by John Edward
“Yes, you look wonderful in it. It’s just that I asked you on such short notice, I wasn’t sure you could come up with one in time.”
“I always keep it with me, just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case a beautiful woman asks me to escort her to the Academy Awards.”
All the time Dawson was talking, he was holding one hand behind his back, and she leaned around to look. “What do you have?”
Dawson brought around a single daisy. “I brought you a flower. You should put it in water right away.”
Charlene laughed. “Put it in water? It’s silk. In fact, it looks suspiciously like the ones in front of the elevator down in the lobby.”
“It is,” Dawson said. “But you aren’t supposed to call attention to that.”
Charlene took it. “It’s beautiful. I’ll get it in water at once.” She put water in a drinking glass, dropped in the plastic daisy, then scooped up her bag and wrap. “Shall we go?”
“Yes, we should get a move on. But … I kind of want to tell you something, though, before we go.” It was as much a question as a statement from him.
“Sure. What is it?”
“I want you to know where I was earlier. I mean—what I was doing. We rescued the President’s son from his kidnappers. The FBI did, actually. A good friend of mine, Agent Bobby Anderson.” He related the whole story, including the bizarre coincidences of Mama G’s metaphysical involvement and Rae Loona and Tyler Michaels’s presence on the scene.
Charlene took it all in without batting an eye, though her pulse was racing quite a bit faster than usual. “You don’t say,” she offered when Dawson had finished his account of the adventure. He looked a bit shell-shocked. “You don’t say…”
A thought was forming in her mind as she fiddled with her wrap and let him help her put it around her shoulders. Then she calmly added, “I will tell you about my conversation with the President when we are in the car. It all fits in.”
Thinking to herself, she also realized she could top even that event with her vision of the Blessed Lady who had, she believed, cured her cancer. That, too, fit into this plan that was unfolding before her very eyes. Tonight would represent a major step forward for her—well beyond the Oscar nomination for her song. No, something more, something bigger, something much bigger than she had ever experienced lay ahead.
CHAPTER
97
Omar drove the truck all the way around Piccadilly Circus, showing Shakir where five major streets joined. “As you can see, some moments there are more people than other moments. In order to have the maximum effect, we need to detonate the bomb in the middle of the largest crowd.”
“All those people will be killed,” Shakir said.
“Yes, that is the point.”
“What if I can’t do it?”
“What do you mean, what if you can’t do it? How hard is it to drop a backpack? That is all you have to do.”
“Yes.”
“There, look,” Omar said, pointing to two buses that were loaded with Japanese vacationers. They began spilling out into the plaza.
“Allah has provided for us,” he said. “Go, now. Get in the middle of them. If you are lucky, you can get over one hundred of them.”
Omar reached across in front of Shakir and opened the door. “Go now,” he said. “Go quickly. Fill your mind only with the thought of paradise, for that is where you will be, one minute from now.”
Omar did not notice that tears were streaking down Shakir’s face. And even if he had seen them, he would have misread them. He would have thought that Shakir was frightened because he was about lose his own life. Shakir was frightened, and saddened that his action could take as many as one hundred innocent lives, and no doubt grievously wound many others.
* * *
As Asima hurried to Piccadilly Circus, she checked her watch. If Omar was on schedule, and she had learned that he was very much a man of structure, she had only three minutes remaining in which to stop it.
Then, unbidden, a memory of her days in college flashed back to her. She was in the market when an older woman approached her. At first she thought the woman was going to ask her for money, and she felt embarrassed because she had no money to give.
* * *
“Do not be afraid of me, Asima,” the woman said.
“Who are you? How did you know my name?”
“I am Patricia Rose Greenidge, but many call me Mama G. May I touch you?”
Asima was startled by the strange request, but there was something in the old woman’s eyes that calmed her, and she knew that the woman offered no danger. The old woman touched Asima … putting her hands on Asima’s cheeks.
Asima felt a strange surge, almost like a wave of electricity emanating from Mama G’s hands.
“You are a very special woman, Asima,” Mama G said. “One day you will make the greatest sacrifice and it will help so many”
* * *
Up until this moment, Asima had always thought that the sacrifice was giving up her own hopes and dreams to help Muti raise their family. But now she was looking at it with a whole new perspective … a perspective of sacrificing her son.
She saw him getting out of Omar’s truck. He was carrying a backpack.
“Shakir! No!” she shouted. “No, please, don’t do it!”
“Mama!” Shakir called back.
“Lay down the backpack! Come to me!”
“Mama, I can’t. I have to do this!”
“No, you don’t!” Muti shouted, and looking around, Asima saw her husband coming up behind her.
Shakir looked at his parents, then back toward Omar, who was still waiting in the truck. He hesitated for just a second, and then laid the backpack on the ground.
“Good!” Muti shouted. “That is good! Now, come to us!”
Shakir started toward them, and Asima was overwhelmed with a feeling of relief and gratitude until she saw something that made her blood run cold. Omar had come out of the truck, and now he was punching numbers into a cell phone.
