The Paradise Prophecy

by Robert Browne

“Is this supposed to be funny?”

  The question came from several rows up, somewhere near the middle of the lecture hall, and Batty swiveled his head, wobbling slightly, trying to focus in on its source.

  One of his graduate students. An angry little beignet with startling brown eyes.

  Rebecca’s eyes, he thought, then immediately pushed the thought away as if it were tainted by something toxic.

  He needed another drink. “I guess it is pretty funny. Because if it weren’t for our new hero, Eve never would’ve exercised the free will God granted her. And without free will, there’s no real purpose to life.”

  Murmurs all around. None of them friendly.

  “Without free will, we just follow rules. And what fun is that? No adventure, no quests, no glory, no passion, no redemption. All those things that make us human.” He paused. “Fortunately, somebody recognized that God’s Paradise was a flawed creation, and that Man was living under a kind of blissful tyranny. So he decided to do something about it.” Batty let his gaze sweep across the room. “And that, my friends, is the very definition of heroism.”

  “Oh, really?” The beignet was on her feet now, a fierce little thing filled with the indignation of a True Believer. “And what did this so-called hero give us? The Holocaust? Disease? Gang violence?”

  Batty shrugged. “Why stop there? What about poverty? Starving children? Endless war? The oil spill? Katrina?”

  That last one, Batty knew, was a trigger point. Hurricane Katrina was Louisiana’s sorest of sore spots, had caused more pain and devastation than anyone here could remember, and the wounds were still festering, all these years later.

  “Some might argue that the havoc Katrina brought us had more to do with God’s abandonment of Man than Man’s abandonment of Eden, and it doesn’t really negate my point. None of those things do.” He looked at the rest of the class. “Not everything in the Bible is black and white, ladies and gentlemen, which is why we’ve spent the last several centuries arguing about it. And I think John Milton himself understood this. He was a pious Puritan, but that didn’t keep him from authoring an epic about an anguished rebel rising up against an all-powerful tyrant. There’s no doubt his work was born out of a reaction to his times and his strong endorsement of regicide, but it makes you wonder if he knew something the rest of us don’t.” Batty paused. “Maybe he knew a true hero when he saw one.”

  And that was when the dam broke.

  Something nasty stirred in the air and several of the students joined the True Believer, shooting to their feet in protest, while others headed straight for the doors. Some began shouting at Batty, calling him a fool and a charlatan and a few choice names that would have made their grandmothers blush.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d pissed them off, but it was the strongest reaction he’d ever managed to get from them. They were obviously fed up with his apparent lack of respect for their faith-an accusation he’d take issue with-and he didn’t suppose the distinct smell of Tullamore Dew oozing from his pores helped matters much.

  He was about to tell them that he was simply trying to stimulate their stagnating intellects; that they should sit back down and think for once in their short, useless lives, when a familiar voice called out to him-

  “Professor LaLaurie. May I see you in my office, please?”

  And standing in the doorway, a scowl on her face, was the associate dean of Trinity Baptist College, one Edith Rose Stillwater, widow of the late Reverend Arthur Stillwater, Batty’s best friend and mentor.

  Batty turned, gave her a tight smile and tried not to stagger.

  This was not going to be pleasant.

  Poor Milton must be turning in his grave,” Edith said.

  She sat behind the big oak desk she had inherited from her husband a little over a year ago, looking as if she had just bitten into a peach and discovered it was rancid.

  Batty sank into a chair across from her. “Milton was a free thinker, Edith. He would have agreed with every word I said today. Arthur would have, too.”

  “Oh, please. Arthur was a good Christian who believed in the word of God. Not the nonsense you were spewing.”

  “He also had a world-class intellect. One he liked to use. Not everything he believed in was limited to the constipated mutterings of the gospel according to John Smyth.”

  Edith stared at him. “Are you purposely trying to get yourself fired?”

  Batty had spent so much time in self-destruct mode lately, he wasn’t sure he knew the answer to that. But he didn’t let it hold him back. “The only thing I do with any real sense of purpose these days is seek out liquid sustenance.”

  “That’s fairly obvious. You smell like a distillery.”

  Batty shrugged. “What can I say? Aftershave just doesn’t have the same kick.”

  Edith sighed in exasperation. It was obvious she’d had more than enough of him and Batty couldn’t really blame her. Insolence and sarcasm were his first line of defense these days and he doled them out with the abandonment of a street-corner lunatic.

  “For God’s sake, Sebastian. Why do you insist on being so contrary? Arthur loved you like a brother but I sometimes have to wonder why.”

  “Not enough to fire me, apparently.”

  “Believe me, I only hired you here out of loyalty to him. And call me a fool, but I still hold hope that time in a nurturing environment like this might help turn you around. Unfortunately, you seem to have gotten worse.”

  “It’s the world that’s gotten worse, Edith. I’m just an observer.”

  “An observer with one of the finest minds I’ve ever encountered-and I hate to see you waste it. I don’t know a practicing scholar in this country who has more insight into the history of religion and religious doctrine than you do.”

