“Yes, sir,” Rutland replied with mock submission.
Since John Elder’s arrest, he had been shifted from one detention center to another. After being held by the local police, the FBI had assumed control and transferred him to the Federal Penitentiary in Atlanta. There he was strip-searched, told to shower, and refitted with drab prison clothing.
When the agent in charge entered the cell, Elder asked, “When will I be able to see my attorney?”
“Shut up!” the agent commanded.“You’ll get to see an attorney when we say.”
“This is still America, isn’t it?” Elder replied sharply.
Grabbing Elder by the choke collar, which had been designed for maximum control over unruly prisoners, the agent jerked him to his feet. The pain was almost unbearable. The slightest upward pressure on the collar pulled the confined man’s arms backward while forcing his neck into a near-breaking position.
“Mister, it’s creeps like you who use the system to cry for help after murdering innocent people. If it were up to me, I’d break your neck right now!” the agent threatened as he released his grip on the bar.
Elder fell to the floor gasping for breath. He had been through this during the abortion protests. As his mind cleared, he silently prayed, God give me the strength to bear the suffering and the grace to forgive.
For the next three hours, Elder was intensely interrogated by three FBI agents about the assassinations of the three justices. He steadfastly denied any involvement or knowledge of what had happened. Often his refusals were met with outbursts of threats from the agent in charge. Elder had no doubt that he meant what he said. It was only the presence of other agents that spared him any more abuse during the interrogation.
In an adjacent room, Robert Jenkins, the Atlanta director of the FBI, asked the Washington director, “How do you expect to get a conviction with this kind of interrogation? You guys have violated every civil rights statute in the book.”
“Look, as far as you’re concerned, Elder doesn’t exist,” the other man said. “You don’t seem to understand. His organization killed three Supreme Court justices. If they get away with this, there will be anarchy in this country.”
“I’m not sure the way he is being treated is not anarchy,” Jenkins suggested. “If we’re not a nation of laws, we’re nothing.”
“Don’t give me any sob stories. Come up to Washington and see what’s going on. Then tell me about your civil rights. We’re on the brink of revolution in this country, and groups like this CRC want to push us over the edge.”
“Then move him out of Atlanta. I won’t tolerate any more brutality to a prisoner in my district. I don’t care what he’s accused of.”
“We’ll move him, but not until I get word from the Bureau.”
Elder’s attorney, Archie Warner, had filed the necessary forms to declare a habeas corpus in Federal Court for the release of John Elder and the other six men who had been arrested. After reviewing the petition, the judge asked the FBI’s attorney to present cause why the men should not be released.
The attorney presented the executive order signed by President Hunt declaring the seven men to be terrorists and ordering the federal officers to hold them without bond. They were to be held in isolation until such time as the president ordered otherwise. In effect, Hunt had signed an order disallowing their civil rights under an 1862 law drafted to control the abolitionists during the Civil War. President Lincoln had used it to arrest and confine the government of Virginia at the outbreak of hostilities.
“This case has been removed from my jurisdiction,” the judge declared angrily, slamming his gavel down on the desk.
“Wait!” Warner said. “These men have not been formally charged with any crime or arraigned in any court.”
“Take it up with the Supreme Court,” the FBI attorney said callously, as he closed his briefcase and walked away.
“This is unbelievable!” Warner shouted after him. “This can’t be happening!”
That afternoon Archie Warner began the process of contacting as many of the CRC in Atlanta as possible. He was impressed with the efficient system of communication that had been set up to contact other members. Within five hours, over eight thousand contacts had been made and a meeting organized. What none of the group knew was that hundreds of their phone lines had been tapped and monitored. Word of the meeting was immediately sent to a special White House line: Cal Rutland’s private number.
Rutland received the news of the meeting with uncharacteristic excitement. Perfect, he thought. Now it’s time to play the trump card. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number he had committed to memory.
The telephone rang in the study of Jason Franklin. He picked up the receiver but said nothing.
“The meeting is on for seven this evening. Ask the Leader if I should activate Judas.”
Franklin turned to another man in the room and relayed the message. Amir Razzak, known to those in the Society as the Leader, replied, “Do so immediately.”
After Franklin relayed the command to Rutland, Razzak stood to leave. “So it has begun, after all these years,” he said to Franklin. “Our position will be secured soon. Make no mistakes,” Razzak warned. “The enemy we fight will not give up easily. We must totally discourage and destroy his followers. They are weak, timid people who will desert when things go against them. But the leadership must be scattered and discredited. Anarchy must reign before the new order can be established.”
Amir Razzak was born in Israel of an Israeli mother and Iraqi father. His mother was barely fifteen when she was captured by an Iraqi border assault team making skirmishes into Israel. After six months in captivity, she was released—when it was discovered that she was pregnant. The father of the unborn child was Achmed Razzak, the camp commander where she had been held captive.
Amir’s mother, Saulif, found herself an outcast among her own people, shunned even by her own family. As a child, Amir, then known by his mother’s family name, Flome, was persecuted mercilessly by other Jewish children.