Asima knew exactly what that meant. He had no intention of letting Shakir make up his own mind. There was a cell phone embedded in the backpack, and the moment the cell phone rang, it would send a charge that would detonate the backpack. Dozens, perhaps hundreds would be killed, and everyone would report that the last person they saw with the backpack was Shakir.
Asima started running toward the pack, dashing by Shakir without so much as a greeting.
* * *
“Asima!” Muti called, “What are you—?”
Then Muti saw Omar dialing the phone and he knew exactly what Asima was doing.
“Asima! No!” he shouted.
* * *
Witnesses would later report that they saw a beautiful woman come running from nowhere to grab the backpack. They watched her strange action and were confused by it. Some thought perhaps she was stealing it, but in instead of trying to run away, she jumped over the concrete wall of a trash-collecting bunker.
There was a loud explosion. Smoke, flame, and pieces of body flew into the air—Asima’s body and the concrete walls absorbed both the blast concussion and the shrapnel. Asima’s was the only life lost.
* * *
Mama G envisioned this scene as if she were there in London, watching, moving with the crowds.
She felt the impact of the bomb, like a fierce burst of hot air against her face, pushing her body back. She caught her breath and wiped tears that were running from her eyes.
Watching what the signs of the skies had foretold—the darkness spreading, now below as above—overwhelmed her with sadness. Asima … the young woman had never been far from Mama G’s mind, and the seer now felt even closer to her than ever. How many years ago had it been since they met face-to-face? Even then, the older woman felt there was something special—a spiritual strength and deep inner compassion—that marked Asima and set her apart from others. She had hoped the young student would have a l
ong and productive life, but she knew in her heart that a shadow lay across Asima, and the stars were not aligned in her favor.
Still, she also felt that her relationship with the intelligent young Muslim woman would continue for a long time—a very strong feeling, which Mama G now knew to be true.
Yes, Asima was gone, but so many other lives had been saved. The yin and yang of existence continued. Yet the forces of darkness still seemed to be getting the upper hand.
And the final battle for the hearts and souls of all people everywhere was beginning in earnest.
* * *
Bobby Anderson was in his office grabbing some last-minute things before heading out to the Hollywood Grand Theatre. He was grateful that the President’s son was found safe but knew that things weren’t over yet, and the pressure to solve his other case suddenly felt overwhelming. He knew that there was some missing piece, some vital sign that he had overlooked. From the insights he had gained over the past forty-eight hours, and especially the last twelve, he knew that the whole thing was tied in—that is, random acts everywhere and heinous crimes that had made headlines around the world, were all of a purpose, and all were leading to one final criminal manifestation that would put even these unspeakable acts to shame.
He checked his watch. It was Sunday in Belfast. But it wouldn’t be Sunday for much longer, as he was several time zones away. And suddenly he knew. That was the key—Sunday! Not only for whatever was going to happen at the awards ceremony but for the damned murders as well.
This was the day. Viva Domingo. The lives of many would be changed—or ended—on this day, if he didn’t move.
He called the chief investigator on the scene in Belfast.
“It’s going down today. The final murder that is going to trigger everything,” he blurted. “Seal off the field in every direction, and station at least a hundred officers around the perimeter. We need air cover, as well. I’m sure the U.S. Air Force can support your own forces. Nothing can move in or out of that area for twenty-four hours. The murderers intend to signal the end of one phase and the beginning of the endgame. If they cannot gain access today, they cannot send their message in time.”
“How do you know all this, Agent Anderson?”
“Don’t ask. The short answer is, I don’t know how I know. But it all fits. I’ve been thinking about this ever since I left. The fact that I was called away was a part of the plan, too. Don’t ask any more questions—just do as I say. Please. For God’s sake.”
* * *
His colleagues in Belfast had quickly come to the conclusion that Bobby knew exactly what he was doing, and his expertise made everyone around him look good. They responded without further delay. Word went out, and within the hour the killing field was swarming with Irish cops and national security agents. Police and army helicopters swarmed like bees over the crime scene.
In the city itself, on an obscure street, the man who had been stalking a woman who had been drugged by another man and pushed out of doors closed in on his prey. His intention—on orders from higher ups in his gang—was to take her to a nearby cellar where she was to be executed. The money was good for this job. The anonymous man followed the anonymous woman into an alley between a pub and a factory. This was where he would seize her. The chamber that awaited her was just two blocks away.
A street cop, whose shift was almost over, sighted the woman entering the alley, stumbling, apparently drugged or drunk. He then saw the man follow her, walking into the shadow of the tall factory building. He moved across the street and entered the alley himself.…
In the reaches of the Tribunal, among the hordes of howling and hungry soldiers of darkness, the leaders could not believe what was happening. They had been ready to execute the twelfth victim and plant the body in plain sight for their purposes ordained from the beginning of time. Their plan, so perfectly constructed and flawlessly executed, had nonetheless encountered resistance from unexpected quarters. In fact, it was falling apart.
There was no time to repair the damage to their plan. This was the ordained day. Sunday.
Who was this Bobby Anderson, and who was giving him this information? Somebody would pay dearly for their interference.
