A Ruling Passion

by Judith Michael

  "And what will we say?"

  Nick paused. "I'd say, for two people who are rediscovering each other, with almost everything in their lives different from the first time around, we're moving very fast and having a wonderftil time, and that's all we know right now. And then he'll ask you."

  Valerie smiled. "I like your answer. But I still think I'd better not greet Chad at the breakfast table, at least until I have an answer of my own." She laid her hand along Nick's cheek and kissed him with a

  lingering softness. "And now I'm going back to work."

  The next day, Tuesday, the first trickle of what would be a deluge of hundreds of thousands of letters and telegrams arrived at E8cN, and the orderly pickets were joined by less orderly and far more emotional demonstrators. By noon they numbered three or four hundred, chanting and singing and parading with signs that said save our angel! and PROTECT our reverend lily!

  "What is it they think she ought to be protected from?" Les asked, reading the signs from Nick's office.

  "Bassington was a litde vague on that," said Nick. "In fact, I taped his sermon and watched it a couple of times and still couldn't think of anything he'd really said, except that Lily was in danger. From us."

  "Look at this," Les said, and Nick joined him at the window. There were new signs: E AND N = EVIL AND NOXIOUS, and shut down SATAN'S network, and cut their cables, and why does Fairfax

  HARBOR THE DEVIL?

  "What the hell," Les expostulated. "They want the town to kick us out."

  "It may happen to them first," Nick said. The police had arrived.

  At first the police simply contained the marchers so traffic was not disrupted. But by midafternoon the demonstrators were lying across the sidewalk leading to the front and side doors of Nick's building. Owners of other companies in the building grew testy. At that, the police began to carry the protesters away. There were screams and sobs; men and women knelt in prayer in the middle of the street, bringing traffic to a gridlocked halt. Someone climbed a nearby tree and led the milling demonstrators in a hymn. Babies cried. Dogs barked. Drivers honked their horns An ice-cream wagon appeared, playing a tinkling tune, and mothers, still singing, bought their children Popsicles and cones.

  "I've got two cameramen filming it," Les told Nick. "One on the roof, one through the window of my office. Any problem with that?"

  "Absolutely not. Even if we never use it, we should have it on record. I'm glad you thought of it." Nick went back to his computer, where he was typing a statement.

  "You're not going to be the one to read it, are you?" Les asked.

  "Sure, why not?"

  "They think you're the devil."

  "I'm not reading it to them; this is for the six-o'clock news. I'll have copies to hand out tomorrow, when they come back."

  "Which of course they will. What would they say, do you think, if they knew there was no program?"

  "They'd probably try to shut us down for deception." Nick printed out the statement and in a moment handed Les two sheets of paper. 'What do you think?"

  Les read it. "I like it. Don't change a word."

  The statement was taped for the six-o'clock news. Nick sat in the chair used by Valerie on her segment on "Blow-Up." Through the window behind the chair a tape of the demonstration could be seen.

  "I'm Nicholas Fielding, president of E8cN," Nick began, looking at the camera and reading from the TelePrompTer. He was self-conscious and stiff, and wished he could have delegated this job to someone else. But he knew he could not. He owned the network; he was the one to speak for it.

  "Today, passionate demonstrators threatened to shut down this network if we continue our investigation into a church and its minister, who has a national following on television. I'm not here to criticize the demonstrators, or those who are sending us letters and telegrams saying the same thing. As far as I'm concerned, it would be far worse if there were no demonstrators, if America fell silent because no one cared enough to march and try to change things.

  "But it's no good, either, just to give in automatically to a crowd of demonstrators. I'll listen; I'll think about what they're demanding; but on a practical level, I can't give in unless my convictions match theirs. Because if I issued orders just to please them, there's no obvious reason why tomorrow I wouldn't issue new, possibly contradictory orders because a different group of demonstrators, with a new agenda, had turned up. And the third day I might change my orders yet again, to please a third crowd. If I had no firm beliefs of my own, I'd be blown every which way by whoever shouted the loudest, and nothing would get done and no one would be pleased.

