“John Herbert Dillinger is in Las Vegas, trying to track down the plague—unless he already finished up and went home to Los Angeles.” John-John smiled. “He was always the brains of the bunch. Runs a rock-music company, real professional businessman. He was the oldest, by a couple of minutes, and we all sort of look up to him. He served the prison time, even though I’m the one who rightly should have, seeing that robbing that grocer was my dumb idea. But he said he could take it without cracking up, and he was right.”
NOT ONE DROP, NOT ONE DROP, OF THE PRECIOUS BLOOD OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR, JESUS CHRIST.
“I see,” Drake said. “And was that A, B, AB, or O?”
“John Hoover Dillinger lives in Mad Dog, under the name D. J. Hoover—he’s not above letting people suspect he’s a distant relative of J. Edgar’s. Mostly,” John-John said, “he’s retired. Except occasionally for little jobs like helping arrange convincing jail breaks, say, when Jim Cartwright wants to let a prisoner get out in a realistic fashion. He gave Naismith the idea for the John Dillinger Died for You Society.”
“How about the other two?” George asked, thinking that it would be even harder to decide whether he loved Stella more than Mavis or Mavis more than Stella now that he knew they were the same person. He wondered how Joe felt, since he obviously dug Miss Mao Tsu-hsi and she was that person also. Three in one and one in three. Like Dillinger. Or was Dillinger five in three? George realized suddenly that he was still tripping a little. Dillinger was five in one, not five in three: the law of Fives again. Did that mean there were two more in the Mavis-Stella-Mao complex, two that he hadn’t met yet? Why did two and three keep popping up in all this?
“The other two are dead,” John-John said sadly. “John Edgar Dillinger was born first, and he went and died first. Fast and furious, he was. It was him that plugged that bank guard in East Chicago while the rest of us were vacationing and laying low in Miami. Always the hothead, he was. Had a heart attack back in ’43 and went to an early grave. John Thomas Dillinger went in ’69. He was in Chicago in ’68 on a JAM assignment, meeting with a crazy English spy named Chips. British Intelligence somehow got a report that the Democratic Convention was being run by the Bavarian Illuminati and would end with an assassination. They didn’t believe in the Illuminati so they sent Chips; they always send him on wild cases, ‘cause he’s nutty enough to take them seriously and do a thorough job. Both of them got tear-gassed coming out of the Hilton Hotel, and poor Chips got thrown in a paddy-wagon with a bunch of young radicals. John Thomas had a chest problem already, a chronic asthma, and the tear gas made it a lot worse. He went from doctor to doctor, and finally passed away early in ’69. So there’s a cop in Chicago who could boast that he really killed John Dillinger, only he doesn’t know it. Isn’t life peculiar?”
“The Saure family only thought they were in the Illuminati,” Hagbard went on. “Hitler and Stalin only thought they were in the Illuminati. Old Weishaupt only thought he was in the Illuminati. It’s that simple. The moral of the whole story is: Beware of cheap Occidental imitations.” He smiled grimly.
“I think it’s beginning to penetrate,” Joe said slowly. “It was, of course, the very first hypothesis I formed: There have been many groups in history who called themselves the Illuminati, and they weren’t all aiming at exactly the same thing.”
“Precisely.” Hagbard puffed again at his cigar. “That’s the natural first suspicion of any non-paranoid mind. Then, as you explore the evidence, links between these groups begin to appear. Eventually the paranoid hypothesis begins to appear more plausible and you begin to believe there always has been one Illuminati, using the same basic slogans and symbols and aiming at the same basic goal. I sent Jim Cartwright to you with that yarn about three conspiracies —the ABC or Ancient Bavarian Conspiracy, the NBC or New Bavarian Conspiracy, and the CBS or Conservative Bavarian Seers—to set you thinking that the truth might be midway backward toward the simple first idea. From here on in, forget that I represent the original Illuminati. In fact, in recent centuries we don’t use a name at all. We employ only the initials A.A., written like this.” He sketched on a Donau-Hotel matchbook:
“A lot of occult writers,” he went on, “have made some amazing guesses as to what that means. Actually, it doesn’t mean a damned thing. To prevent our name being stolen and misused again, we don’t have a name. Anybody who thinks he’s guessed the name and tries to pass himself off as an initiate by declaring that we’re really the Atlantean Arcanum or the Argenteum Astrum or whatever immediately reveals that he’s a fraud. It’s a neat gimmick,” Hagbard intoned gloomily. “I only wish we had thought of it centuries earlier.”