Part
FOUR
CHAPTER
98
Los Angeles
The Academy Awards ceremony was scheduled for Sunday, March 2. The annual broadcast of this glittering Hollywood tradition was expected to be viewed by at least 3 billion people around the world, the most ever to watch any televised event in human history. Given the international scope of the film industry and the many nominees for awards from outside Hollywood, USA, segments of the awards show would originate in Mumbai and London for the first time, which promised to draw an even larger audience than usual.
The aborted London bombing had made headlines around the world on the eve of the awards telecast, darkening the otherwise almost giddy, festive atmosphere surrounding the event. Although Londoners were used to threats and bombings by now, the U.K. studio was especially somber as the broadcast hour approached and a smaller than anticipated crowd gathered outside the studio that night. The crashed Intercontinental flight was also leading the news, with word that there were no survivors of that Miami-to-L.A. airliner that had been downed, apparently, by a meteorite … and somber pictures of the crash site in the desert haunted viewers as they learned of the unusual accident that had claimed so many lives.
An army of technicians had occupied the Hollywood Grand Theatre in Los Angeles for a month before the date of the broadcast, wiring every inch of the house, building sets on an enlarged stage, even reupholstering every single chair to color code the live audience of celebrities, award nominees, Hollywood power brokers, and spectators lucky enough to snag tickets through whatever connections they could call on to get through the doors.
Seats in the front row center were reserved for the crème de la crème, including Charlene St. John McAvoy and the family of the late President of the United States. But questions arose as to whether the former First Lady would actually attend, in light of her son’s abduction. The outcome of that crime remained a public mystery as the Oscars approached, further dampening the mood anticipating the event.
Vatican City
The pope reconvened the Council of Faith on Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Christian holy season of Lent. For other faith leaders, the impending change of seasons and the approaching spring equinox (in the northern hemisphere) were significant, as well. The Jews would anticipate the celebration of Passover and Muslims the pilgrimage of countless men and women to Mecca, known as the hajj. For the Chinese, in their native land and around the world, it was a new year.
“My brothers,” the Holy Father said, “we have made precious little headway in reaching people of faith across our globe, in sincerely penetrating their souls with the urgent message of impending disaster and tragedy. We have redoubled our prayers here in Rome and in churches everywhere. Some of our people have responded and taken measures to prepare for their families and themselves—and to help others. Every day I pray for guidance and for the Lord God’s mercy to shower the Earth and cleanse us all of sin and error.
“Yet, I cannot testify that the Creator has heard my prayers or those of the faithful.”
The Dalai Lama spoke from his heart in response: “Dear brother, you have lived up to your responsibility very nobly and with much love in your heart. Suffering is a part of the human condition, sometimes by individual choice, most often by the circumstances of life. We cannot interfere with the divine plan, even if we wished to do so. But we may walk with one another through such times of difficulty and help our neighbors to understand and grow stronger.”
Murmurs of agreement rose from those who sat around the table, a now-familiar gathering place for these religious leaders who, in normal circumstances, would likely not even acknowledge one another’s existence, let alone speak with such respect and even affection for each other.
&n
bsp; “God is great,” the imam stated with conviction. “May He sow the seeds of peace in the souls of all humankind. If we continue to pray without ceasing, as Your Holiness has done, no evil can befall us. Paradise awaits the righteous.”
The chief rabbi smiled sardonically. He kept his gray beard trimmed neatly and wore a black yarmulke. “Yahweh be praised. He will protect His people as He has throughout all ages.”
The pontiff sat back in his chair as others joined the dialogue. He was utterly pleased that these men had answered his call in good faith and were willing to lend their prestige to this cause that he now—privately—considered hopeless. For in his heart he understood that forces outside his control, or the influence of any in this magnificently adorned chapel, had already set in motion the tribulations that lay ahead.
No prayers, acts of charity, or pure intentions could stop the impending days of reckoning. He prayed silently: God help the people of this Earth to choose the right path—the way of survival and the way of light.…
Houston
Dr. Jason Chang drove to his office at NASA headquarters on this day, just like any other. He didn’t know what else to do. For a scientist or any rational person of any professional discipline, routine could be a welcome refuge in times of uncertainty. And uncertain was a huge understatement of the situation in this case.
He had marshaled the very best minds and resources he could muster in creating a world-class study team to identify the source and nature of the threat. In fact, it was one of the greatest scientific discoveries of all time to have uncovered the existence of the dark energies that threatened the planet. But what had it gained him—or anyone else? Having turned the world’s strongest brains to the task, what solution had they come up with? None. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
If he were susceptible to emotion, right now would be the perfect time for Chang to weep rivers of tears. Instead, he was bone dry—incapable of feeling anything but black despair.
Once he arrived at his office, he sat at his desk and picked up the telephone. He called his opposite number in the Russian space program. But Dmitri Kolnikov, one of the most adept administrators and accomplished physicists he had ever known, was also at a loss. The two spoke for twenty minutes but came up with nothing new, no breakthrough to hope.