The Illuminati

by Larry Burkett

  “Well, you should have a notice at home,” the old man said gruffly. “Don’t bother to use your card unless your name starts with a ‘Z’. I tried mine this morning and it don’t work. I just hope they can get me in before closin’ time. I can’t wait a whole week. They only come here on Mondays.”

  “Yes, I saw that at the post office,” Randy said. “That’s why I came.”

  “Well, I don’t care what letter you are. I was here first,” the man said threateningly.

  “It’s okay,” Randy said politely. “I can take it another week. I’ll come back next Monday. With the length of this line, I don’t think I could get in before five.”

  “Yeah, and these birds won’t stay another minute either,” the old man groused again. “Government!”

  Randy walked slowly away from the line and toward his truck. He was suddenly aware of being followed. In spite of himself, he picked up his pace. Behind him, the footsteps also quickened.

  “That was really stupid of me,” Randy chided himself. “I should have known they would have someone watching to see who didn’t get an ID.”

  He felt the panic rise inside and fought back the temptation to run for the truck. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. Whoever it was could catch him before he could get out of town. And with the truck’s tag number, it would be only a matter of time until they traced him back to the cabin.

  Stupid! he told himself. You were stupid not to even change the tags. Now Harriet and the others will be caught too.

  He was almost to the old truck. Instead of stopping, he walked on past.Maybe they won’t know I came in the truck, he thought. At least it will give Harriet and the others a little more time. If I’m late enough, maybe they’ll run . . . but where can they run? he thought dejectedly.

  He glanced around. The man he had seen out of the corner of his eye earlier was nowhere in sight. He relaxed a little.

  Maybe it was just my imagination, he told himself. Probably just somebody heading home.

  Suddenly a figure stepped out from behind one of the buildings lining the old street.

  “I think you passed your truck,” he said almost nonchalantly.

  A surge of adrenaline pulsed through Randy. He fought back the urge to run and replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What truck?” For the first time since the madness began he wished he was armed. He didn’t mind that he was caught, but he had jeopardized seven other people now.

  “Mr. Cross, we’ve been looking for you,” the man said. He was only of average build but Randy could see that he was heavily muscled, and the way he carried himself showed he had no fear that Randy would be a problem.

  “What do you want?” Randy asked, resigned to his capture. What would they do with him and the others? Even as he thought about what capture might mean, he felt relief flood over him. At least Harriet knows the Lord, he thought, smiling. God will sustain her just like He has me.

  “Mr. Cross . . . Randy, I represent a group committed to helping Christians . . .”

  “What?” Randy blurted out. “You’re not part of the government, then?”

  “Yes and no,” the man said. “But let’s go to your truck. I don’t want to attract too much attention.”

  As they walked toward the old Ford, Randy asked, “Who are you? And how did you know who I am?”

  “In time,” the man said quietly as they got into the truck.

  Randy turned the key and the faithful old machine roared to life with the first turn. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Head out Highway 20,” his passenger said.

  As Randy drove slowly along the streets heading out of town, a thousand thoughts crowded his mind, but he resisted the urge to pressure his passenger. Once they reached the outskirts, the man began to tell a story that seemed so incredible Randy probably wouldn’t have believed it, except for his own experiences since the riots.

  “My name is not important at this point,” Agent Shepperd said as they drove. “I am, or at least was, an FBI agent on special assignment with a branch of the secret service. Something happened to me several weeks ago that changed my life.”

  Shepperd began to relate the story of Bob and Ellen Cofer, including their arrest and internment in the detention center. “As far as I know, they were shipped out to a more permanent facility somewhere in the West,” he said.

  “I can’t believe it,”Randy said, shaking his head. “Or more accurately, I guess I can believe it, but I’d rather not. I heard rumors about concentration camps for Christians, but it’s still hard to believe.”

  “I know how you feel,” Shepperd agreed. “I was called back to Washington after that episode. My common sense told me I wouldn’t be able to make any difference if the powers that be knew how I felt. So I decided to make up a story about disliking Agent Tooms, which was not entirely untrue. I pledged my full cooperation with the roundup of the terrorists—apparently people like you. Tooms is a pig, and because of his bad record, he was sent as a guard to one of the camps in the West.

  “I spent several weeks in Washington researching this so-called terrorist group. What I discovered frightened me enough to make me realize I had to do something to help—not the government, but your group. I convinced the attorney general’s office that I could locate the terrorists’ strongholds, so I was reassigned to Atlanta. Apparently there’s been a strong resistance movement here because of Elder’s capture and, try as they might, the secret service has been unable to locate the underground’s base camp.”

  “Then how did you find me?” Randy asked.

  “I made contact with the underground here a few weeks ago. Actually I arrested Rod Wilton, one of the leaders.”

  “I know Rod,” Randy said angrily. “He worked at the Johnson Space Center before transferring to Scientific Atlanta; he has a Ph.D. in mathematics. He’s no more a terrorist than I am. Those idiots in Washington are purging some of the best brains in our country, just like the Nazis did in Germany.”