His mother died when he was twelve, and Amir became a street beggar. It was apparent to all who knew him that Amir was no ordinary child. He had the cunning of a mongoose and the temperament of a cobra. By the age of sixteen, he was the recognized leader of the street gangs in the Palestinian occupied territories and supplied illegal weapons to the Arabs there. By the time he was twenty, he had amassed a considerable fortune by trafficking arms and explosives from Syria and Iraq into Israel.
He was arrested by the Israeli Mossad after a massive crackdown on Arabs outside the West Bank and Gaza Strip. Only the fact that he was half Jewish saved him from immediate execution. He was ordered out of the country and warned that if he was found in Israeli jurisdictions again, he would immediately be executed.
Amir migrated to America, where most of his fortune had been invested, and took the name of his father, Razzak. He continued to deal in arms from the United States. In fact, his contracts were so valuable that often the CIA would use him to supply clandestine operations in the Middle East and Africa. By the time he was thirty-five, Amir Razzak was considered to be one of the world’s wealthiest and most influential men.
Within the Society, Razzak was known by reputation only. But the greatest portion of his wealth was spent promoting the interests of the Society and the concept of a one-world government, which he claimed he was destined to head.
Razzak had but two passions in life: a deep hatred of Christians and Jews, and a total commitment to establishing Satan’s kingdom on earth. He determined that it was best to remain in the background of the Society, using Jason Franklin as his spokesman—for the time being.
“It is time to implement Phase Two,” Razzak told Franklin.
“I will see to it,” Franklin answered obediently.
Later that evening, in another part of Atlanta, Archie Warner addressed an assembled group of Constitutional Rights Committee members. “We need to organize a nationwide demonstrati
on to protest the illegal arrest of John Elder and six of our district leaders. They have been falsely accused of anarchy, and the Federal courts refuse to allow anyone to see them. The only way we’re going to get help is by public awareness.”
“Wait!” one of the members protested. “Remember what John told us after they arrested him the first time. We can’t give them any provocation. The government is spoiling for a fight, and we can’t win in the streets.”
“So what are we to do?” another of the group called out. “Leave them to rot in jail?”
Soon the whole group was shouting at one another.
“Wait!” Warner bellowed from the podium. “The only way we’re going to get the word out is by organizing protests all across the country. This can’t just be a local thing, or the media will ignore it and more of our group will be arrested. Is there a way to contact other churches and groups in the country?”
Several people raised their hands and told about specific contacts they had in other cities. Amelia Frost, who had once worked as John Elder’s secretary, rose to her feet and spoke. “Pastor Elder told me how to contact all the other groups around the country in case something like this happened.”
Warner took the floor again and said, “Amelia, why don’t you and the others who have contacts come forward.” Soon more than fifty people had gathered and had begun to share information about how to contact CRC groups across the U.S. They were quickly organized into contact teams, and volunteers were recruited to call the names that had been assembled. Each group had a list of nearly one hundred people to call, and each person called would be instructed to respond in kind.
After the meeting ended, Warner was talking with some of the groups’ leaders. “I’m impressed with how well John has these groups organized. It’s as if he expected to get arrested.”
“He did,” one of the men said. “He was expecting persecution to come. Praise God that the pastor believed in organization and discipleship. We’re ready to act.”
The telephone calls went out across the country to Christian leaders in every community. It had been decided in advance that the first protest rallies would be held the following week. The organizers estimated that three million Christians would rally across the nation. A massive rally was scheduled for Washington, D.C., with at least two hundred thousand people from the area marching on the capitol.
Unknown to the leaders, word of the rallies was immediately relayed to the FBI in Washington. Law enforcement authorities across the nation were notified that the protesters planned to disrupt cities with violence if necessary. In virtually every city, including Washington, the protesters were denied demonstration permits. When this information made its way back to the Atlanta headquarters, meetings were held to decide what course to take.
“We have no choice but to go ahead with the demonstrations,”Archie Warner said to the assembled leaders. “There is still no word of what’s happened to John and the others. If we don’t do something, the government will think they can get away with this.”
“You’re right,” several others agreed. “We can’t just wait and do nothing.”
“If we protest without permits, we’ll play right into their hands,” argued Bob Bierson, one of the organizers. “John warned us not to take the law into our own hands but to leave it to God.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Warner, “but I can tell you that politicians understand nothing except numbers. If you don’t protest, they won’t listen. The next time it may be one of you. John wouldn’t leave one of us in prison without doing all he could to help, would he?”
The vote was overwhelmingly in favor of continuing the protest marches. At Warner’s suggestion, the protests were delayed for another week to give the groups more time to organize, and the word went out across the nation once more.
The phone rang in the Washington, D.C., office of Cal Rutland later that afternoon.
“Rutland,” the aide said as he answered the telephone.
“It’s under way, just as you asked.”
“Good. You’re sure they will go through with the protests?”
“Yes. The group is committed to the demonstrations, permits or not,” Warner said, trembling.
“Excellent,” Rutland said as he hung up. “Excellent.”
