The terrorist had told Smith all that he knew. But it was meager and filled with generalities. Smith had wasted a full hour of the four-hour session with the man trying to pin him down on specifics. When the man began blubbering, Smith knew he was just a man taking orders, a fanatic without true facts. Still, what Smith had learned was vitally important.
A telltale light flashed in the margin of the computer screen. Smith hit a key. It was the media-monitoring function. The system was alerting him that the name he had tagged for critical analysis, Reverend Eldon Sluggard, was right now holding a press conference that was being carried live by the news services.
Smith left the computer and turned on the room's television.
The overfed face of Reverend Eldon Sluggard, speaking in a Southern-fried Georgia accent, appeared on the screen. Sluggard wiped sweat off his lined brow with a handkerchief.
"Mah own theory, gentlemen," he was saying, "is that the mullahs in Ah-ran have finally shown their true anti-Christian colors. They have declared themselves to be enemies of Christianity. Because of mah vast influence and ministerial work abroad, they have targeted me as the man they must defeat before they can export their religious beliefs to this country."
"Is your TV show beamed into Iran?" he was asked by an unseen reporter.
"No, but Ah speak the word of the Lord, and it knows no national boundary or wavelength."
"Why do you suppose they attacked the targets they did and not your headquarters?"
"Ah suppose they didn't know where to find me. Ah don't broadcast mah address on TV, just a post-office box number."
"Has this anything to do with your reported fundraising problems?"
"No," Reverend Sluggard said flatly. "Malh Cross Crusade fund drive is going to be a whoppin' success." He ran pudgy fingers through his heavily pomaded hair.
"You seem pretty sure of that. How do you know?"
"Because the Almighty revealed it to me."
"If he revealed that to you, as you claim, why hasn't he revealed the reason why Middle Eastern terrorists, allegedly in the pay of Iran, hijacked two aircraft, shot up an air show, and took the Lincoln Memorial hostage to publicize their demands that you be turned over to one of their Revolutionary Tribunals?"
"You'll have to ask him that," Reverend Sluggard said, wiping his beefy jowls. "All Ah know is that Judgment Day is a-comin' for America. If mah ministry falls to these fanatics, then none of you are safe. Ah'm callin' on all of America to join me and to get with God if they want this great Christian nation of ours to stand forever. For more information, tune into mah TV show, Get with God. Ah have all the answers."
"Reverend Sluggard-"
"That's all Ah got to say," Reverend Sluggard said, "but before Ah go, Ah want to reassure mah followers that the Lord's work will go on. No enemy of God will lay a hand on me or any of mah followers. Because Ah got this." He patted a thick leather-covered book. "And if you kind folks will allow, Ah want to read a passage Ah think appropriate to these troubled times: 'Though Ah be surrounded by serpents, Ah will fear no scoundrels. Though Ah stand in the quicksand of idolators, Ah know that the Chariot of the Lord is comin' to succor me and that his Hosts will raise their crossbows in mah defense.' Amen."
And slapping the great book closed, Eldon Sluggard walked off camera, leaving it to a network correspondent to explain that this was coming live from the Eldon Sluggard World Ministries in Thunderbolt, Georgia.
Smith stared at the screen, his brow knitting. "There's no such passage in the Bible," he muttered. Shutting off the television, he started for his mini computer, when he heard a knocking at the door. He opened it.
"Remo. Master Chiun," Smith said without inflection. It was what passed for a warm greeting from Dr. Harold W. Smith.
"We appreciate your enthusiasm," Remo said, stepping in. He turned when he noticed that Chiun was still standing out in the hall, his back to Smith.
"You coming, Little Father?"
"I have not been formally invited in."
"I think he's still pissed at you, Smitty."
Smith cleared his throat. "Master Chiun, would you come in, please? I am sorry if I offended you."
"Wrong choice of words, Smitty," Remo whispered.
"If?" Chiun called over his shoulder loudly.
