The Illuminati

by Larry Burkett

  “Rutland here,” he said as he picked up the receiver.

  “This is Siever. Have you heard from Wells?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Rutland replied briskly. “Is something wrong?” He thought silently, Siever, you are an idiot! Bringing Rhinehart in from Cal Tech was stupid. Wells is light years ahead of him.

  “I just got a call from Franklin,” Siever said. “He had a meeting with Razzak. He wants the screening program activated immediately, but Wells is missing.”

  Rutland was surprised that Franklin would mention Razzak to Siever. He was so secretive that only the top three men in the Society knew who Razzak was. Rutland had first met him when he was recruited for the Society in Washington, but at that time he hadn’t known who he was. The next time was when the plans for the takeover of the U.S. economy had been laid out. He still had a difficult time believing the meeting had been real.

  The man, known only as “Razzak” to Rutland, looked for all the world like Adolf Hitler. Rutland had only seen pictures of the German ruler who nearly conquered Europe, but the resemblance was startling. The mannerisms were the same, and the magnetism was the same.

  At first Rutland dismissed the similarities as mere coincidences. After all, it is said that everyone has a double in the world. But this man had the ability to know exactly what someone was thinking and would often answer even before he voiced a question. Then Rutland heard about Jason Franklin’s remarkable recovery. Coincidence again? Perhaps, but he didn’t doubt the Leader’s powers. He had heard rumors from the Society that the Leader was the long-awaited messiah that would rule the world. Having met him, Rutland believed it, and totally dedicated his life to serving him. They had worked together many times since, and Razzak had selected Rutland as his implementor.

  “What is the problem with Wells?” Rutland asked, irritated. He could not stand incompetence, and he was convinced that Siever was incompetent. He was dedicated to the cause for sure, but he made too many stupid mistakes.

  “He’s not in his office,” Siever replied coldly, angry because Rutland always acted like his superior. I’m the one in charge of the Data-Net project, not Rutland, Siever thought. After all, Rutland is just a flunky for the president. “It’s not like Wells to leave without notifying anyone.”

  Rutland sat up abruptly. “Is there a problem with the program?”

  “No, not in the main program, but apparently Wells removed Rhinehart’s patch, and now the user screen doesn’t function.”

  “Did you ever think that perhaps Wells was going to test the screen before installing it?” Rutland asked, purposely sounding like a school teacher scolding a careless student.

  “Naturally, I thought of that,” Siever said defensively. I let him get the edge again, he thought. “But he apparently assigned a new access code and then took his laptop—with the master access codes—with him. We can’t get into the system at all now.”

  That caught Rutland’s attention. Wells had always been loyal and obedient in his tasks, but he knew Wells was a genius and would eventually piece the whole thing together. Then he would either have to be recruited into the Society or would have to be eliminated. If Wells had purposely blocked entry into Data-Net, no one else would break his code. Now they had a worldwide system with a single point of potential failure: Jeff Wells.

  “What does he know?” Rutland demanded in his normal abrasive manner.

  Siever was getting more annoyed by the moment. He knew the Rhinehart thing had been a mistake, and it was clear that Rutland would not let him forget it. He was caught in the middle of a typical Washington squeeze called “blame the other guy.” The next move was obvious; he had used it many times himself.

  “I have no idea what Wells knows,” Siever replied gruffly.“Remember, he’s your man. You personally chose him.”

  Rutland was not a man to be bullied, no matter what. “Listen, you idiot, I’m not concerned about whose man Wells is, or was. I want to know where he is now. And I want that system up and running as the Leader directed. If you would like, I’ll schedule a meeting with him so he can decide which of us is to die first if the system fails. We’re in this to the end, Siever, and it’s no game.”

  Siever realized that Rutland was dead serious. He’s crazy, Siever thought. They’re all crazy! Then he remembered that he was in the middle of a plot to overthrow the United States government. He was in it, and there was no way out except to win or die trying. “I’ll find Wells,” he said meekly.

  “Good,” Rutland replied firmly. “We’re nearly there now, so don’t screw it up. If Wells has turned, you call me immediately.” With that, Rutland hung up the phone. He’ll have to go when this problem is cleared up, he told himself resolutely.

  From his cell in the stockade at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, Pastor John Elder could hear the changing of the guard. He had been kept in isolation for what seemed like weeks now. Any time he was being interrogated, Elder began quoting Scripture verses, infuriating the interrogator. The only thing that saved him from physical abuse was the executive order to not harm him. Someone wanted him alive, and relatively healthy—at least for the time being.

  During the initial arrest and shuttling around from one location to another, Elder had gotten angry. His rights as an American citizen were clearly being violated. He had demanded to see his attorney and demanded to hear the accusations against him. But, as time passed, he began to understand more clearly what was happening to him and probably to other Christians. This is not an issue of individual freedom, he had told himself. It is a confrontation between God and Satan; we just happen to be caught in the middle. Once he stopped thinking about his rights as an American and began thinking about his position as a soldier of Christ, he felt a real peace for the first time in many years.

