That left tonight to get George to the island.
She looked at her watch; she would have to hurry. A frown creased Bianca's forehead. According to George, he and Sefura had chatted on several occasions—and her little sister never indulged in conversation unless she liked someone. She hadn't counted on this. The frown cleared. It didn’t matter. However she explained George's presence on the island, Sefura would never question.
Jamming her arms into the sleeves of her coat, she tugged it over her shoulders as she strode to a lab cabinet. From the top drawer, she extracted a squat injection tube sealed in a crinkly wrapper and slipped it into her coat pocket. Reaching to an overhead shelf, she grabbed a small bottle of clear fluid and shoved it into the other pocket; Pandora Blue was a quick and effective alternative—should it come to that. A short phone call to George and she was ready. With a last look around, she switched off the lights, pulled the laboratory door closed behind her, and turned the lock.
"Tonight, George Kayman, you become a part of history—Bianca Raborman's history," she said aloud as she strode to the dock.
Two sharp blasts from the boat's horn signaled its intention to leave the island. A moment later, it thrust silently through the dark waters. Bianca faced into the wind, whistling to herself.
Chapter 23
Munoz
A discreet throat-clearing distracted Raphael Munoz from his intent study of a thick sheaf of papers clipped inside a pale yellow folder. Looking up, he nodded his greeting and closed the folder before motioning to the chair across the papal desk from himself.
"You have been my Minister of Education for how long, Edouard?" he began informally when Edouard Cardinal Peterson had settled himself into the chair.
"Three years, Holiness."
"Hmmm. Three years since I overrode the recommendations of my other Cardinals—recommendations to reassign you from your appointment as overseer of religious orders to a . . . less demanding position." He leaned forward, a frown pulling his eyebrows down. "Did I underestimate your loyalty to the Church?"
"No, Holiness."
Pope Munoz leaned back and studied the man in front of him. "You know that my Conclave election was achieved because the Cardinals wanted change and firm directives in papal policies. Directives and declarations about which I made my position clear. Is that not so?"
"Yes, Holiness." The Cardinal looked down at his hands lying clasped on his lap.
Munoz tapped a finger on the folder lying on the desk. With each lift, his buffed fingernail glinted. Informality turned formal. "These reports tell Us that there is still much confusion throughout the lands regarding not only Our position on the Creation, but Our stance on Sin and Redemption as well."
"Yes, Holiness." Edouard remained noncommittal.
"That confusion will be corrected immediately." The Pope flipped the folder open. "We are a strong force in the world, Cardinal. If We are to retain that leadership, We must bend like a young sapling to survive the winds of change that are blowing across these lands. The Eastern Bloc is promising paradise today for its millions. Can We, the most powerful organization in the world, do less?" He shook his head. "We think not. Our declarations were explicit, Edouard. The old beliefs no longer suffice. Now, We find We have lost those three years, have allowed the Bloc to pull their millions away from Us despite the fact that Our Netline has penetrated every nation's boundaries."
"What would you have me do, Holiness? There is still much opposition. It takes time."
"To peel away mortal dogma and reveal the fruit of Truth? We think not. You will eliminate that resistance, Cardinal, beginning with your own. The Netline was established—at considerable cost, We might add—to spread Our teachings quietly and unobtrusively so that it would make your assignment easier to accomplish, especially in those nations not yet fully committed to Our Universal Church. If Our directives are more than you can handle, say so," Munoz said softly, his black eyes glittering.
Edouard sat silent, his face flushed.
The Pontiff leaned across the papal desk, pointing the index finger of his right hand toward the silent Cardinal. "You and your staff will have a plan of action in Our office the day after tomorrow. Those recommendations will follow this format." The Fisherman's ring on his third finger sprayed prismed light.
"First: how to correct the errors being taught in the Latin seminaries, in particular the Brazilian holdings. The Amazon grid is nearly completed. When the power is turned on, their gratitude to, and enthusiasm for, Our church will explode throughout their nation. They will become one of Our most vocal groups for furthering the new tenets—so long as those doctrines are firmly entrenched." He glared across the desk.
"Second: how to reform the religious orders—all of them. No one is more familiar with the mentality of each order than you, Cardinal. The years you spent in that department for Our predecessor makes you uniquely qualified to determine the education process." Munoz tapped the desk.
"Third: a date when the new translations will come out of printing and the old translations will be destroyed. I trust that will happen soon."
The Pope rose, began to rock heel-to-toe. "The doctrine of short-lived mortals created in sin by a perfect being, of souls moldering through eternity waiting for the glory of life and redemption is passé myth, Edouard. Whether you like it or not, We are no longer tied to the Mysteries as professed by ancient civilizations who were more interested in having control than having enlightenment. The Pittman Scrolls bear witness to this fact."
Edouard rose. "I am not convinced they reveal any such thing, Holiness," he flared. "The Scrolls were never sanctioned. Many feel they are a hoax, planted by the Triune—a trick to bring down our beliefs."