Rutland rang the private number of Jason Franklin.
This time the phone was answered by a voice he knew well. It was the Leader, Amir Razzak. “Good evening, Cal,” the heavily accented voice said. “Are we ready?”
“Phase Two is in place. The protests are scheduled for next Friday,” Rutland assured him.
“Very good. Execute the Judas Plan immediately.”
With that, the line went dead.
Later that day, President Hunt was meeting with his top advisers. The discussion centered around the recommendation the president had just been handed by Russell Siever.
“I can’t do this, Russ,” Hunt insisted. “If I try to cut off funds for operating the Congress, I’ll be impeached.”
“Not so, Mr. President,” Siever responded. “The budget amendment gives you the ability to line-item veto any spending necessary to balance the budget.”
“But it was never intended to shut down the Congress,” Hunt said, a little less emphatically. “What do you think, Pat?”
Attorney General Patrick McMillan sat silently for a few moments before he responded. “It’s probably legal, Mr. President, but it’ll raise the biggest stink in Congress you ever saw.”
“But it will send a clear message to the Congress that you can play hardball when it comes to appropriations,” Siever said confidently as he glanced up at Hunt. He wondered if Hunt was smart enough to see through the smoke screen they were laying down. Probably not, he concluded. What they had planned was so radical, nobody would ever guess it.
“I don’t know, Russ,” Hunt said, for the fourth time. “To suspend Congress . . . It’s never been done before.”
“These are difficult times, Mr. President. It will take some imagination to make the changes needed.”
“I can see Grant’s face now,”Hunt mused, warming to the idea.“He’ll have a stroke over this.”
Siever and Rutland knew they had won. The president was a politician through and through. He would never pass up an opportunity to stick it to the Congress.
“After all, a sabbatical won’t do any of them any harm, will it?”Hunt laughed as he thought about Senator John Grant’s reaction. His old nemesis would croak.
“When are we talking about doing this?”Hunt asked, enthusiastic now.
“Well, first you will need to get your Supreme Court nominees approved,” the attorney general said as he considered the proposal. “Since only the Senate can do that, we need them in session. Then, with the three new members you appoint, the Court will affirm your actions.”
“I love it!” Hunt said, slapping McMillan on the back. “The Senate passes on the men who will approve their furloughs—I love it. Grant will get an ulcer over this.”
“What are the chances the Senate will pass all three?”Hunt asked his attorney general.
“I think Billings and Stroud are certain. We should have approval by early next week. Cummings probably won’t make it. But that’s okay, we’ve got Anderson as a substitute.”
“Won’t that cause a problem? What if he votes against this congressional appropriations thing?”
“It’s Ms. Anderson, sir. She’s the district judge from Mississippi. I doubt she’ll side with Congress. But, even if she does, we still have the votes.”
The president stuttered a bit over his mistake. “I have no objection . . . if we still have the majority in the court.”
“We will,” Siever assured him. McMillan confirmed it with a nod.
“What’s happening with the terrorist thing?” Hunt asked as he glanced at the FBI’s report.
“We have the leaders of the group from Atlanta,” McMillan replied guardedly. He had told Rutland that Hunt didn
’t totally buy the FBI report.
“Have they been arraigned yet?” Hunt demanded.
“No, sir. We felt it would be better to hold them until we have rounded up the other leaders around the country. In the current climate this thing could get real nasty.” The attorney general began to sweat. He knew they were legally on dangerous ground. He had been instructed by Roland to transfer Elder to D.C. and hold him in solitary until notified.
“Listen, this is not Russia, Pat,” the president said angrily. “I want those people to have the right of counsel and the courts. My detention order didn’t mean you could hold them indefinitely.”
“No, sir, we just want to be sure that the FBI doesn’t find itself confronted with a terrorist army when it rounds them up.”
“You keep me informed on this thing, Pat,” Hunt said emphatically. “I don’t mind pulling the Congress’ chain a little. They’re big boys. But I don’t want this country to become a police state.”
“Yes, sir, we’ll keep you up to date. It shouldn’t be too long now.”
“See to it!” Hunt ordered. His mind was trying to focus on something, but he just couldn’t bring it together. This paranoia in the press about terrorists had him concerned. Other than the threats and the killings of the justices, he couldn’t see any evidence of a terrorist organization at work. The FBI reports were vague and, he suspected, contrived. I wonder if Randall is a part of the Society? he thought. The very thought of his FBI director being in the Society alarmed him. If that’s so, I can’t trust anything I read!
At a meeting held at Jason Franklin’s home later that day, Cal Rutland said, “We’re going to have to move a little faster than we had planned. It would seem our president isn’t quite the idiot we thought.”
“We’re close to putting it all together. We can’t move too fast or we’ll draw attention to ourselves,” Franklin said as he paced nervously back and forth. “What does Siever think?”
“He says most of what we need is in place. The Europeans say Wells’ program is remarkable. They think the system can be implemented worldwide in weeks instead of months,” Rutland commented with just the slightest touch of respect in his voice.
The Illuminati Page 10