  "But that's not the main reason why I can't give in. The real reason is passion. The demonstrators have theirs; I have my own. In fact, I have several.

  "There is the passion for seeking out truth, because lies and evasions and hidden agendas are poisonous to a democracy. And the only people, whether you like them or not, whose job is to expose lies and evasions and hidden agendas are the journalists.

  "There is the passion for collecting information and listening to all sides and then choosing a place to stand.

  "There is the passion that says trust your judgment, be prepared to

  defend die place you've chosen, and invite odiers to share it with you not through force, but through reason.

  "Those are the passions that guide E&N. If we work at it, we'll be able to live by them. If we falter, we hope you let us know, not with demands that we do what you want, but with suggestions for improvement. We're counting on you for that. Thank you." He held his position, looking somberly into the camera, until the tape was shut off.

  "Bravo," Valerie said quiedy.

  He turned, shielding his eyes, and saw her standing to the side. "I didn't know you were here."

  "I thought it might make you nervous if you knew."

  "I was nervous anyway. Was I all right?"

  'Tou were wonderful."

  He was grateful for that; at this moment, she was the professional and he was the newcomer. "I'd better watch the tape before I let it go on," he said. "Come with me. I'd like you there."

  They watched it in silence, trying to gauge its impact. "I don't suppose it will sway many demonstrators," Nick said when it ended. "But some of the audience may think about it and approve."

  "I'm more interested in the Foundation board," said Valerie. "I wonder if they'll think you're talking to them, and what they might do about it. Especially Olssen," she added thoughtfully. "I have a feeling he's the unpredictable one."

  Nick smiled. "You're assuming he watches our newscasts."

  "Oh. You're right; he may not. Well, I'm going to make sure he watches this one. I'm going to make sure they all watch this one. If you'll excuse me, Nick, I have a few telephone calls to make."

  At six-thirty that evening, half an hour after he watched Nick's statement on television, Lars Olssen telephoned him at his office. Nick was still there; he and Valerie had watched the news together and were planning to go to dinner. "I admired your statement," Olssen said. His words were measured, his voice resonant. It was a voice that always got attention. "I knew nothing about the demonstration until I saw it on your newscast. Of course I know how it arose: it was fomented by Floyd Bassington in his sermon on Sunday. I doubt that Floyd thought of it by himself His imagination is quite limited, and he is close to two other board members who are more aggressive then he."

  "James and Warman," Nick said. "There seems to be a split in your board."

  Olssen was silent.

  "Of course that may not affect your decisions," Nick said deliberately. "If you all agree on how to run the Foundation and manage Graceville, there's no problem."

  Olssen sighed. "Two people from your network have been asking us questions. Valerie Sterling and Earl DeShan. I assume they did this with your permission."

  'Tes," said Nick.

  "I spoke to Valerie Sterling. Her questions were well chosen, and discornfiting. They made me look more closely at an organ
ization to which I have, perhaps, paid too litde attention. Lily Grace, a charming and talented young woman, lulled all of us, I think. We trust her, and so we trusted everything. But Miss Sterling's questions, and then this demonstration... Why would anyone unleash such an action unless he were afraid? In short, I no longer trust. I am very worried, though I have no concrete reason to be so."

  Nick had turned on the speakerphone so Valerie could listen with him. Now she scribbled on a sheet of pzpcr: finances.

  "There is a way to settle most of our questions," Nick said to Olssen. 'We could look at the Foundation books."

  Olssen sighed again. "To find out where the money goes. I cannot get you the books, if that is what you are suggesting."

  "But you might help an accountant who wanted to look at them."

  There was a silence. "I might," Olssen said slowly. "I believe they are in the offices at Graceville."

  "I have the name of an accountant," Nick said, his voice level to keep hidden his growing excitement. "He's familiar with religious foundations; he's been involved in the examination of the Bakkers' books at PTL. You might want to call him and arrange something."