  The only person he was allowed to communicate with was the interrogator from the FBI—a thoroughly abusive man called Morgan. With no outside contact at all, Elder knew nothing about the events that had taken place since his capture. The interrogator had dropped hints about the riots and hunting down the other “terrorists,” as he commonly referred to Christians.

  At first the interrogations had been long hours in a dull gray room. Blinding lights kept him from getting a clear view of his interrogator. Often the sessions would go on for hours at a time, with Elder staunchly denying any involvement with a terrorist group. Even when he was returned to his cell, the bright lights were kept on constantly. When he slept, it was only for short snatches of fitful rest. Gradually his defenses were being worn down. Elder guessed he was being held at a military installation because of the drab colors on the walls, but he had no hint as to where he might be.

  He spent many hours on his knees, asking God to protect other Christians who must certainly be coming under persecution as well. He prayed for Julia most of all. Sweet Julia, he thought. She’s never hurt a living thing in her life.

  The sounds outside his cell settled down and Elder knew the guard had been changed. His only way to track time was by the changing of the guard. Even his meals were brought at odd intervals so that his biological clock was confused. He had read in articles written by POWs that much the same technique had been used during the Vietnam War. The purpose was to confuse the prisoner and disorient him.

  The single factor that most of the POWs said sustained them and maintained their sanity was their faith in God. Some had started out with faith in their families but had quickly been broken by discouraging letters—both real and faked. But those who had an unshakable faith in God were able to resist discouragement, and even grow stronger. Once he began a regular routine of praying and reciting Scripture, Elder felt his faith and strength returning.

  He had often tried to communicate with the guards outside his door but with no success. They might have been deaf for all he knew, since not even one had responded to his questions. He had developed a routine that included witnessing to the unseen guard through the door. He also practiced some of his best sermons on the
unseen guard. With the changing of the guard, he began the routine again by asking, “Do you know the Lord as your Savior, Brother?”

  To his shock the guard responded, “Yes, I do, Pastor.”

  “Well, praise God,” Elder said in amazement. “Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a friend. I heard that you were a prisoner in the solitary cell and I was able to get assigned to the detail.”

  “Well, it sure is good to hear a friendly voice again. Can you tell me what is happening?”

  “It’s like the whole country has gone mad, Pastor. Since the president was assassinated, mobs have been roaming the streets looting and raping.”

  “You said the president was assassinated?” Elder interrupted. “When did that happen? And who did it?”

  “I thought you would have known,” the guard said in a whisper. “The president was killed three days ago, during a press conference at the White House. The assassin was a man linked to your Constitutional Rights Committee. The press now calls them ‘The Terrorists.’”

  “Our group has nothing to do with terrorism,” Elder said bitterly as he felt himself getting angry again. Calm down, John, he told himself. You’ve been all through this before.

  “I never thought so, Pastor.”

  “Call me John, please. We’re all Christians in this conflict—not leaders and followers.”

  “Thanks, John. Anyway, the FBI linked the man to a part of your group in Atlanta. There is a general roundup of all the Christians there and in other parts of the country. But the roving gangs are looting, raping, and killing those known to be Christians, almost with impunity. Like I said, the country’s gone mad.”

  “Is there any word of my wife?” Elder questioned as he held his breath in anticipation. He could take whatever they could do to him, but Julia was another matter. He wasn’t sure what she would do if she were imprisoned.

  “I don’t really know, Pastor, but I would assume she is still free. At least she isn’t here. You can bet if they had her you’d be the first to know it.”

  “I think you’re right.” Elder relaxed his tense muscles once again. Thank God, at least Julia is still free, he thought. “Do you have any idea about the Christian groups across the country? Is anything being done to protect them?”

  “Well, Katherine Alton is president now, and she has declared a state of emergency and put the country under martial law.”

  “What does that mean?” Elder asked as his heart sank a little.

  “It means that our new president has suspended the Constitution because of a state of emergency. As the commander in chief of the armed forces, she has absolute authority, at least for now.”

  “What about the Congress and the Supreme Court?” Elder asked, trying to grasp what he was hearing. Martial law—in America!

  “Well, the Congress is still in recess, although the president says she will allocate new funding for them shortly. A select group of senators and congressmen are working with her on policy decisions during this crisis.”

  “A very select group, I would suspect,” Elder muttered in a low voice.

  “You’re right. The group consists of some of the staunch congressional liberals. But it’s Lively who’s leading the crusade to track down and arrest the Christians.”

  “Lively? You don’t mean Fred Lively of the National Civil Liberties Union?”

  “I mean Attorney General Fred Lively now,” the guard said with disgust. “He was appointed by President Alton and confirmed by the select committee. He’s my boss now.”

  Dear God, Elder thought.We really are in the hand of the enemy now. “Why hasn’t the Supreme Court moved to block these illegal arrests?”

  “The Court is now controlled by the administration,” the guard said bitterly. “The new justices have provided the swing votes. The Court has voted five to four that the president does have the power to invoke martial law in a national emergency.