"That I offended you. Truly sorry. It won't happen again. And I wish you would come in. I have a question only someone with your knowledge of ancient history can answer."
Chiun immediately whirled in place. He marched into the room like an ancient vizier entering his king's inner chambers.
"I live to serve my emperor. What is your question?"
"Did they have crossbows during biblical days?"
"No," said Chiun as Remo closed the door. "The crossbow was a foolish invention of a later period. My ancestors first encountered it when-"
"Thank you, Master of Sinanju," Smith said abruptly. "That was all I desired to know."
Chiun's face tightened. His mouth pursed. His cheeks filled with indignity. He flounced around and again presented his back to Smith, his anger evident in his stiff posture.
"You did it again," Remo whispered.
"Later," Smith said. "I want you to listen carefully. The terrorists failed, but these people never give up. They will try again."
"Chiun and I are up to it," Remo said confidently.
"Speak for yourself, white man," Chiun asked. Remo ignored him. Smith continued speaking.
"We can't spend all our energies putting down terrorist attacks. There has already been loss of life. Whatever is motivating these people, they take the matter very seriously."
"You want us to go to Iran?" Remo asked.
Chiun suddenly turned, his face lighting with interest. "It is the Persian New Year. The melons are quite good at this time of year," he said eagerly. "And Sinanju is well known to Persians-educated Persians. We could solve your problems with a few words whispered into the proper ears."
"No, I am not sending you to Iran," Smith said. Chiun returned to presenting his back to his emperor. "I want you two to look into Reverend Sluggard's ministry," Smith went on. "Find out why they want him. If we can uncover what is going on at this end, maybe we can expose or neutralize it. We might be able to reason with Iran. Speaking geopolitically, it remains in our interest to maintain a semblance of neutrality toward that country."
"You're dreaming, Smitty," Remo said tightly. "The U.S. and Iran are on a collision course. And will be as long as those religious crazies are running that country."
"Do not forget to mention the crazies running this country," Chiun muttered. "Some of them do not even bother to wear their crowns on correct occasions."
"What is he saying?" Smith asked Remo.
"I'll explain later. By the way, what's your hat size?"
"I'm not sure. I haven't worn a hat in thirty years. Why do you ask?"
"Long story. Okay, Smitty, we're on our way. By the way, where exactly are we going?"
"Sluggard's national headquarters are located in Thunderbolt, Georgia. It's outside of Savannah. Use false identification. Try to blend in with Sluggard's people. If we crack this quickly, we may beat the next wave of terror outbreaks."
"Gotcha, Smitty. You coming, Chiun?" Remo asked as he opened the door.
"I have not yet been given my leave by my emperor."
"You may leave, Master of Sinanju," Smith said quietly. The Master of Sinanju turned softly, executed a polite but unostentatious bow, and floated out of the room, his bearded chin high in the air.
"I'll try to pull that wild hair out of his you-know-what before we get back, Smitty," Remo promised, winking.
Chapter 9
Reverend Eldon Sluggard hurried from the auditorium of the Eldon Sluggard Temple of Tribute, under rows of moss-draped eucalyptus trees, past the quadrangle facing the Eldon Sluggard University, and entered the Eldon Sluggard World Broadcast Ministries Complex on the lazy banks of the Wilmington River.
"Get my media advis
ers, pronto," he snarled at a secretary, hurrying into a conference room.
When they arrived, moments later, the Reverend Eldon Sluggard was seated at one end of the long conference table, his hands resting on a thick leather volume with a gold-leaf cross embossed on its front cover.
The men, all dressed in sharp business suits, took their places. One of them switched on a cabinet television and popped a videocassette into a wall slot.
"Here's the replay, Reverend," he said as he took his seat.
The eyes of all thirteen men watched as the TV replayed the press conference of a few minutes ago. One by one the men began their critique.
"Good delivery there, El. You had 'em hangin' on your every syllable with that first bit about the mullahs tryin' to crucify America on a cross of oil."
"Nice comeback to that question about your finances. 'God don't count shekels in public.' But what's it mean?"
