationship. In our case, the nexus of relationship is quite clear. We want control. As you said. But control begins
with control of ourselves.”
Hutton flared, as Wheatley knew he would.
“When I want your advice, I’ll damn well ask for it.” “Precisely,” Wheatley said, rising to his feet. “And that may
just possibly be sooner than you think.”
“To hear you, one might think you were after the boss’s job,”
Coleman said.
“Not at all. I have as much loyalty to the chairman as anyone
here. The facts remain. Until now, in this room we have been
playing at power. Soon, we shall have it. And when we do,
we’ll need to know what to do with it. That means, as Tom
says, knowing why we want it. It also means knowing who our
friends are, and who are our enemies.” He looked straight at
Hutton. “Think about it, Tom.” He picked up his briefcase. “I
must go. No doubt I shall see you all on the thirty-first.”
twenty-two
London. The Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park. The same day.
“H
ello, what’s this?” asked the woman in a white coat who was about to examine Katie. “It’s the new lock,” said a scrawny young man in jeans and a polo shirt. “You just press the red button, then walk in.”
The veterinarian pressed it. There was a sharp buzz, and she walked in.
From within the enclosure Katie watched, eyes shining, ears pricked with interest.
“I’m not sure I like it,” the vet said. “That button’s a bit easy to overlook, if you ask me.”
The young man shrugged. The veterinarian turned her attention to the patient, led forward by her keeper. She peered down Katie’s throat, looked at the injured ear, and examined her, all the while murmuring endearments that Katie seemed to welcome.
“She looks in pretty good shape to me,” she said at last.
“I think she’s been doing fine,” the keeper said. “The antibiotic seems to have done it. I wouldn’t mind us giving her another week, though, just to be on the safe side.”
“More medication?”
98
ChristoPher BryAn “No, it’s just I’d like you to come back this time next week and make sure she’s still doing okay. After all, she seemed to recover before, and then relapsed.”
The vet nodded. “Well, yes, that makes sense. Same time next week. And we’ll sign her off then if she seems all right.”
Katie continued to watch as the three of them negotiated the lock and went on their way.
Exeter. Cecilia’s house. The same day.
“I think if I were you I’d show it to Michael Aarons. I’m sure he could help you.” Cecilia had told Papa about the black book and asked him if he knew anyone she could trust who could read Aramaic and Hebrew.
“Is he on the faculty?”
“Actually he’s a friend of mine in London. A priest. But you’re going there tomorrow, aren’t you? So I could arrange for you to see him if you like.”
“A priest?”
The Cavalieres’ part in the Italian seizure of Rome in 1871 had led to their estrangement from the church. Pius IX, piqued (as Papa saw it) at losing the Papal states, had by the Decree Non expedit forbidden Italian Catholics to participate in the political life of the new Republic—in effect, excommunicating those who did. Thereby (as Papa never failed to point out) the supreme pontiff had at a stroke lost for the Roman church virtually every Italian male who was a patriot—and he had certainly lost the Cavalieres.
So she was surprised to hear of his friendship with a priest.
He read her surprise and smiled.
“Your mama and I met him at a London University dinner. Michael teaches the occasional course. Second Temple Judaism— though I’m pretty sure his doctorate’s in New Testament. An
siding stAr 99 interesting man—and not, in fact, a Catholic. He’s an Anglican. I enjoy talking to him. Anyway, it’s clear to me he’s fluent in biblical languages. I’m sure he could help you.”
twenty-three
The Academy for Philosophical Studies. The same day.
“I
nform the agents,” the chairman had said. Only minutes after the board meeting ended, textmessages and emails were on their way. Their message was cryptic—a single word, and a date. But those who received the message understood it, and they would be standing by their telephones on the night of the Ceremony. There were forty in all—each member of the board, other than the chairman, being responsible for ten—scattered in key places throughout government, industry, finance, and media. And each in turn was responsible for ten more secondary cells, unaware of each other’s existence and unaware of their part in an overall plan.