The buzzer on the President’s secretary’s desk buzzed as Saul and Barney passed through the outer door. The secretary flipped the switch, and the President said, “Find out the highest medal a civilian can get, and order two, on my signature, for those two detectives.”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary said, scribbling.
“And then ask the FBI to check out that older one. He looked like a kike to me,” the President said shrewdly.
NO—because I’d be a fool to think miracles can occur in this world before somebody pays the rent and the taxes and shows that their papers are in order and the people who are running it can always tell you your papers are not in order No because there are no magicians and even Hagbard is mostly a fraud and a con man even if he means well No because I’m not Pope Joan if there ever was a Pope Joan No because like the song says I’m not a queen I’m a woman and the wrong color woman to boot No because there will be rivers of blood and the earth will be shaken before we can overturn Boss Charlie because it isn’t a simple one-night symbolic Armageddon like Hagbard fooled them all into thinking No because Hagbard is some kind of magician and put us all on his own trip for a while, but the real world isn’t a trip it’s a bummer No because the lovers don’t live happily ever after what happens is that they get married and get into debt and live in slavery ever after and I’ve got to find something better than that No because none of us are driving the car it’s the car that’s driving us No because it’s like that old joke “Balls” said the queen “if I had them I’d be king” and “Nuts” said the prince “I’ve got them and I’m not king” and “Crap” said the king and thirty thousand royal subjects squatted and strained for in those days the king’s word was law Hagbard would call it anality and sexism and ageism but it just comes down to the women and children getting all the crap right in the face and a few males owning everything the truth is all in the old jokes especially the bad jokes I’m still tripping but this is true they can always say your papers are not in order No because sometimes you’ve got to be a hermit and then come back later when you’re together No because the wheel keeps spinning and doesn’t give a fuck if there’s going to be any change it’s got to be that some human being somewhere does give a fuck No because I’ve never found a way to shut Simon’s mouth and make him listen No because Jesus Christ was a black man and they’ve even lied about that he was another black man they killed and they won’t admit it No because death is the currency in every empire Roman or American or any other all empires are the same Death is always the argument they use No because the whole world can go to the Devil and I’m taking care of Mary Lou No because look at that professor they killed at the UN building and none of them arrested yet No because there’s a perpetual motion machine inside me and I’m learning to let it run No because I’ll put a curse on all of them I’ll burn them I’ll condemn them I’ll have the world No because look what happened to Daddy and Mommy
“It’s grade 5 and moving up toward 6,” Igor Beaver shouted into the phone.
“You idiot, don’t you think I can tell that from here?” Dr. Troll shouted back. “My bed was bouncing around like it had Saint Virus’ dance even before you called.” His emotion was merely professional anger at the student’s failure to obey orders; Grade 5 is nothing to get excited about if you’re a Californian, and even Grade 6 ca
uses anxiety only among tourists or believers in the famous Edgar Cayce prophecy…John Herbert Dillinger, one of those believers, was already in the garage, pajama tops tucked in to hastily donned trousers, bare foot on the starter…But Smiling Jim climbed blissfully upward, enjoying total communication with nature, the mystic rapture of the true hunter before he gets his chance to open fire and blast a chunk of nature to hell …
YOU MAY MOCK AND YOU MAY JEST BUT AT THE LAST JUDGMENT THE SMILE WILL BE WIPED OFF YOUR FACE
“He’s heckling the preacher,” Mama said. “A small beginning, certainly, for the kind of destiny he seems to be choosing.”
“He’s heckling himself,” the Dealy Lama pronounced. “Christianity, rightly understood, is an encounter with Death. He’s still struggling with that problem. He wants to believe in the symbolism of the Resurrection, but he can’t. Too much intellect—King of Swords—keeping the reins on his intuitive—Prince of Wands—aspect.”
