The Illuminati

by Larry Burkett

  “I regret to announce that President Hunt is dead,” Rutland said with as much emotion as he could muster. “We don’t know all the details yet, but it would appear that he was shot with a poisoned dart fired from a plastic weapon of some kind. We will know more when the FBI concludes their investigation.”

  “Who was the assassin?” asked a CBS reporter.

  “All we know at this time is that he was using a phony press ID,”

  Rutland responded, carefully concealing the elation he was feeling.

  “Was he part of the CRC?” another reporter shouted from the back.

  “We don’t know that at this time,” Rutland said icily. “But if it turns out that he was, the American people have a right to be very angry.”

  “Can we quote you on that?” asked a reporter from the Post.

  “You can!” Rutland said emphatically. “We will not allow this nation to be intimidated by anyone, including religious fanatics.”

  The melee that ensued as reporters rushed to call in their stories was reminiscent of a riot scene. Fist fights broke out over the use of available telephones.

  Immediately the broadcast media carried repeats of the assassination, with endless rhetoric from those who were on the scene when it happened. Each report focused on the idea that President Hunt was assassinated by a member of the religious right because he was about to bring the full power of the government against them.

  When the notes were made public, they contained a step-by-step description of how the president had thoroughly investigated the movements and intentions of the Constitutional Rights Committee and had concluded that virtually all of the fundamentalist churches in America were linked to the group.

  The goal of the group, according to the report, was the assassination of leaders who opposed their philosophy, including Jews, Muslims, atheists, judges, and elected politicians, with President Hunt right at the top of the list. Their intent, the papers said, was to establish a government that would return to the fundamentals of the Bible. This message, followed by footage of the earlier riots, portrayed Christians as fanatical terrorists.

  The reaction among the American people was, at first, stunned disbelief, then anger as more and more information from the notes supposedly written by the president was made public. Their anger was directed at those whom they knew to be outspoken Christians in their communities. Sometimes it was physical violence; more often it was resentment and an air of hostility. There was a witch-hunt mentality building that was gripping the nation, only it wasn’t a witch-hunt. It was a Christian-hunt.

  With his family safely tucked away in his father’s cabin, south of Atlanta, Randy Cross decided it was time to check on some of the other members of his group. He left Harriet and Matthew and, over Harriet’s objection, drove to the local gas station to use the telephone. He was afraid to use the phone at the cabin or his cell phone, since his calls could easily be traced.

  He first tried to call his pastor; the phone rang several times, but there was no answer. Then he tried several of the church deacons, with the same results.

  After calling a dozen other members of his church and support group, he finally got an answer.

  “This is Paula,” a small voice said as she answered the phone.

  “Paula, this is Randy Cross. Is your dad there?”

  “Oh, Mr. Cross,” Paula cried. “They’ve taken Mommy and Daddy.” Even as she spoke, she began to get hysterical. Paula had been hiding in the closet in her parents’ room for more than three hours, just as her father had instructed her when the men had come to their home. She had not come out until she heard the phone ringing. “Help us, please, Mr. Cross, help us! They have Mommy and Daddy!”

  “Calm down, Paula,” Randy told her as gently as his racing heart would allow. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Some men came to our house and beat up my mommy and daddy,”

  she cried as the sobs shook her small body. “Then they took them away.”

  Randy realized that she was not able to give him any more coherent information about her parents, so he asked, “Is there anyone there with you, Paula?”

  “No, sir,” she replied, sobbing. “They’ve taken my mommy and daddy. Daddy hid me in the closet and told me to stay there. But that was a long time ago.”

  “You do what your daddy said,” Randy told her in a calm, soft tone. “They will be all right. I’ll be coming to get you, Paula. Do you think you can pack some clothes?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied a little more calmly. “Will you help my mommy and daddy?”

  “I’ll do everything I can, honey. But right now you need to be a big girl. Put some warm clothes in a suitcase. Do you have one?”

  “Yes, sir.”Her sobs were subsiding as she realized that help was coming. “I got one for Christmas last year.”

  “Good girl. Now you pack some clothes like you were going to Grandma’s house, and I’ll be there in a little while. And Paula, don’t answer the phone anymore, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.“Daddy told me not to answer it, but they have been gone so long. I thought it might be him.”

  “I know sweetheart, but you’ll be okay now. You get packed and I’ll be there soon.”

  As he hung up the phone, Randy was shaken. So it’s begun for real, he thought.

  Randy drove back to the cabin with his mind almost numb from what he was hearing on the radio. Reports were coming in from all over Atlanta of armed mobs attacking people accused of being Christians. Salvation Army staff who had fed the poor and homeless in the downtown area were attacked and beaten by angry mobs of young people calling themselves vigilantes. The Atlanta police were attempting to restore order, but the sheer number in the mobs made their jobs hopeless. Often the most they could do was call for ambulances to pick up those who were attacked. “The death toll is estimated at more than thirty, and the injured may number in the hundreds,” the newscaster said. What was missing was any mention of an organized resistance to the violence. It was as if the civil authorities were allowing the mobs to vent their anger on the Christian groups.