Those who gathered around the board room table had waited for a sign: the key to a Ceremony of Power by which they should set in motion the next stage, inaugurating a New Order. The death of Nikos Kakoyannis, and their consequent access to the black book and the form of the Ceremony was, it seemed, that sign.
Immediately following the Ceremony of Power, a further code word would initiate certain actions. A great deal of groundwork had been laid over previous years. The economic irresponsibility of the United States’ administration under the
102
ChristoPher BryAn forty-third president, an irresponsibility in which the rest of the world had cooperated, had already created an international economic depression of unprecedented proportions. In the light of all this, a scenario had been prepared, precisely timed immediately to precede the American presidential election on November fourth, only four days after the Ceremony of Power. Within thirty-six hours of the Ceremony, there was to be a series of crippling strikes, affecting transport, power, and food delivery across Europe. At the same time, a coordinated series of suicide bombings in major United States’ centers would produce maximum carnage and terror among ordinary Americans. The effect of this even the Academy did not pretend to know. But surely forces of reaction would be encouraging public opinion to support plunging an already near-bankrupt country and overstretched military into further military adventure. Judging by the evident inclination of some in the present administration to play fast and loose with the United States’ constitution, it might even lead them to demand postponement or cancellation of the election itself in the cause of “national security.”
Then surely there would be hell to pay. Many would turn to violence—which would, of course, be exactly the reaction that would satisfy the Academy. In any case, and even if the election took place, continuing collapse of world stock markets involving unprecedented runs on the euro and the dollar was planned for the following days, culminating in a parallel collapse of the international automobile industry. This would throw thousands more out of work in the United States and Europe. The workers’ frustration would naturally explode into violence: Detroit, Birmingham, Paris, Modena, and Rome had been selected. Racial, ethnic, and religious tensions would all be fed to add fuel to the flames.
There would follow conflicting and impossible demands from extremist groups on both left and right. The academy was very hopeful of the American right, confident that the pundits of right wing television channels and radio talk shows could
siding stAr 103 be galvanized into words calculated to inflame an already anx - ious populace. Funds the Academy had invested over several years here ought to have played their part, ensuring a virtual hijacking of the American conservative movement by religious bigots. And that would mean that what there would not be when the crisis came was intelligent debate, the thoughtful weighing of conservative and progressive options. The loudest voices would be those of hysteria, of accusation and counter-accusation that would (however ludicrous) be believed by those who wished to believe, along with increasingly absurd and contradictory demands.
When this moment came, there would arise also the wellorchestrated “grass-roots” call for firm action; and when that came, the academy had seen to it that there were those under its influence standing by in the United States and in Europe who would be ready to respond.
What part was to be played in all this by the Ceremony of Power? Initially the Ceremony would unleash destructive energies that contributed to the chaos, setting mas
ses against their leaders, leaders against the masses. Subsequently these same energies, focused and coordinated by those who understood them, would give power to those who took control—power to move those masses and their leaders, to influence assemblies, to rule. And in them, a New Order for North America and Western Europe would be born: an imperium, an empire, to be based upon boundless wealth and control for a few, material satisfactions for those who served them, and bondage for the rest. Such were the plans of those sat around the board room table. Such their understanding of the Ceremony of Power and its effects.
Only the chairman knew differently.
They all wanted power to satisfy their needs—greed, ambition, lust, a quest to control others or to fulfill the illusion of freedom.
Only he saw beyond such power to its reality, perceiving it for what it was: a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
And only he knew the real meaning of the Ceremony.
Of course he was content to let the board members play their games and organize their plots and their coups while they could. Indeed, he would even encourage them. They caused pain and damaged people’s lives and insofar as he could still be amused, that amused him.
Until the end came. Then there would be an end of their plots, too.
For the real goal, the final reality, was very much simpler than they imagined.
The Ceremony was not about the establishment of any order new or old, good or bad.
The Ceremony was about the destruction of order.
The Ceremony, if performed correctly, would destroy the galaxy.
twenty-Four
Siding Spring. Sunday, October 26.
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