"Search me," said Reverend Sluggard, noticing that when his video image raised his left arm to gesture, a dark patch showed under his armpit. Sluggard lifted his arms and saw that the underarms of his immaculate white one-thousand-dollar Brioni suit were soaked with sweat. He scribbled a note to himself in the leather book to have his tailor reinforce the underarm padding. The man would bitch, as he always did. But screw him. The wop.
"Hold it. You see that part right there?" a consultant said. "Where you open up the Bible." He hit the Pause button of the remote control.
"Yeah? What of it?" Reverend Sluggard asked unhappily.
"You gotta be more careful, El. Look at that open page. You can almost see it. What if outsiders discovered that the Bible you carry has blank pages?"
"Who cares about outsiders? It's mah followers who count. And if they see me reading from a blank page, they'll declare it proof of mah godliness."
Everyone laughed nervously.
"And if they don't, you will, right, El?"
"Don't make fun of mah beliefs. Ah don't like it. Now, let's see the rest."
Eldon Sluggard watched as his TV image recited a passage and walked off camera. The tape stopped. "Not bad. But you know, El, I don't think they had crossbows in Bible times."
"So what? Nobody reads the Bible anymore. They watch television. If they did read the Bible, someone would have noticed Ah make up all of my Scripture. They ain't. Not in the twenty years Ah've been in the God Game."
"Let's hope."
"So what do you men think? Did Ah cover mahself, or what?"
"You were slicker than spit, El. I think you got the media bamboozled. They're sure not going to be interviewing any ayatollahs for a dissenting opinion. And the American public wouldn't listen even if they did."
"One question, Reverend."
"Yeah?"
"How'd you rig it so that you got all this publicity? I mean, those terrorists acted like real ones."
"That's not your department."
"If you say so. But there are real folks dead out there. If you set this up and it gets out, it'll be like the Slim and Jaimie story, only worse."
"Don't mention those fairies in mah presence. What Ah want to know is, will this pull us through the next fiscal quarter?"
"Are you funnin' me? People are going to flock to give you money. The most fanatical, hated Islamic regime on earth has marked you for death. That's gonna get the little old ladies worked up from Tallahassee to Tulsa. It's gonna give your new Cross Crusade a happy boot in the ass. Work it right, and we could be golden again."
"Good. That's what Ah want to hear. You men are dismissed."
Silently the twelve media advisers filed out of the room, leaving Eldon Sluggard clutching his blank-paged Bible. His knuckles were white. A drop of sweat gathered in the vertical crease of his brow, rilled down the bridge of his nose, and spilled off the tip.
It had backfired. The whole thing. He must have been crazy to listen to that woman. Sure it had sounded good, but who would have thought it would come to this?
He reached out for the intercom. "Get me that Hoar bitch," he barked. Just wait until she showed. He'd fix her damned pew.
He waited. When the phone rang, he grabbed it, fumbled, and the receiver hit the floor. Reverend Eldon Sluggard got down on his hands and knees and hunted for the phone. He didn't get off the floor when he found it.
"Vic? That you?"
"El," a woman's breathy contralto voice said, and Eldon Sluggard had to pull at his underwear to accommodate a sudden physiological reaction in his crotch. Damn that woman. She always did this to him. Even over the phone.
"We gotta talk," he said urgently.
"My temple or yours?"
"Mine. And don't joke at a time like this. Haven't you been watchin' the news? Ah don't dare leave this place. Those fuckin' ragheads want mah ass."
"Not as much as I do. I'm on my way. 'Bye."
"Bitch," muttered Reverend Eldon Sluggard, fumbling the phone back onto the hook. He got to his feet awkwardly. He felt his shorts rip.
"Damn that bitch," he repeated.
He sat down near his phone, trying to think of things that would cool his passion. He thought of cold showers but that only made him think of the last shower he had taken and who was with him in the stall. He tried thinking of his ex-wife, Griselda-as sure a cure as saltpeter-but her puffy face kept blurring and that of Victoria Hoar's, high-cheeked, long-haired, and topping a body as sinuous as a belly dancer's, kept intruding.
