by John Edward
Dawson looked at the book again. His name was above the title, and above that, in shining blue foil, was a legend: NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR. He had to admit, that had a good sound to it.
And now he was on a promotional tour, not the 5 A.M. local TV show in places like Mobile, St. Louis, and Dallas, but ten thousand miles from home.
He could hear the same repetitive questions coming at him, but this time with an Aussie accent:
“What was the motivation behind the series?”
“How many books do you see yourself writing for the character in this series?”
“Are you excited for it to be a movie?”
The funny part about doing these interviews was that the interviewer had hardly ever read the book. The producers of the show would glance at the press release notes, then formulate questions for the host to ask, squeezing them into a two-minute segment.
Sometimes that canned procedure would have ludicrous results.
“I got the idea from an exhibit I saw in the American Museum of Natural History in New York,” Dawson would say.
“So, where did you get the idea for this story?” the interviewer would ask, not having listened to what Dawson had just said.
Non-writers probably thought that such things as book signings and publicity tours were the glamorous side of the business. Authors knew that such events were arduous and disagreeable, but it was the nature of the business and absolutely necessary to do these interviews to allow people to know the book is out. Having sold over 1 million copies of each of the previous books internationally gave Dawson Rask the luxury of not having to worry about supporting himself. This also allowed him to dedicate his time to the ancient texts, symbolism, and mystical mysteries that his readers so appreciated.
Dawson considered himself a student of the ancient wisdom. He loved to interview the philosophic minds of today’s generation, at least those that he felt would be the ones most remembered. From astrologers to atheists, metaphysicians to quantum physicists, there was not a concept or discipline that he didn’t like to imagine.
He particularly loved the research that inspired him to create the character of Matt Matthews, who blogged his findings on his websites and created a buzz in the Internet world. Matt was a reflection of Dawson—not who he was, but who he would like to be.
And like his character, Dawson was what others would call “a cool dude.” He was personal friends with “Oprah people,” from athletes, to show-business personalities, to the ultra-wealthy, to sitting and former Presidents. His tweets had 8 million followers and counting, and he could start a frenzy with a single released thought.
Dawson was once fined by the City of New York for asking his fans to drop off cans of soup for a local shelter at a City Hall town meeting that was attempting to shut the shelter down. There were fifteen hundred cans dropped off within the hour—forty-five hundred in less than two hours.
The event put a strain on the New York City Police Department, blocking pedestrian and car traffic for over three hours. He had hoped, by his suggestion, to generate local awareness of the situation, but it became national, appearing on every broadcast and cable network news show that day. Dawson knew his popularity, and respected it. His goal was to use his popularity, and his gift for writing, to educate as well as to entertain.
In contrast, Dawson’s brother, Boyd, had overcome the less-than-stellar reputation he had realized in high school. President of a refuse collection company, he had become very successful in part because of his willingness, indeed his eagerness, to do business with the mafia.
“My brother dumps his garbage on the public, and I haul it off,” Boyd liked to say, criticizing his brother’s elitist way of making a living.
Dawson knew that Boyd was very jealous of him. Dawson had risen above his brother’s shadow and sibling competition to sibling victory. And he believed, sincerely, that it had become almost a Cain and Abel rivalry, a theme of good versus evil.
Some literary critics had actually pointed that out as a continuing theme in his novels. A New York Times reviewer wrote:
Though elements of the picaresque color the major players of this author’s books, there seems to be in each of them a theme of sibling rivalry, sometimes satirical and overplayed, sometimes as subtle as the base note of a quality perfume. And, as the notes in a perfume produce the final, blended scent, so too, do the “notes” of Rask’s novels combine in such a way as to produce a satisfying read.
The reviews, as well as the sales of all three of his books had been outstanding, and his agent wanted him to release the rights to his first two books to make them Hollywood blockbusters.
Dawson said he would agree, as long as he maintained creative control over the storyline. He simply didn’t need the money to sell out his vision.
He told his agent: “If I had a son and a daughter, named Mike and Emily, I wouldn’t allow a complete stranger to pay me a million dollars for each so he could call them Mark and Carrie!”
* * *
It was too early to use any of the hotel’s valet services, so Dawson ironed his own pants and shirt, got dressed, then looked at the clock. The glowing red digital clock said that it was 6:30 A.M. He picked up the phone.
“Good morning, Mr. Rask,” the man at the front desk said.
Dawson smiled. He almost expected the man to say, “Throw a shrimp on the barbie.”
“Yes, is my driver here yet?”
“He is indeed, sir, sitting in the lobby as we speak.”
“Good, tell him I’ll be right down.”
Dawson had not yet met his driver, as arrangements had been made by his publisher and publicist. But when he stepped from the elevator, there was little doubt that the tall man wearing a blue blazer, tan slacks, and what Dawson would describe as a Greek fisherman’s hat was his driver. His suspicion was corroborated when the tall man stepped toward him.