  The point was arguable, but Batty certainly knew a lot more than he probably should. Too much knowledge-and the curiosity that goes along with it-can sometimes get you in trouble.

  He’d learned that the hard way.

  So had Rebecca.

  “But your mind can only take you so far,” Edith continued, “and while there’s room for a certain amount of cynicism when it comes to matters of faith, you don’t always have to be so infuriatingly obnoxious about it.”

  Batty shrugged again. “The kids love me. Didn’t you see the way they were cheering me-”

  “Enough.”

  Batty closed his mouth. Sour Edith had been abruptly replaced by Stern Edith, and he knew better than to wander down that alley.

  “As much as I hate to do this,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to make this your last warning.”

  “Didn’t you say that three or four warnings ago?”

  “I’m deadly serious, Sebastian. Look at you, you can barely sit up straight. Are those bruises on your face?”

  Batty said nothing. He vaguely remembered getting into a brawl last night. Or was that the night before? Fighting and fornicating were not exactly admirable pursuits in his line of work, but he’d done his share of both lately.

  He caught Edith staring at the scars on his wrists. She shifted uncomfortably and averted her gaze. “I’ve been extremely patient with you, but that ends now. And if Arthur were here instead of me, he’d do exactly the same thing. So, please, for the sake of us all, sober up, get some help, and put your faith in God.”

  That last bit flipped a switch inside Batty’s head. He thought of the night Rebecca died and no longer felt like being insolent or sarcastic or, as Edith had so delicately put it, infuriatingly obnoxious. He just stared at her, incredulous. “You want me to put my faith in God?”

  “It was good enough for Arthur. It should be good enough for you.”

  Batty felt fury rising inside him, but he tamped it down and leaned toward her. “Do you ever smell them, Edith?”

  She looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Rebecca did. And so do I sometimes. That was both our blessing and our curse.”

  “Wha
t on earth are you talking about? What does Rebecca have to do with this?”

  “Look around you, Edith. They’re among us. They look just like you and me, but that smell, it radiates off their bodies like pig shit on a farmer’s shoes.”

  “You must be a lot drunker than I thought.”

  “This has nothing to do with booze. The world isn’t what you think it is. Contrary to what this school teaches the mindless zealots who walk its halls every day, God lost interest in us a long time ago. And that book you preach doesn’t have all the answers. The sooner you accept that fact, the better off you’ll be.”

  Edith’s whole body went stiff then, and Batty knew that he’d just kissed this job good-bye. Some people can’t deal with the truth.

  Not that Batty was a shining example of someone who could. This was the third teaching position he’d burned through in the last two years, so his record wasn’t exactly stellar. But he was just trying to cope in the best way he knew how, and that didn’t sit well with some people. Including him.

  Edith said nothing for a very long moment, then closed her eyes, and Batty assumed she was sending up a prayer.

  Good luck getting an answer.

  When she looked at him again, she said in a careful, measured tone, “I want you to take some time off, Sebastian. Starting now. And I want you to get some professional counseling. If it’s a matter of money, the college will pay for it.”

  A charitable offer, but no amount of therapy in the world would bring Rebecca back. “And if I don’t?”

  She sighed again. “Then may God have mercy on your pitiful soul.”

  6

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  She couldn’t remember what name to use.

  Oh, she knew her real name. That one was easy. It was downright impossible to forget an albatross like Bernadette Imogene Callahan-as much as she might like to. But seeing as how she had passports issued to at least a dozen different identities, she sometimes felt as if she needed a Rolodex implanted in her brain just to keep track of…

  . . . Wait now.

  Stephanie.

  Stephanie Hathaway.

  Twenty-nine years old, newly divorced, using her alimony to travel the world. Had a layover in Dallas before heading into Miami where she spent the weekend at the Viceroy. Thought South Beach was pretentious and overpriced, but shopped there anyway.

  Was that the one?

  She was pretty sure it was.

  Standing at the airport ticketing kiosk, she tuned out a lobby full of anxious travelers, then hit the touch screen and began keying in the letters:

  H-a-t-h-a-

  She was up to w when she realized her hand was trembling.

  Again.

  Shit.

  She flexed it several times, then held it out flat, studying her fingers as carefully as one might study a work of art, but with none of the appreciation or pleasure. The tremor was slight, but unmistakable. Which meant that the first time she’d noticed it had not been an anomaly.

  Damn.

  She flexed the hand again, wanting desperately to hide it in a pocket or something. But hiding it away wouldn’t change anything. The tremor wouldn’t magically cease once the hand disappeared from view.

  She could think of a hundred different reasons for the problem-the majority of them neurological-but in strict allegiance to Occam’s razor, she figured the simplest explanation was the best one.

  She’d barely had a wink of sleep in three days.

  Three interminable days.

  Not for lack of trying, mind you. But there it was.

  And loss of sleep would also explain why she’d had so much trouble remembering which cover she was supposed to use. Not to mention the panic attack she’d had just before sunrise.

  In short, she was falling apart.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you need some assistance?”