"The Scrolls will be sanctioned by the upcoming Council, Cardinal. Make no mistake about that. They have already been integrated into the Schemata. This Council will bring the religions of the world into agreement because those divinely inspired scrolls explain once and for all the true meaning of 'he who has ears to hear and eyes to see'. There will no longer be any reason to disagree about what is truth. The glory of life is now. That's what We will teach. That's what will bring the multitudes into Our fold."
"That's what will tear our church apart, is tearing it apart even as we speak."
Munoz felt the anger spot his cheeks. "We will rebuild it. Only this time it will stand on Truth not on priestly control. Those who would cling to the obsolete will have no home in this Holy Church. Do We make ourselves clear?"
"Eminently!" Edouard whirled and strode toward the door.
"Cardinal?"
The Minister of Education turned, an eyebrow rose.
"Do you have any questions?" Munoz said quietly.
"No." Edouard's eyes narrowed. "Our recommendations will be on your desk as ordered."
Munoz watched Edouard march stiff-backed to the door and yank it open. The man would follow orders, he had no doubt of that. He would do as told, always with the thought he could subvert his Pope's agenda. Munoz smiled. That will never happen, My Cardinal, he thought. You do not have the power. When the door slammed behind his Minister, Munoz walked to the narrow window at the far side of the room. He pulled aside the curtain. Why did Edouard refuse to consider any way other than his own? The man could be a great disciple for those in need if only he would open his eyes. Many truths had been divined by those who had ruled here and now the greatest truth of all was playing out. Why couldn't his Cardinal see that?
Looking down onto the piazza, he closed his eyes and let familiar shapes play their colors across his mind: the great floating dome of the basilica, beside it, the Sistine Chapel with its peaked, red-tiled roof—the place where Popes were elected. His mind's eye followed Bernini's colonnade sweeping around the piazza; looked up at the fluted pillars of the balconies on the palace itself; rested on the topmost balcony where weather scarred faces of the twelve Apostles stared out with blind eyes. If you will receive it, this is Elias, which was for to come whispered throug
h his mind. Matthew, he thought. Verse eleven.
"I know why your eyes are blind," he muttered. "You too were shown the Truth and refused to believe. Those who cannot see have no need for eyes."
He could almost hear the two fountains in the piazza whispering the secrets of centuries as they splashed cold waters. Did they know this one? Is that what they were whispering or were they speaking of lies, deceits, and mortal fears?
Opening his eyes, he let the curtain fall back into place and walked slowly back to his desk. The small gold statue of a rearing stag, holding down the manifests that he still needed to sign, caught his eye. Admiring the graceful lines, he picked it up and smoothed his fingers along the curving antlers. His gaze flicked to two Rembrandts hanging on his study walls and back to the statuette his fingers caressed.
"War has given Us much," he mused aloud. "A little underground help here, a few doctored passports there, a day or two of sanctuary, and original Rembrandts hang on Our walls in grateful appreciation. But the fight for supremacy of the heavens . . . " His head moved side to side. "No gold or priceless paintings came our way that time. With all our power, we couldn't control the outcome of that war." Space war it was called, but ground war would be a more apt description, he thought. Obsolete hand-to-hand combat.
Not so odd though that a ground tactic could be more deadly than all the world's hi-tech weapons combined, could bring governments to their knees and produce a pact of such space immobilization that all exploration ceased. The twenty-first century, his favorite period of history, had fathered many lessons on power gone wrong.
The space wars, he recalled, were actually shows of intimidation between the world’s two major powers. Being so evenly matched, neither dared unleash their nuclear arsenal on the other. Self annihilation was not their intent.
Unfortunately, the long ignored satellite nations did not understand that. No longer willing to live under the perpetual threat of destruction, China, with her economic stability and her thousands of well trained ground troops, stepped into the battle arena with a scorched earth agenda in mind—at her side, the vast resources of the Russian democracy. The desert lands soon followed their lead. The sky lords lost control.
After eighteen years and ten months, agreements were reached and hostilities ceased, although minor skirmishes continued for another forty years. Not a single nation could claim victory.
Such a waste of intellect. Did they not understand that war was nothing more than a useful tool for pruning back the population? Nations rose and nations fell as the balance of power shifted one to the other—with or without their foolish bloodletting. That's how history was made, then as well as now.
He drew a deep breath and placed the stag to the side of the manifests. His gaze wandered to the traditional yellow walls of his study. His eyes widened as if seeing the decor for the first time. Why had he kept that color? He didn't like yellow. Shaking his head, he reached for his signature seal.
Pulling the first document toward him, he scanned its contents and affixed his seal. Munoz smiled as he picked up the second selection in the pile—a three page letter written with a heavy scrawl. Falconi, his valet, always placed handwritten pleas discreetly out of sight from prying eyes, but as close to the top of the manifest stack as he could get. Munoz turned to the last page and looked at the signature. Bianca Raborman.
He sat upright, his attention riveted to the bold letters. He'd be there next week. What was so important she couldn't wait? Why had she chosen to write rather than use the telescreen? He turned back to the first page and his eyes raced through the general greetings. He blinked at the last paragraph on the page, reread each sentence.
The freezing was successful. Tissue damage was found in the extremities only and that was minimal. Most important, however, is the revival.