“Would you be Mr. Rask, by chance?”
“Not by chance,” Dawson replied. “I worked hard to get here.”
The driver laughed politely. “Your car is out front, sir.”
The black stretch Mercedes was parked under the porte cochere on the other side of the drive in the area reserved for VIPs. The driver held the door open for him, which always made Dawson feel a little self-conscious. The steering wheel was on the right, and even though he knew they drove on the left side of the road here in Australia, it was still a little jarring.
On the way to his first interview, on a national radio show, he experienced an anxious feeling. Why? he wondered. He was certainly well seasoned by now—he had done hundreds of these things over the last three years.
A few seconds later, he felt clammy and nauseous—not carsick nauseous, just nauseous—and he actually thought for a moment that he might need to vomit. As he rolled the window down to get a breath of fresh air, he saw a large statue of a lion. But it wasn’t an ordinary statue, because this one seemed to be moving.
That’s not possible, he thought.
“We are here, Mr. Rask,” the driver said. “I will be waiting for you in the car park, reading your novel. If you need anything, call me on my mobile. Here’s my card … Jack Ransom.”
Dawson happened to look down on the passenger’s side of the front seat and saw a newspaper. He didn’t notice the headlines, nor did he read any specific article, but for some strange reason, disconnected words from different parts of the page seemed to leap out at him.
Joy … Cancer … Belfast … Mere … Christianity … November.
The words seemed to float above the paper, and he felt a wave of dizziness come over him. He closed his eyes, and bracing himself with one hand against the top of the car, he reached up with his other to press his hand against his forehead.
“Perry Landers,” the driver said.
“What?” Dawson asked.
“I asked if you are all right,” the driver said.
Dawson blinked a few times and stared at the driver. He could have s
worn that he heard the driver say “Perry Landers.”
“Mr. Rask?” the driver asked, his words a bit more anxious this time.
“Oh, uh, yes,” Dawson said. “I’m fine. I’m just trying to get used to the difference in time between here and home.”
The driver smiled. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I visited my first cousin in the U.S. a couple of years ago. He lives in Nashville. You’re sure you are all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
Despite his reassuring answer, Dawson knew that he wasn’t all right. Something was wrong and he knew it. It was as if had received bad news without actually receiving it. The air felt heavy, and there was a knot in the pit of his stomach.
“Perry Landers,” the driver said again.
“What?” This time Dawson barked the word.
“I said have a good interview, sir.”
“Dawson?” his Australia-based publicist called out to him. “You’re on in five minutes. Please come inside now.”
CHAPTER
22
Vatican City
The papal apartments wrap around the Courtyard of Sixtus V on two sides of the top floor of the Apostolic Palace in Vatican City. Since the seventeenth century, the papal apartments have been the official residence of the Holy Father. The apartments include the pope’s bedroom, an office for the papal secretary, the pope’s own private study, the dining room and kitchen, and a smallish but comfortable living room with the latest TV equipment.
There is housing for the nuns who run the papal household, as well as a roof garden that Pope Benedict XVI used to enjoy especially. Nearly everyone in the world is familiar with the image of him blessing visitors and tourists in the piazza from his study near his bedroom. The pope lived and worked within these confines as his predecessors had for hundreds of years before him.
Pope Genaro had invited Cardinals Luigi Morricone and Zachary Yamba, his two closest confidants, into his study so they could discuss the problem facing not only Catholicism, Christianity, and all the other religions of the world, but all of mankind. As a cardinal, Genaro Giovanni Battista, now Genaro I, had been particularly close friends with both Cardinals Morricone and Yamba. He had known Morricone since both were parish priests.
“May I express a concern, Holy Father?” Cardinal Morricone asked.
“Of course, Luigi.”
“The concern I have is that we may be sounding the drum to a danger that does not really exist. As you know, from the time Our Lord walked upon the earth, there have been rumors of the end of the world. And when the rumors prove to be false, the person who started the rumor loses face.”
“Do you think I am concerned that I might lose face?”
“It isn’t just you who will lose face, Giovanni. We cannot allow such a thing to happen to the Vicar of Christ.”
“But I feel it here, Luigi,” Genaro said, putting his hand over his heart. “I know that it is a message from God. And I am not the only one who has felt it. You heard the words of Rabbi Yahman and Imam Abdul-Majid. They, too, have received a message from God. Even the Dalai Lama is aware of the dark forces that are arrayed before us.”
“But, Holy Father, what can we do besides warn the people?” Cardinal Yamba asked.
“We can unite the people,” Genaro said. “There are almost seven billion people in the world. Surely there is enough truth, light, and goodness among those souls that we can mobilize against the Evil One. We are on the eve of a new year. Tomorrow I will give the blessing, and I will call for the power of daring and assurance in God and in man to follow the way of peace, to be a light of goodness and brotherhood. It is something that all must do: individuals and nations, religions and science.”