  As Randy entered the cabin, Harriet met him at the door. “Oh, Randy, thank God you’re all right. You should see the awful things they’re showing on television. It’s on every channel—mobs of people running around the city attacking anyone reported to be a Christian. They’ve burned down several churches. It’s gotten worse since the announcement about President Hunt.”

  “What about Hunt?” Randy asked. He had turned off the car radio earlier and had missed the news bulletin.

  “He’s been assassinated in Washington—shot with a poisoned dart and he died instantly. Security officers killed the assassin. The newscasters say the president was about to deliver a message declaring martial law because of the riots started by Christians.”

  “I can’t believe Hunt would do that,” Randy said as he sat down. His knees seemed too weak to support him anymore.

  No wonder the authorities are turning their backs on the mobs. They want them to vent their anger on someone, he thought. He was feeling both fear and resentment about what was happening. “We’re not behind any of this,” he told himself as much as Harriet.

  “I’ve got to go into Atlanta. I want you and Matthew to stay here.”

  “Into Atlanta!” she cried out. “You can’t go into the city. They’ll kill you, Randy. I’ve seen your picture on television twice today. They say you’re one of the organizers of the riots.”Harriet was on the verge of hysteria. She felt her mind slipping into uncontrollable fear. “I won’t let you go!” she screamed. “We need you here!”

  “I don’t have any choice, Harriet. I called Brent Olford’s home and little Paula answered the phone. She’s there alone, and she’s scared. Apparently a mob attacked their home, and Brent and Betty have been taken away somewhere. I’ve got to go get Paula.”

  “Let someone else go,” Harriet sobbed. “We need you here. We’re your family.”

  “I can’t do th
at . . . and you know it, Harriet. There’s a seven-year-old girl frightened and alone in that house. It’s my responsibility to help her.”

  “What about us, Randy? What will happen to us if you get killed or arrested?”

  “You’re not thinking straight, Harriet,” Randy scolded her. “We’re Christians and these are our friends. Now’s the time when we need each other the most. What if Matt was all alone and scared in our home? Wouldn’t you want Brent to help him?”

  The thought of her son frightened and alone at home with both of them gone snapped Harriet back to reality. “Of course, you’re right, Randy. You have to help Paula.We’ll go with you.”

  “No!” he said emphatically. “That won’t do her or me any good. If I don’t come back, you and Matt will be okay here. Dad’s old truck is out back. I started it, and it runs fine. He left a full tank of gas in it. Use it to get out of here if someone finds you.”

  “I will,” she promised, obviously trying to control the waves of fear that swept over her.

  “And Harriet, Dad’s shotgun is in the closet. It’s loaded with bird shot, but whoever you point it at won’t know that. Use it if you have to.”

  “I can’t shoot a gun. You know that,” she said, her brow crinkling at just the thought of pointing a gun at another person. “You take it, Randy. You might need it.”

  “No,” he said. “If I need a gun, that old shotgun wouldn’t help. Besides, I couldn’t shoot anyone either. I guess we’re a pathetic pair of desperadoes, aren’t we?” They both laughed, in spite of the anxiety they were feeling.

  “Yes, I guess we are,” she agreed, wiping away the tears. “And the media says you’re the organizer of a murderous mob, a real mad dog.”

  “Someone is directing this campaign against God’s people, and doing a very good job of it. But ultimately the decision will be in God’s hands. We just need to trust Him.”

  “Oh, Randy, do you think we’ll survive this?” Harriet asked as she hugged her husband.

  “Nero was the first politician who tried to exterminate Christianity, and he didn’t succeed with all the Roman might at his disposal. We’ll survive,” Randy said soberly. “It will be tough for a while, and some of us will fall. But we’ll survive.”

  12

  SURVIVING

  As Randy was driving back into Atlanta to pick up Paula, he saw the station where he and Harriet had stopped the day before. Almost by impulse, he found himself turning off the highway and into the station. Now why did I do that? he asked himself. But something inside kept nudging him to stop. He had to fight off the urge to gun the car and head down the freeway again. This is really stupid, he told himself. What if the police have contacted the station owner and told him to be on the lookout for me?

  He sat in the minivan, struggling with his decision until he noticed the attendant staring at him. So he turned off the engine and got out of the car. As he did so, the attendant ducked back inside and yelled, “Hey, boss, that guy’s here again!”

  Randy’s first impulse was to jump back in his car and take off, but again something inside told him to wait.

  The station owner came out, wiping his hands. “I thought you’d be back,” he said in a growl that Randy immediately took for an accusation.

  “Say, I’m sorry about the other day,” Randy offered apologetically. “I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble.”

  “Trouble?” the burly owner replied. “The only trouble was that stupid system. It finally cleared your card after you left. I guess you want your wife’s rings back. I’ll go get ’em.” He disappeared into an office but reappeared within a couple of minutes. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the rings—a little greasy, but none the worse for wear.

  As Randy took the rings, he was still trying to comprehend what the station owner had said.“My card cleared?” Randy asked.

  “Yep, a few hours after you left.”

  Now he really was confused. How did the card clear? he wondered. He had been sure that someone had ordered his account frozen. “Can I still use it?” Randy asked, his heart pounding.