  Olssen felt a strong distaste. He liked Nick's voice, and his careful words, and he had been filled with admiration when he watched him on television. His statement was not inflammatory; he attacked no one; he named no one; he even paid a compliment to those who were trying to bring harm to his network. It was the kind of intelligent, measured response Olssen most appreciated in a world where people too often said whatever came into their heads, without thinking of shades of meaning or possible repercussions.

  But to sneak into the offices of the Hour of Grace Foundation and to turn loose an accountant who would sniff around for damaging material made him feel sick. He had come to the Foundation to bring love and comfort and help to millions who needed it, a far greater number than he could ever have reached when he was in the pulpit;

  infinitely greater than he could reach through his teaching. He had come to do good; not to be a spy.

  But the demonstration also had made him sick. And then there were Valerie's questions. And, most important, Nick's statement. Its civilized tone had subdy eroded Olssen's unthinking loyalty to the Foundation. "Give me the accountant's name," he said.

  The next evening, when the office staff had left for the day, the Reverend Lars Olssen and Alvin Speer, CPA, greeted the guard at the door of the small house on the Graceville grounds. "Evening, Reverend," the guard said. "Let me know if you need anything."

  Olssen nodded thoughtftilly. It was clear that the guard was used to seeing board members come in at night. To do what? he wondered.

  He led Speer into the offices. "I know nothing about computers or account books. I'm of little help to you."

  "No problem," said Speer. "I'll just be looking around."

  Olssen sat in a corner; he had brought a book to read. He had considered bringing a Bible, but that seemed to be overdoing it; he had no reason yet to start praying. So he brought a novel, and tried to concentrate on it.

  For three evenings in a row, until far past midnight, he read his book while Alvin Speer unftirled computer printouts, scanned columns of numbers, ffipped through files of invoices, pored over bank statements and canceled checks, and sent his fingers dancing over his calculator. On Friday night, just before midnight, Olssen finished his book. Hands folded in his lap, he contemplated Speer's bent head.

  "Okey-doke," said Speer, raising his head two hours later and squinting at Olssen. "For a preliminary, this does fine. Lots of stuff here. I can write it up or I can make it verbal."

  "Verbal now, if you please," said Olssen. "And I'd like it written as soon as possible."

  "Okey-doke. Straight from the top—I did a little research during the days, by the way, in case you wonder where some of this info comes from. So, straight from the top. Checks come in from all over, big and litde. The names, addresses and amounts are logged into the computer, and the checks are sent to the bank."

  "James Trust and Savings," said Olssen.

  "No, a bank in Culpeper. All the names and check amounts are on these printouts. Problem is, the totals at the end of each day's printouts don't jibe with the numbers." He looked at Olssen's blank expression. "Somebody's programmed the computer to change the totals at the end of each printout. You add up the individual checks that were re-

  ceived each day and your total is higher than the one thaf s shown."

  "Higher," Olssen repeated.

  "My guess is they're depositing the checks in two accounts, one in the name of the Foundation, one private. The money in the private account goes to whoever's running the show. It's an old trick, you know; lots of folks do it, not just the religious ones. So when they skim money from what comes in, they gotta make sure the total on the printout equals the amount on the deposit slips to the Foundation account. In case the IRS or somebody's looking. You got that? Remember, the Foundation takes in close to a million and a half every week. That's five to ten thousand donations every day. Who's gonna add it up by hznd} Most people just look at the totals. But I come along and add each and every number. You following me?"

  "How much?" Olssen asked.

  "How much they taking? I figure about ten percent."

  Olssen closed his eyes. In the past year, the Foundation had received seventy-five million dollars in donations and memberships. Someone pocketed seven and a half million of that. Who? How many of them?

  "'Course, that's only the beginning," said Speer. "You want the rest of it?"

  Olssen opened his eyes. "I want it all."