  “Hold on,” Shepperd replied, raising his arms in a mock sign of protection. “I’m on your side. I didn’t turn Wilton over. Instead I helped him to reach a safe house just outside the city. It took some doing, though. The CRC group was convinced that I was a plant from the government for a long time.”

  “I can believe that,” Randy said coolly. “I’m still not sure you aren’t.”

  “Listen, if I wanted to get the rest of the group you have hidden, all I would need to do is trace the tags on this truck. I’ll bet you didn’t even bother to steal a new set of tags, did you?”

  Randy turned a shade of pink. “No. It belonged to my dad. It’s been parked out on his old farm for years.”

  “You people don’t know a lot for a bunch of wild-eyed terrorists, do you?” Shepperd interrupted with a smile.

  “No, I guess not,” Randy agreed. “We’ve always operated within the law, not against it.”

  “That’s how I knew the whole thing was a plot to get rid of some pretty ordinary citizens,” Shepperd said. “No organized group would do the stupid things you people are accused of.”

  “But who is behind this?” Randy asked as Shepperd signaled him to slow down for a turn onto a small farm road.

  “Apparently it comes from the highest levels of our government. Your people made some bitter enemies. Someone inside the government has given them a free hand to get rid of you. Take the next left . . .”

  Randy turned down an old farm road that looked as if it hadn’t been used for years. Ahead of them the brush had grown over nearly half the roadway. He slowed down to stop and noticed that a tree had fallen, almost blocking the road.

  “Keep going,” Shepperd ordered.

  “But I can’t get around that tree,” Randy said as he shifted into second gear.

  Even as he spoke, the tree was pulled back out of the road. He drove past and it moved across the road again. On the other side he saw several men and women pushing the tree back into its original position. Others were brushin
g away the tire tracks they had just left. Within seconds, only a trained tracker could tell that a vehicle had passed on the road.

  “Who are they?” Randy asked as he accelerated slightly.

  “They’re some of your friends,” Shepperd replied with a grin. “They learn pretty quick.”

  They had driven about another quarter of a mile when Shepperd signaled Randy to pull into a driveway leading to a huge old farmhouse with two large barns out back. As far as Randy could tell, the place was totally deserted. There was not a telltale sign of a car track leading in or out of the drive. He was about to stop when one of the barn doors opened and a man signaled him to drive the truck inside. Once inside, the doors closed again. Through the rearview mirror Randy could see two children brushing away their tracks.

  Shepperd reached out the window and pulled the door handle. Once out of the truck, he signaled Randy to follow him. But as they walked through the barn Randy almost stumbled as he stared at the enormous supply of food and other kinds of supplies filling the barn.

  “The other barn is even better equipped,” Shepperd said. “We have a benefactor in high places.”

  Puzzled, Randy followed the agent out of the barn and into the house.

  Randy was fascinated. From the outside there appeared to be no sign of life, but inside, the old house was a hubbub of activity. As they passed the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of several people preparing food in several large commercial microwave ovens.

  “No smoke,” Shepperd said, without being asked.

  Randy just grunted in response. They proceeded to what had obviously once been the living room for a large family.

  Randy recognized several men and women he had met at rallies before the riots, including his old friend, Rod Wilton.

  “Rod, it’s good to see you,” Randy said enthusiastically. “How is Cory?”

  “She’s in one of the camps somewhere,”Wilton responded sadly. “I haven’t seen her since before the riots. I would have been with her, but we were in the middle of a launch at the Cape with the Japanese.”

  Randy felt compassion as he saw the hurt on his friend’s face. “I’m sorry, Rod. I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, I know,”Wilton said as he hugged him. “How’s Harriet? And Matthew?”

  “Harriet! Oh, I need to contact her. She’ll be worried sick by now. They’re both fine,” he added.

  Turning to Shepperd he said, “Is there any way I can contact Harriet?”

  “You won’t need to,” Shepperd replied as he handed Randy a cup of coffee. “Somebody’s on the way to the cabin right now. Your family will be brought here in the next day or two. The others at your cabin will be dispersed to other sites.”

  “Other sites?” Randy questioned. “You mean there are more like this?”

  “Bigger and better in some cases,” Rod Wilton offered. “There are a lot of Americans who don’t agree with our government.”

  “But a lot more who do!” Shepperd interjected angrily. “And don’t forget that!”

  24

  SURPRISE MEETING

  At the Livermore laboratory in California, Bill Eison was troubled. He had been trying to reach Jeff and Karen since that first day when he broke into the main compiler and sent them a message. He knew that Dr. Loo probably suspected something by now, but without the keys to crack the compiler’s code, he would have no way to prove his suspicions.