“Well, maybe,” Drake said calmly. “But suppose He was type A. Now, if He got a transfusion at the last minute …”
The nest was in sight. The bird was invisible, but Smiling Jim recognized the characteristic eagle’s nest on a peak only a few hundred yards above and to the west. “Come home, baby,” he thought passionately, unstrapping his rifle. “Come home. Daddy is waiting.”
Hagbard took another belt of the brandy and repeated: “The Saures were not Illuminati. Neither were Weishaupt or Hitler. They were frauds, pure and simple. First they deluded themselves, then they deluded others. The real Illuminati, the , have never been involved in politics or in any form of manipulating or coercing people. Our interests are entirely elsewhere. Do what thou wilt is our law. Only in the last few decades, as the fate of the earth seemed to be hanging in the balance, have we taken any direct action. Even so, we have been cautious. We know that power corrupts. We have acted chiefly by not-acting, by what the Taoists call wu-wei. But then things got out of hand. They moved too fast…We fucked up somewhat. But only because total inaction seemed to mean total disaster.”
“You mean you, as an official of some sort in the , infiltrated the fake Illuminati and became one of their top Five, intending to undo them nonviolently? And it didn’t work?”
“It worked about as well as any activity on that level ever works,” Hagbard said somberly. “Most of humanity has been spared, for a while. And the wild free animals have been spared. For a while.” He sighed. “I guess I’ll have to begin from the A-B-Cs. We have never sought power. We have sought to disperse power, to set men and women free. That really means: to help them to discover that they are free. Everybody’s free. The slave is free. The ultimate weapon isn’t this plague out in Vegas, or any new super H-bomb. The ultimate weapon has always existed. Every man, every woman, and every child owns it. It’s the ability to say No and take the consequences. ‘Fear is failure.’ ‘The fear of death is the beginning of slavery.’ ‘Thou hast no right but to do thy will.’ The goose can break the bottle at any second. Socrates took the hemlock to prove it. Jesus went to the cross to prove it. It’s in all history, all myth, all poetry. It’s right out in the open all the time.”
Hagbard sighed again. “Our founder and leader, the man known in myth as Prometheus or the snake in the garden of Eden—”
“Oh, Christ,” Joe said, slumping forward in his seat. “I have the feeling that you’re starting to put me on again. You’re about to tell me that the Prometheus and Genesis stories are really based on fact.”
“Our leader, known as Lucifer or Satan,” Hagbard went on, “Lucifer being the bringer of light—”
“You know,” Joe said, “I’m not going to believe a word of this.”
“Our leader, known as Prometheus the fire-bringer or Lucifer the light-bringer or Quetzalcoatl the morning star or the snake in the garden of Osiris’s bad brother, Set, or Shaitan the tempter—well, to be brief, he repented.” Hagbard raised an eyebrow. “Does that intrigue you sufficiently to silence your skepticism long enough for me to finish a sentence?”
“He repented?” Joe sat upright again.
“Sure. Why not?” Hagbard’s old malicious grin, so rare in the last week, returned. “If Atlas can Shrug and Telemachus can Sneeze, why can’t Satan Repent?”
“Go ahead,” Joe said. “This is just another one of your put-ons, but I’m hooked. I’ll listen. But I have my own answer, which is that there is no answer. You’re just an allegory on the universe itself, and every explanation of you and your actions is incomplete. They’ll always be a new, more up-to-date explanation coming along a while later. That’s my answer.”
Hagbard laughed easily. “Charming,” he said. “I must remember that the next time I’m trying to understand myself. Of course, it’s true of any human being. We’re all allegories on the universe, different faces it wears in trying to decide what it really is…But our founder and leader, as I was saying, repented. That’s the secret that has never been revealed. There is no stasis anywhere in the cosmos, least of all in the minds of entities that possess minds. The basic fallacy of all bad writers—and theologians are notoriously bad writers—is to create cardboard characters who never change. He gave us the light of reason and, seeing how we misused it, he repented. The story is more complicated, but that’s the basic outline. At least, it’s as much as I understood until a week ago. The important thing to get clear is that he never aimed at power or destruction. That’s a myth—”
“Created by the opposition,” Joe said. “Right? I read that in Mark Twain’s defense of Satan.”