“Do you think the evil we face is Satan’s doing?” Yamba asked.
“Do you think it is not?” the pope answered.
“I am sure it is.”
“The Evil One has tried before to use his power against mankind, and always before, God has been able to defeat him. But in the last one hundred years, Lucifer has gained so much ground in the hearts of man that the most evil who have ever lived, and the most evil who are among us now, could tip the balance of power between good and evil. And I am sure you remember the adage from Edmund Burke, ‘All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’
“It is vital that we do all that we can to combat it.”
“What will do, Your Holiness?” Morricone asked.
“We must pray, Luigi. We must pray as we have never prayed before. We must pray that God uses us as his instrument in this epic battle, that we can mobilize the good who have come before us, and those who are with us now, to combat the legions of hell.”
“Yes,” Morricone said. He sank to his knees in prayer. “We must pray.”
The pope closed his eyes tightly, his face ashen as he poured out his soul in prayer with the men who stood closest to him in this hour of dark destiny.
New York
Ilizea Ibanga arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport exhausted. It had been a thirty-six-hour trip from her home in Kenya to the United States. She had been invited to testify before the United Nations’ Commission for Refugees. In a blur of movement, UN officials and security people whisked her off the plane and into a private helicopter that flew over Queens, over the East River, and deposited her in a condominium just a few blocks from the headquarters of the international organization.
She was numbed by the trip and so took a bath—the first real hot bath she had taken in months—before the session with the commission. She would be in New York for two days, then back home, back to the chaos and fear that had been her life for … how many years? Well, for all her life.
Ilizea was a refugee from the interminable conflicts in Rwanda: tribe on tribe, faction against faction, that had torn the nation apart and cost hundreds of thousands, if not millions of lives over the past two decades. She was orphaned, jobless, physically scarred, alone in the world. Yet as she luxuriated in the bath, drawing soap over her tired body, she closed her eyes and breathed in the scented steam and remembered what had brought her here.
The children. Save the children. That thought and that thought alone had occupied her mind and soul for the past ten years.
Starting with her little brother. When the militia had come to her village to execute a night raid, Ilizea, sixteen at the time, and her brother Mfon, then eight, hid in the shed behind her family’s house—under a pile of kindling wood and a few tools that her father possessed. This was the drill her parents had made both of them perform many times, until they were sick of it and made jokes about it.
But when the time came, it saved their lives. Their parents did not survive. The militia cut them and sixty others in the village to pieces and took all the girl children over the age of twelve with them. All that were left when the troops drove away were about thirty kids, mostly boys, mostly naked or in rags, and Ilizea and her brother. Ilizea was the oldest, and they looked to her for leadership. They looked to her to save them. What now? What would they do? Where would they go?
“Come with me,” she said simply. She counted them, had them gather whatever food they could find and water in portable containers. Whatever they could carry they carried on their backs and in their hands. “Come with me,” she said, and they followed her.
They walked out of their village and headed east. For more than a month she led them through the hills and forest lands, avoiding population centers wherever she could. She brought them into western Kenya. Every single child survived under her care. They were weak and hungry, incredibly dirty, but each had a smile on his or her face when they arrived at a safe place—an orphanage where they would be kept until permanent arrangements could be made.
Ilizea worked for the next four years at the orphanage and made trips back to her home to bring out more refugee children and even some adults. Miraculously, she worked unmolested for all that time and could account for hundreds of lives saved.
She wanted to ask the United Nations for support in her work. She couldn’t be certain they would do anything at all, but speaking to the commission would be good publicity for the cause.
Ilizea Ibanga dried herself off and dressed in a new suit that a supporter had provided for her. She ran a brush through her hair. A knock at the door signaled the time had come for her to go to the UN.
Whatever happened, she had done what she could, what one person could, to save some lives, to save the children.…
CHAPTER
23
New York
Dave Hampton gazed into the camera as he read a breaking news bulletin:
“On the heels of the strange hurricane activity reported in the Atlantic Ocean that now threatens the entire East Coast of the United States come reports just moments ago of seismic activity in Asia—in fact, throughout the vast Pacific Rim region of the world. Just moving on our newswire are these reports of earthquakes in Japan, Vietnam, Indonesia, Malaysia, New Zealand, and Australia, with tremors felt as far away as Hawaii, Vancouver, Seattle, and Los Angeles.
“Measurements of these quakes vary from a minimum of 7.1 on the Richter scale to the 9.1 quake in Japan, which just last year was devastated throughout its southern islands by a similar phenomenon. Viewers, something is unfolding on a cosmic scale that we can only begin to guess at.
“Earliest estimates of the death toll already top two hundred thousand. And let us not forget the recent events in Turkey, a country that has seen a huge chunk of its population decimated by yet another natural disaster. Coincidence, ladies and gentlemen? Sadly, I think not.”
* * *