  Dr. Eison desperately wanted to tell Jeff that he had made contact with a group of people who were trying to help the Christians and Jews evade the government trackdown. Actually, the contact had come as a result of the arrest of and old friend, Dr. Ben Moore. Eison had to call in every favor due him from anyone in Washington to get Moore released. Finally, he had convinced the FBI that Moore was essential to the completion of a top-secret project being developed jointly by Livermore and Cal Tech: the highly touted antimissile system called “Star Cluster.” Sooner or later he knew someone would discover that Moore’s name had been added later to the list of contract personnel, but with the threat in the Middle East and the terrorists in the West, it would take a while.

  About a month after he had secured Dr. Moore’s release, Bill Eison had been sent to Washington for a briefing on the Star Cluster program. One evening he received a visitor, an FBI agent by the name of Shepperd. The agent had shown him the file that had been altered to add Moore’s name to the Star Cluster program. Eison feared his time was up. But instead of arresting him, Shepperd had told him an incredible story about concentration camps and that only one person could really help— his friend, Jeff Wells.

  Shepperd knew the risks in contacting Dr. Eison when he heard the doctor was coming to Washington. If Eison decided to turn him in, he would be on the way to a camp himself; of that he had no doubt. But while working in Washington, after the episode in Chicago with the Cofers, he had learned that a young computer genius named Jeff Wells was the one who had designed and built Data-Net. The name rang a bell, and after checking the archives, he had found what he was looking for. Jeff Wells’ grandfather and namesake, Colonel Jeffrey Wells, had been a friend of Shepperd’s father. Colonel Wells and Shepperd’s father had worked together during the war, and for several years afterward at the space center in Florida.

  He had a hard time believing that any man his father trusted so totally would have a grandson who was a traitor to his country. He had taken a very great risk in checking the top-secret file on Jeff Wells, which noted that Wells had tried to skip out on the project but had been caught and returned. It was also clear that the single hold the administration had over Wells was his assistant, Karen Eison. The file revealed that the girl’s father, Dr. William Eison, was being watched closely, and he demonstrated every indication of becoming a defector himself. He was scheduled for internment as soon as Wells completed the Data-Net system and Star Cluster was operational.

  Dr. Eison had been called to Washington to report on the progress of Star Cluster. Shepperd realized it was the only chance he would have to get to Eison. With surprisingly little difficulty, he got himself assigned to watch Eison while he was in Washington. His orders were explicit: Eison was to have no contact with his daughter or Wells.

  It was only by chance that Shepperd had come across the altered personnel file on Star Cluster while it was still in the processing basket and had not been reviewed.

  Unknown to Shepperd, his efforts had not gone unnoticed. Within the cadre of agents assigned to round up the terrorists were a group of men and women who secretly opposed the government’s actions. They had helped many Christians and Jews to escape. Shepperd had already guessed that several well-organized resistance movements existed throughout the government. Determining which side somebody was on was a little like the old Abbott and Costello routine of “Who’s on First,” he decided.

  Shepperd knew he had to do something. But what? he asked himself one evening as he walked toward his car in the government parking lot. This “Society” is bigger than the government itself. Somehow Wells is the key to their control. Without the Data-Net system in place, they can’t hope to control several millions of Americans. And without the help of the media, they can’t hope to dupe the rest. “Freedom of the press has become a charade,” he yelled out in frustration. “They’re the problem.”

  “I agree,” a soft voice said from the shadows.

  Startled, Shepperd automatically reached for his weapon. “Who is it?” he growled.

  “I’m a friend,” she said in an easy, unassuming manner. “I believe we share some of the same concerns.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shepperd said cautiously as he eyed the woman. He recognized her as the head of the Records department where he had spent much of his time during the last several days. His superiors had assumed he was gleaning the files for evidence of terrorist activities that could be used in the searches, and he had fed them enough information to keep them satisfied. But the majority of his time had been spent piecing together a secre
t organization, known only as the Society, that was working within the government. He suspected that it went far back in history and had spread its infection to the very heart of the government, including the presidency.

  Shepperd cautiously made his way to an area that was better lighted. The young woman followed but was careful to stay just beyond the direct light. It is her, he thought with certainty as more light reached her face. The one in charge of Records. It had been hard the first several days for him to avoid staring at her. Her piercing blue eyes, chiseled features, and flawless skin made her look like someone on the cover of Vogue magazine. He had been impressed that she never seemed to look up from her desk, and rarely, if ever, took breaks. He never had a chance to personally speak to her. Any question he had was relayed by one of the other workers, but it was clear they respected her, and she always had the answers to any questions asked. His years of training served him well, though. Every part of him cried out: Be careful.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said gently.

  “For what?” Shepperd asked cautiously.

  “For wondering what is going on inside our government.”

  “I don’t . . .” he started to say.

  “What is going on is a conspiracy to imprison and eliminate millions of Americans on the basis of their religion or race,” she said angrily. “I know who and why, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Why tell me?” Shepperd asked, every nerve now on edge. “I’m just a field agent.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Agent Shepperd,” she replied.“Now you had better kiss me or someone will think we’re conspirators.”

  With that, she walked up to him and kissed him as if it were the most natural thing to do. The low-light television cameras equipped with motion sensors picked her up as she entered the light.