“Twain was subtle,” Hagbard said, taking a little more brandy, “but not subtle enough. No, the myth was not created by the opposition. It was created by our founder himself.”
“Wilde should be alive,” Joe said admiringly. “He was so proud of himself, setting paradox on top of paradox until he had a nice three- or four- or five-story house of contradictions built up. He should see the skyscrapers you create.”
“You never disappoint me,” Hagbard said. “If they ever hang you, you’ll be arguing about whether the rope really exists until the last minute. That’s why I picked you, all those years ago, and programmed you for the role you’d play tonight. Only a man whose father was an ex-Moslem, and who was himself an ex-Catholic and an ex-engineering student, would have the required complexity. Anyway, to return to the libretto, as an old friend of mine used to say, the error of Weishaupt and Hitler and Stalin and the Saures was to believe the propaganda our founder spread against himself—that, and believing they were in communication with him, when they were only in communication with a nasty part of their own unconscious minds. There was no evil spirit misleading them. They were misleading themselves. And we were trailing along behind, trying to keep them from causing too much harm. Finally, in the early 1960s—after a certain fuckup in Dallas convinced me that things were getting out of hand—I contacted the Five directly. Since I knew the real secrets of magic and they only had distortions, it was easy to convince them that I was an emissary from those beings whom they call the Secret Chiefs or the Great Old Ones or the Shining Ones. Being half crazy, they reacted in a way I had not expected. They all abdicated and appointed me and the four Saures as their successors. They decided that we’re entering the age of Horus, the child-god, and that youth should be given a chance to run things—hence, the promotion of the Saures. They threw me in because I seemed to know what I was talking about. But then came the real problem: I couldn’t convince the Saures of anything. Those pig-headed kids wouldn’t believe a word I said. They told me I was over thirty and untrustworthy. I told you the truth was out in the open all the time; anybody with eyes in his head should have been able to interpret what’s been happening since the early 1960s. The great and dreaded Illuminati of the past had fallen into the control of a bunch of ignorant and malicious kids. The age of the crowned and conquering child.”
“And you think the old and wise should rule?” Joe asked. “That doesn’t fit your character. This has to be an
other put-on.”
“I don’t think anybody should rule,” Hagbard said. “All I’m doing—all the Higher Order of the , has ever tried to do—is communicate with people, in spite of their biases and fears. Not to rule them. And what we’re trying to communicate—the ultimate secret, the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life—is just the power of the word No. We are people who have said Non serviam, and we’re trying to teach others to say it. Drake was one of us spiritually but never understood it. If we can’t find immortality, we can make a damned good try. If we can’t save this planet, we can get off it and go to the stars.”
“And what happens now?” Joe asked.
“More surprises,” Hagbard answered promptly. “I can’t tell you the whole story at this hour, with both of us fagged out at the end of an acid trip. We go back to the hotel and sleep, and after breakfast there are more revelations. For George as well as for you.”
And later in the Bugatti, which, driven by Harry Coin, was grandly wafting Hagbard, George, and Joe around the south side of Lake Totenkopf, George asked, “Is Hitler really going to be buried anonymously in a Jewish cemetery?”
“It looks that way.” Hagbard grinned. “His Israeli documents are excellent forgeries. He’ll be lifted off that toilet by Hauptmann’s men and gently deposited in the Ingolstadt Hebrew Burial Grounds, there to rest for all eternity.”
“That will make me throw up once a day for the rest of my life,” Joe said bitterly. “It’s the worst case of cemetery desecration in history.”
“Oh, it has a positive aspect,” said Hagbard. “Look at it from the point of view of the Nazi leaders. Think how they’ll hate being buried in a Jewish cemetery with a rabbi praying over them.”
“Doesn’t make up for it,” said George. “Joe’s right. It’s in terribly bad taste.”
“I thought both you guys were thoroughgoing atheists,” said Hagbard. “If you are, you think the dead are dead and it hardly matters where they’re buried. What’s happening —you both getting religion?”
The illuminatus! trilogy Page 76