  “Sure you can,” the owner replied, “if you have money in your account.”

  Randy hurriedly pocketed the rings and asked the owner to process the card again.

  “What’ll it be this time?” the owner asked.

  “One of everything,” Randy replied. “Do you have any gas cans?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got some five-gallon cans in the back. Why?”

  “I’ll take five of them,” Randy replied, trying to restrain his sense of urgency. He wasn’t sure how long his account would be active again. “Fill them up with unleaded.”

  “You think the Arabs are going to cut off the oil again?” the attendant inquired in a sarcastic tone.

  “No, I just need the gas for some friends,” Randy replied.

  He set about collecting all the foodstuffs the service station offered, including several unopened boxes of candy bars. Not real nutritional, he thought, but edible.When he had the minivan loaded as far as he dared without looking like a rolling warehouse, he asked, “How much do I owe you?”

  “Three hundred thirty-three dollars,” the wide-eyed attendant replied. “You gonna eat all that stuff, mister?” he asked in amazement.

  “Not by myself,” Randy replied. “I have some friends who will help, I hope.”

  The purchase cleared without further difficulty. Randy would have bought more, but he knew that the minivan loaded with foodstuffs might attract too much attention. He wasn’t sure if the police were looking for his van yet. That’s a chance I’ll just have to take, he told himself. He thanked the station owner again, waved to the young attendant, and headed out toward Atlanta and Brent Olford’s home.

  In Washington, D.C., Russell Siever had just hung up the phone after talking with Dr. Rhinehart. He was enraged as he rung Jeff Wells’ office.

  Jeff’s secretary, Linda, answered the call. “Data-Net director’s office.”

  “I need to speak with Wells!” Siever demanded.

  Linda recognized his voice immediately. “I’m sorry, Mr. Siever, he’s not in his office right now.”

  “Well, where is he?” Siever demanded. “I need to talk with him right now!”

  “I don’t know, sir. He left several hours ago without leaving a forwarding number.” She had thought that strange, since Jeff always told her where he would be, but with the chaos surrounding the president’s assassination, she hadn’t thought to ask him. Even more strange was the fact that he took his laptop with him. He had ordered the laptop with a direct satellite hookup when he had gone to Europe to work with the World Bank, but since then he had worked almost exclusively in his office.

  Siever slammed the receiver down hard. Rhinehart had told him the access codes to Data-Net had been changed from Wells’ central control terminal. Also, the computer patch that the idiot Rhinehart had put in to track the Christians had been removed, so he knew Wells had control of the system. But the screening program had not been reinstated. He had no way of tracking the Christians. He was furious.

  Is Wells trying to sabotage the system, or is he really trying to fix it? he wondered. There was no way to know until he talked with Wells. But he had a nagging feeling that Jeff Wells was no longer a team player. He dreaded the call he had to make to Franklin.

  Kathy Alton sat silently as the two men discussed her future administration’s policies.

  “The riots continue to grow across the nation,” the slightly built man next to Jason Franklin said without emotion. “There will be no difficulty in declaring martial law. With the Congress in suspension, you will be in total control of the country for at least two months. That will be enough time. What about Data-Net, Franklin?”

  Jason Franklin was a man who had had presidents at his beck and call but, in the presence of this man, he felt weak and helpless. The power he sensed in Amir Razzak was overwhelming. It was as if he channeled the energies of the entire world where he wanted th
em to go. He had twice seen demonstrations of his power he could scarcely believe. One concentrated stare from Razzak could break the strongest man’s will. He had no desire to test the man’s dark powers.

  He himself had been at death’s door when Razzak had found him. Franklin recalled the meeting vividly. It was then he had become a true believer. Even after a lifetime of dedication to the Society, he had never really believed in the chosen one—the Leader. To him, the Society had been a means to an end—money and power, both of which he had possessed abundantly. But when cancer struck, neither his money nor his influence could help.

  The pain in his stomach had become so acute that no amount of drugs could ease it, even for a short time. His body, once robust, had wasted away to a mere skeleton of ninety pounds. He had become so weak he could scarcely raise his head and had to be fed through a tube in his stomach. His physicians had diagnosed his condition as terminal, and no further treatment would help.

  Then one night his old friend, Rabbi Flom, a member of the Society’s inner council for thirty years, brought a man by to see him. Rabbi Flom’s ties to the Israeli government had been invaluable in securing weapons contracts for some of Franklin’s industries. In return, Franklin had covertly donated or raised more than ten billion dollars for Israel.

  Jason Franklin, multibillionaire, had been close to death that evening when Rabbi Flom said, “Jason,my old friend, I have brought someone to help you.”

  Franklin could not raise his head enough to see who was there, but he answered, “Unless it is God Himself, Rabbi, I don’t think he can help me.”

  “Perhaps it is God,” the withered man replied. “At least the god we have awaited so long.”

  Franklin’s body was wracked with pain from the effort of talking. “Fairy tales are for the young, Rabbi. Leave me to die in peace.”

  “Are you really in peace?” asked the man he hadn’t seen yet. “Would you rather die than believe?”

  Something in the voice startled Franklin. It penetrated his mind. He knew he had not heard the words; he had felt them!