Heart pounding, Munoz stared at the last word until it seemed to grow so large there was room for nothing else on the paper. She was right not to use the telescreen; the transmission could be heard by anyone with the right decoder. He turned the page and read rapidly.
The dog is alive and healthy except for frostbitten paws. I have performed all neuron tests; there is no deterioration. Extremity damage can be eliminated with specialized padding. With some adjustments, the same technique should work on a living human. I have found another vagrant, a street woman this time, who has volunteered to be the first human to undergo this freezing process—if the price is right. Please advise immediately.
Munoz heaved a deep breath. Over the centuries, many scientists had attempted to freeze and revive living subjects. All had failed. All except Bianca Raborman. If she succeeded with a living person . . .
He reached for the Netline phone. With a trembling hand, he punched one button. The line cleared into a ring and he snugged the hand set between his cheek and shoulder while he finished reading the letter.
"Banco," a gravely voice answered.
"Five-fifty Tee," Munoz said.
"Code?"
"Grace BR."
"Time?"
Munoz looked at his watch, quickly calculated the time in San Francisco. "Two hours," he said.
"Done." The phone clicked into silence.
Munoz laid the instrument in its cradle and leaned back in his chair. In two hours, Bianca Raborman would receive a call from Father Paul—the netliner working out of Grace Cathedral. He would tell her that research funding of five hundred and fifty thousand dollars had arrived from Rome. Her street woman will make history or die, he thought. My bet is on history. A broad smile creased his face. This new year was being ushered in with indications of great changes. His eyes flicked to the yellow walls. It was time to start a new tradition. No more yellow walls, no more yellow folders.
He picked up Bianca's letter and once more read the word he had been waiting for, the word that promised immortality.
Revival.
Chapter 24
George
George left the shelter of the park gazebo, walked to the path, and peered in both directions. Fog whispered around the trunks of trees and with each passing minute, the grayness thickened. Soon, it would be too dense to see more than a foot or two. Why Bianca had insisted they meet here was beyond him. He hurried back to the gazebo. In the dim light of one bare bulb, he checked the time again. Eight-thirty. His stomach cramped with the sharp pain of disappointment. She'd promised to be here by eight o'clock and up until now, Bianca Raborman had always kept her promises.
He rubbed his hand across his face, pleased at the smoothness it offered. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he leaned casually against a wide support column and admired the shoes of soft leather on his feet, relished the feel of fine wool against his legs. He had forgotten how good the nicer things of life could feel, but it wouldn't be long and he would have them all again. There was a time when a contract with the Connecticut Rabormans had been nothing more than a coveted dream. Not any more.
He jerked away from the column at a sudden thought. Had she brought him back to this place to leave him, to throw him onto the streets again? He shuddered at the thought. After all she'd promised, surely she wouldn't do that. Unless . . . unless his continued refusal to accept her proposal had frustrated her.
What if she found someone else to take his place and him with his decision already made; he would help Bianca with her little virility program. It would give him time to swing the job he really wanted—tobacco and subliminal went together like a matched pair of thoroughbreds. Even if he failed in his objective, he'd managed to up her price, five million dollars for a few months work was pretty damned good negotiating. Besides, if her serum really worked, he'd take all she wanted to give him; fucking stamina was always good for a single man's reputation.
Withdrawing one hand from his pocket, he rubbed his mouth. God, I need a drink, he thought. He pulled his sweater sleeve back and stared at the thin, gold line ticking off seconds. If she didn't show in five minutes, he was gone. He had his clothes back at the hotel and he had st
ashed some of the cash she'd given him. He'd get by.
A lilting whistle echoed out of the fog. Startled, George slipped away from the dim circle of light and crouched beside the gazebo rail. Who the hell could be walking in the park, whistling? Fear whispered across his mind. That could be dangerous for the whistler—or for the listener. His breathing quickened as the merry sound approached the gazebo. He gazed through the railings trying to discern any kind of movement. A scant five days ago, that sound would only have buzzed around him like a worrisome gnat, but he didn't wear Italian leather then.
The whistling chopped off into silence.
Ears straining, George caught a faint scraping sound and his muscles tensed. Not until the fragrance of JeTu eddied through the fog did he allow himself to relax.
She stepped into the circle of light. "George?"
He crouched lower, barely letting his lungs expand as he watched her. She had come, so she hadn't given up on him. Let her stew for a while, he thought. If she wants me badly enough, she'll wait. He saw her take an object from her pocket, heard the crinkle of paper being removed. Somfbitch—she brought protection, he thought. So tonight was the night. He felt the thrill of anticipation spread like quicksilver through his genitals and he waited for the stiffening. His brow furrowed then instantly cleared. Not to worry—she'd brought him up before and she would again. Only this time, she'd get a lot more than she was ready for, he could promise her that. He had once been one of the best when it came to satisfying. Hell, not one of the best. He was the best. He started to stand when he saw her pull something from the other pocket. Puzzled, he continued to watch.
Bianca turned slightly and swept the fog-shrouded bushes with her eyes. "George?" Her satined alto sang out. "I know you're here. Are you pouting because I'm late?" She cocked her head, listening. At last, she reached up toward the light.
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