  “One thing about it,” the guard said in dead seriousness, “no one can deny we have a national emergency. You can’t walk the streets of D.C. unless you’re armed to the teeth. And if a civilian is caught with a gun, he’s arrested; so only the criminals carry guns.”

  “You said D.C.,” Elder interrupted. “Does that mean I’m being held in Washington?”

  “You mean they didn’t even tell you where you are?” the guard asked. “Actually, you’re in Maryland, in the detention center at Andrews Air Force Base.”

  Elder thought a moment before he ventured, “Can you help me?”

  “I don’t think so, Pastor. At least not right now. You’re under constant watch and all the gates are locked tight. Maybe I can get some word out about where you are. Is there anyone you can trust that I can call?”

  “The only person I know of is my attorney, Archie Warner, in Atlanta. If he knows I’m here, maybe he can help.”

  “I’ll try to reach him when my shift is over,” the guard promised.

  “Thank you,” Elder responded. “I know Archie will do all he can.”

  14

  CONTROL

  In the Oval Office, Kathy Alton was meeting with Cal Rutland and Russell Siever to discuss the Data-Net situation.

  “Is there any word on Wells?” the new president asked Siever.

  “None,” Siever replied nervously. “We have people out everywhere. He must have left Washington.”

  “What about the girl?” Rutland asked.

  “No word on her either,” Siever replied brusquely. The tension between Siever and Rutland was becoming constant now. Siever was determined that Rutland was not going to dominate him or make him the heavy in this Wells thing.

  Trying not to show any reaction to Siever’s obvious irritation, Rutland asked in a slow and calm voice, “Have you checked with Eison at Livermore to see if he’s heard from her?”

  “Of course we have!” Siever barked. “IfWells shows up there my men will call immediately. I’ll get him. You do your job, and I’ll do mine!”

  “Easy, Dr. Siever,” the president said. “I asked Cal to ride herd on this problem. You will remember he has my full authority. We need to find Wells before something more serious develops. We have too much at stake to allow any problems at this point.”

  Siever knew he had been outmaneuvered by Rutland again. He felt depressed and deflated. “I’ll do what I can,” he responded dejectedly.

  “You’ll do better than that, Siever!” President Alton said sharply. “You will remember what is at stake here. We are talking about the future of the world. This is a battle we cannot afford to lose. We will not allow anyone to stand in the way. Remember that!”

  Siever dropped his head. He was defeated. And he knew it. He had hoped President Alton might not rely as much on Rutland, but it seemed she trusted him totally. He was genuinely frightened for the second time in his life. He knew Rutland had directed Hunt’s assassination. But even if he wanted to tell someone, who would it be?

  Siever laid awake for hours that night, trying to think of an answer for his predicament. When he finally fell asleep, he became immersed in a familiar nightmare—one that had dogged him since one evening when he was eleven years old.

  His father had been drinking heavily as usual and began arguing with Russ’s seventeen-year-old brother, Ryan, about the loud rock music he had been playing. The elder Siever began destroying Ryan’s CDs. The argument quickly dissolved into a minor shoving match and a major swearing match. Finally the father grabbed Ryan’s stereo and threatened to smash it on the concrete driveway outside the second-story window.

  Russ, who had been hiding outside the door listening to the battle in silent fear, rushed in, pleading with his father not to break the stereo. As he ran toward him, his father swung his free hand and cuffed Russ alongside the head, sending him sprawling across the floor. In a reflex action, Ryan hit his father with a solid blow to his chin; he went down, striking his head on the stereo cabinet.

  Russ’ mother came running into the bedroom ju
st in time to see her husband hit the floor, blood streaming out of the wound on his head. The scene was chaos with Russ crying and blood covering the carpet.

  “Ryan, what happened?” his mother screamed as she knelt down by her husband.

  “He hit Russ,” a defiant Ryan said angrily. “I just hit him back. I didn’t mean to hurt him. But he’d better not hit Russ again.”

  Just then his father made a moaning sound and started trying to get up. The wound to his scalp was bleeding profusely but was not a serious injury. He looked up at his oldest son. “You get out of my house!” he growled through clenched teeth. “I don’t ever want to see you again. You’re straight from hell—you’re a demon!”

  Ryan’s mother tried to intercede, “No, Roy, he didn’t mean it.”

  “I want you out of my house, you devil,” the father ordered now that he had regained some of his strength.

  “I’ll go,” Ryan responded defiantly. “I don’t need any more of your phony religion anyway. You’re just a falling-down drunk, looking for somebody to save you from your own stupidity.” With that, he picked up his jacket and the keys to his Corvette—a present for his sixteenth birthday.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” his father snarled. “I paid for that car. You leave it here.”

  “It’s my car. You gave it to me,” Ryan protested.

  “Well it’s still in my name, and if you take it out of this driveway, I’ll have you arrested for car theft!”

  “Keep your car! I don’t need anything you’ve got!” Ryan shouted as he threw the keys at his father and stormed out of the room.

  Russ ran after his brother. “Please don’t go, Ryan,” he cried. “Dad didn’t mean it. He’ll cool off.”