  Startled, Callahan immediately dropped her hand to her side and turned to find a uniformed airline employee standing beside her. He was a short, stout young man who looked to be of Malaysian or Filipino ancestry, and had a pleasant, toothy smile-no hint of that tired, sourpuss expression she saw on the faces of so many airport front liners these days.

  Which, of course, immediately gave him away.

  Amateur.

  Why did Section always use newbies as messengers? It made no sense. Here she was, trying like hell to be professional and the powers-that-be had sent in some lightweight to blow her cover.

  Then again, maybe she was being too critical. And maybe there actually were airline employees who sported genuine smiles. Surely she’d seen a few in all her years of travel, hadn’t she? No point in condemning an entire industry with one sweeping generalization.

  But there was no doubt in her mind that, for better or worse, this young man was a colleague. And this surprised Callahan, because she’d had no indication that such a visit was forthcoming.

  “Ma’am? Do you need some help?”

  “I’m just punching in my name here. Trying to get a boarding pass.”

  The drill was a clever one. Probably a tad elaborate, but people in the intelligence field are prone to complicate things. You found the designated kiosk at the designated airline, punched in your cover name and received a boarding pass. Until that moment, you had no idea where you were going or what the particular assignment was.

  Printed on the pass was a special 3-D bar code, which, when scanned into your government-issued smartphone, connected you to one of Section’s private data servers that had enough firewalls and security traps to disappoint even the most aggressive hackers. The server held an encrypted mission dossier that could be downloaded at your leisure.

  To the untrained eye, you were simply another tourist queuing up for the long slog of airline travel. Even to a trained set of eyeballs you were unlikely to arouse any suspicion.

  But apparently today’s drill had been revised.

  And that troubled Callahan. Even more than her tremors.

  She didn’t like revisions.

  “I’m afraid this machine is out of order,” the young man said, still smiling away. “I think kiosk number seven is free. Just touch the screen and type in your confirmation number.”

  By “confirmation number” he really meant her classified federal ID, a six-digit code that was given to every Section field agent the moment she or he came on board. It also meant that she’d be traveling under her real identity, as an official representative of the United States Government.

  Highly unusual. And not something she felt comfortable with. “Are you sure you aren’t making a mis-”

  “Move along, ma’am.” The smile had abruptly disappeared. “I have to close this thing down.”

  Mission aborted, just like that.

  Callahan furrowed her brow at him, then turned on her heels, scanning the lobby for kiosk number seven, which was located near a set of sliding glass doors that led to another section of the terminal. A beleaguered-looking woman with two small kids approached it, so Callahan sprang forward and quickly cut in front of her.

  It was a rude, insensitive move, but she was in no mood to be polite.

  The woman gave Callahan her deepest, most sincere scowl, then went away muttering, as her two kids tugged at her blouse, whining and crying for more Gummi bears. Callahan had no idea where they’d be traveling to, but she felt great sympathy for the passengers on that plane.

  Turning to the kiosk, she touched the screen, went through the menu selections until she found the appropriate entry box and hesitated only a moment before keying in her code. A split second later the screen showed her true name-Bernadette I. Callahan-and next to this was the time, flight number and destination. An all-night trip from MIA to GIG, then on to GRU.

  Surprised, Callahan pressed the button to print her boarding pass. And despite the troubling nature of this entire enterprise, she could think of worse places to go.

  She was headed to Sao Paulo, Brazil.

  There wasn’t much to the missio
n dossier.

  A short overview of the assignment, a few police reports, some photos of a body, but nothing Callahan could really sink her teeth into.

  What surprised her, however, was the number assigned to each of the downloaded files. They all ended in -078, which, for reasons Section had never fully explained to her, meant that this assignment was a balls-out, take-no-prisoners top-of-the-totem-pole priority.

  Rumor had it that such assignments came directly from the White House.

  Callahan had only been given a -078 once before in her career-a particularly sketchy op conceived by the previous administration. She’d been instructed to pose as a British millionaire’s mistress, vacationing in the south of France, where she cozied up to a local businesswoman believed to be having an affair with a ranking member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

  No pun intended.

  Callahan’s objective was to gather embarrassing evidence against the senator, to help secure what would be the deciding vote on a highly controversial defense bill. In other words, pure politics of the most underhanded, self-serving kind. The kind Callahan despised, even if the idiot was cheating on his wife.

  At least she hadn’t had to kill anyone.

  Killing always complicated things.

  This current -078 was a puzzler, however. It was disconcerting enough that she was going in with very little cover, using her own name instead of an alias. She’d be representing herself as a State Department investigator, which, according to government payroll records, was technically true, although she had never once stepped foot inside the building on C Street or any of its branches.

  But even more disconcerting was the nature of the incident she’d be sticking her nose into. According to the dossier, that incident was currently being referred to by Brazilian authorities as a morte de minha desventura or death by misadventure.

  This could mean a dozen different things, of course, but the local policia had decided that the victim’s demise was either accidental or, more likely, a suicide.

  So why on earth did Section give a damn about it?

  Especially in Sao Paulo, of all places?