  '*Well, straight from the top. Construction costs for Graceville. I did a little calling around, fella I know in construction in Rockville and a couple others, and it turns out you're paying Marrach Construction roughly twenty percent over what you oughta be, all down the line: labor and materials. Then there's your construction loan. You're paying two percent over other loans at other banks. And your production costs for the tv shows. They're close to triple what my friend Nick Fielding pays when he has simple shows like that produced. Thafs about it. Oh, salaries are okay, high but not out of the ball park. But you've got some expenses for board members that would raise some eyebrows: cars, travel, houses, stuff like that. I see there was a corporate jet sold a couple weeks ago... you know why it was sold?"

  "I didn't know it was sold."

  "Well, maybe they're starting to clean up their act. A little late, looks like."

  There was a silence.

  "You want to wait on my conclusions?" Speer asked. "They'll be in my written report."

  "Please. AU of it now."

  "Well, then. You skim ten percent off donations, pay inflated con-

  structions costs, an expensive construction loan, tripled production costs, and perks for your board members, and what you've got left for legitimate expenses for building Graceville and paying operating costs for the tv ministry is about fifty-six percent of what comes in."

  "Fifty-six percent!"

  "The other side of that, what it looks like from here, is that, over the two years it's supposed to take to build Graceville, roughly sixty-five million dollars would be diverted to Marrach Construction, James Trust and Savings, Sybille Morgen Productions, and who knows where else."

  Speechless, Olssen stared at him.

  "Now, I don't have any proof that any of this is illegal," Speer said, "except the skimming of the ten percent. Somebody could maybe give an interesting explanation for that, but I have my doubts. There's so much of this tv ministry stuff coming out now—it's kind of in the air, isn't it?—my own personal feeling is there's nothing good about anything I've dug up. It smells of kickbacks from the word go. So you've got a few things here. The IRS has to be told. First off, this outfit won't keep its tax-exempt status for a minute if all this comes out the way I think it will, but that's small potatoes. The big question is whether there's fraud involved: defrauding the Foundation and the government. That's a crimina
l matter."

  Olssen was staring fixedly at him. A lifetime of helping people in need, he thought, my whole life. And now to find I've been a front man for crooks, thieves, defrauders, and all in the name of the Lord!

  Speer was frowning. "You wouldn't ask me to keep this quiet. Reverend. I couldn't do that, you know. I mean, when I find evidence—"

  Olssen was shaking his head. "I would not ask it. It would go against everything..." His voice trailed away. Graceville itself went against everything he believed in and taught and worked for. And he had let himself be used. He had turned a blind eye, he'd been lazy, complacent, inattentive...

  "I guess I'll go, then," said Speer. 'Tou should, too. Reverend. Ifs getting awful late."

  "Yes." Olssen lifted himself from his chair. He was tired, but he knew he would not sleep tonight. He had to think about what he had learned. He had to think about the future. He had to make up for his sins of sloth and complacency. Lily must be told. The other board members—for how could he be sure who was a conspirator and who was innocent?-must be told that Speer's report would soon be public. Nick Fielding must be told. His was the voice of reason that had led to

  this night of revelation. Without Nick's statement, Olssen was not sure he ever would have lifted the stone of Graceville to see the dark life crawling beneath it.

  Nick Fielding, Olssen recalled, was preparing a television program on Graceville. Certainly, he must be told.

  Early Saturday morning, while the air still had a trace of the night's coolness, and only the joggers were out on the quiet streets, Nick received a telephone call, and then made one of his own. He called Valerie, who was just waking up, and told her she would have a program on Graceville after all.

  An hour later, Floyd Bassington resigned from the board of directors of the Hour of Grace Foundation.

  Chapter 29

  ily heard the telephone ring when Nick called. She had been lying awake since dawn. The breeze that cooled Georgetown overnight did not reach Falls Church, and Lily had tossed on the living-room sofa or paced around the room, trying to ignore the heat that weighed her down like a heavy blanket. But at four-thirty, as she stood at the window, gazing at the motionless sumacs in the first pale light that washed the sky, she knew it was not just the heat that kept her awake. It was what lay ahead of her. This was the day she would betray Sybille.