Then he thought about what would happen to him if Iran's fundamentalists got hold of him. They would chop off his hands first thing. They did that stuff over there to people who stole a moldy loaf of bread. Then they would cut off his feet. Then while they were looking for something else to cut off, they would get around to his manhood.
Just the thought of a bunch of bearded mullahs taking a sharp knife to his manhood gave Reverend Eldon Sluggard instant relief. And replaced it with sheer terror.
He began pacing the room, his handkerchief dabbing his face.
"Ah should never have listened to her. Ah should never have listened to her," he repeated endlessly, as if the very words were a charm that would ward off danger. "The bitch," he added.
Eldon Sluggard had not thought of Victoria Hoar as a bitch when he first met her. He had considered her the most infinitely desirable woman he had ever seen. That was at first sight. By the end of their first night together, he considered her his personal savior.
A great many people thought that the Reverend Eldon Sluggard believed in quite a different personal savior, but in truth, Sluggard believed in nothing. Except enriching himself.
Growing up in a tarpaper shack in Augusta, Georgia, Eldon Sluggard liked to tell people that even poor folks thought of his family as poor. His father ran a junkyard and sold scrap metal and old tires to make ends meet. He barely did at times. But he tried. He was a good man. Even Sluggard had to admit that. He was just dirt-poor. Eldon Sluggard knew that the Sluggards had been dirt-poor as far back as the Civil War. He, on the other hand, was going to be the first filthy-rich Sluggard.
He didn't know how. But one thing he was certain of he wasn't going to work for it. His father had worked hard all his life and at forty he looked sixty, his skin all brown and wrinkled from the long hours in the sun, his hands so dirty from labor that even lye soap would not reveal their true color.
Eldon Sluggard got his first inkling of his future the summer he turned fifteen. A revivalist preacher came to Augusta and pitched his tent just down the road from his father's junkyard. It was the middle of summer and the tent promised relief from the heat and humidity, but mostly because admission was free, Eldon went in.
Eldon had never been to church in his life. The nearest one was too far to walk to, and although his father owned several cars, they were all up on blocks and missing critical parts. So it was all new to Eldon, this stuff about God. He had heard about God, of course. Who hadn't? Lots of folks in Augusta mentioned the Lord. Often by name. Usually it was after they hit their thumb with a hammer or found
a chigger burrowing under their skin. Then they sang out the Lord's name real loud, they did.
The preacher in the tent also talked loudly of God. But he didn't use the Lord's name to curse. He used it to berate the people who sat meekly in the tent. And they took it. Every one of them. The preacher called them sinners. And they took it. He called them fornicators. And they sat in silence. Some winced. He called them undeserving of redemption-whatever that was-and they only sat there like so many dumb animals. A few sang out "hallelujahs" as if they agreed with the preacher.
And after an hour and a half of this abuse, with the men sweltering in the stifling air of the tent and the women waving their fans and adjusting their summer hats for the hundredth time, the preacher's men passed the plates.
Eldon Sluggard craned his neck to see what was in the plates. He thought the audience was going to be rewarded for enduring the preacher's abuse with sweets or ice cubes for their sweaty brows. But Eldon saw that the plates were empty.
Then the coins started clinking onto the plates. The folded bills flopped. People dug into their purses and wallets. And Eldon noticed that the poorer people in town seemed to give the most money.
It made no sense.
But when the plate came to him, Eldon saw it was heaped with bills and coins. And if anything made sense to Eldon Sluggard at the age of fifteen, it was money. Piles of it.
Because he had no money of his own, Eldon picked a quarter from the plate and let it drop back with a clink. While the people around him blinked at the sudden sound, he palmed a twenty.
Eldon Sluggard walked out of the revivalist tent, one fist clutching the bill in the security of his torn jeans pocket.
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