by Ted Dekker
A thick black leather-bound book lay on the end table to Thomas’s right. A Bible. His dream of the Circle spun dizzily through his head.
“But you’re not scheduled for execution, right?” Kara asked.
“No,” he said. “Does the phrase ‘bread of life’ mean anything to you?”
They were silent, not expecting the odd question. Thomas looked at Kara. “The bread of life. The light of the world. Two of a dozen metaphors we use in the Circle to talk about Justin.”
“The bread of life,” Kara said. “Sounds like a phrase Dad would have used when he was a chaplain.”
“From the Gospels,” the president said.
Thomas reached for the Bible and lifted it slowly. The Gospels. Was it possible? The air felt thick. Words spoken by his father years earlier wove through his mind. He’d never paid much attention to them, but they spoke softly from the back of his memory, like whispers of the dead.
Or of the living?
He cracked the book open and thumbed through the latter half. Found the Gospels. The Gospel of John.
Thomas read the first line and felt the strength leave his arms. Here in his hands he held a copy of the one book Justin had left them.
The Histories Recorded by His Beloved.
Kara had walked up and was staring at the book. “The Book of Histories?”
Thomas closed the Bible and set it down. “One of them.”
“That’s one of the Books?” Monique asked. “How is that possible?”
“Everything that happens here is recorded in the Books of Histories,” Thomas said. “Everything.”
But it was more than that, wasn’t it? This was the one book that Justin had left them with. The Circle’s dogma was largely based on this book.
President Blair cleared his throat. “Assuming you get to Carlos, what’s the plan?”
Yes, the plan.
20
The crowd was swelling exponentially, but not nearly fast enough for Phil Grant. The plan had been simple enough, and the senate majority leader had come through, but time was running out, and now Thomas Hunter had pulled this dream stunt of his again.
Phil walked across the lawn with his radio in hand, dabbing his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. A line of tan APCs had been stationed every fifty yards to form a large perimeter around the White House grounds. Regular army. A full division had been assigned to Washington. Several tanks sat on the driveway, hatches open and operators sitting on their turrets. Their presence here had been tolerated only because the nation was preoccupied with worse matters. The National Guard had taken to the streets of the nation’s fifty largest cities, spanning from New York to Los Angeles. No incidents of fatal conflict. Yet.
A thousand sets of eyes followed Phil as he walked. The protesters stood behind the fence, a good hundred yards off, but their glares pointed even at that distance. The people were a combination of I-told-you-so end-of-the worlders, antigovernment activists, and a surprising number of regular citizens who had connected with Mike Orear and decided that adopting a cause—no matter how practical—was better than sitting at home waiting to die.
Dwight Olsen kept up with Phil’s even stride. Phil looked at the opposition leader. The man was oblivious to the real game here, but his hatred for the president had made him an easy pawn.
“We’re down to the wire,” Phil said. “Tomorrow at the latest. If you can’t pull this off, the president’s going to try something stupid. You understand that, right?”
“You’ve said that before, but you know I can’t force this. I can’t imagine the president starting a war. He and I may not see eye to eye, but he’s not a fool.”
“That’s the point; we can’t let him start a war. It’s too late for that. Our whole purpose here is to prevent a war.”
They approached the front lines of the protest. Mike Orear walked toward them, looking haggard. Dozens of well-known politicians were involved in getting out the protest, but the world’s eyes were focused on this one man.
Phil had slipped the suggestion to Theresa on the flight back from Bangkok, and she’d listened intently. They had to give the people a heads-up, and the only way to do it without breaking the president’s confidence was to bring in someone who might make the decision to go public on his own. Someone like her boyfriend, who had broad media access. If she hadn’t taken the bait so quickly, Phil would have used any of several other leads he had working. The trick had been to hold back the news long enough to let Fortier secure his grip on France. When the news finally broke, they needed it to break big.
Orear grinned and ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “Impressed?”
“Mike, I’d like you to meet Phil Grant, director of the CIA,” Dwight Olsen said.
They shook hands. “Quite a show you’re putting on, Mike.”
“It’s all the people, not me. I’m sure it’s an inconvenience for all you political jocks, but the world is obviously way beyond considerations of convenience, isn’t it?”
Phil glanced at Olsen. “Well, that’s just the thing, Mike,” the senator said. “We’re not so sure your vigil is such an inconvenience after all.”
Mike gave him a blank stare.
“In fact, after a careful analysis, we’ve concluded that it just might be the only thing that has any chance of shifting the balance in this game.”
“You mean forcing the president to come clean.”
Phil grinned. He took Mike’s arm and directed him away from the security lines. “Not exactly. Can I count on your complete confidence?”
Olsen walked beside them.
“It depends.”
“That’s not good enough,” Phil said. “This is beyond any one man now; surely you understand that. The decisions made in the next few days will determine the fate of hundreds of millions.”
“Then you’re talking about changing the president’s mind.”
Bingo.
“We’re running out of time.”
“And the public doesn’t have a clue what’s really going on,” Mike said. “That’s the whole point of this vigil, isn’t it? The public’s right to know. And how do you suggest we change what we don’t know?”
“I’ll tell you what the president’s planning,” Phil said. “But I need your complete confidence; I’m sure you understand that.”
“Fine. If I think you’re shooting straight with me, you’ll have my confidence. But don’t think I won’t tell the people what they deserve to know. I won’t betray their trust.”
“I’m not talking of betraying the people. I’m talking about serving them. You may have more power than anyone else in the country now. We need you to use that power.”
Mike stopped. “Spare me the political pap.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to trust you, Mike. I hope I’m not making a mistake.”
The CNN anchor just looked at him. He was the perfect man, Phil thought. He really believed in this nonsense of his.
“The president is planning to start a nuclear war. He’s convinced that France won’t deliver the antivirus as promised, and he’s decided as a matter of principle to go down in flames. If he doesn’t comply with the demands we’ve received, this country will cease to exist.”
“But you don’t think he’s right.”
“No, we don’t. Most of his inner circle is against him. We have intelligence that leads us to believe the French will come through with the antivirus in time. Under no circumstance can we allow the president to pull his trigger.”
Mike Orear looked at the White House. “So the president doesn’t trust the French. And you do.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Dwight Olsen stepped in. “If the president starts a war, we don’t have a chance of finding the antivirus, plain and simple. If he doesn’t, we have a chance.”
“I take it our scientists aren’t as close to creating an antivirus as we’ve been led to believe.”
/> “No.”
“You sick . . .” The muscles on Mike’s jawline flexed with frustration. “So this vigil of ours is nothing more than our own funeral procession.”
“Not necessarily,” Phil said, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. “By tomorrow you’ll have over a million people involved. An army. With the right encouragement, this army might be able to change the president’s mind.”
“The vigil is fine, Mike,” Olsen said. “But we’re running out of time. Leak the word that a nuclear war might be imminent. We need the president to understand that the people don’t want war. And we need the French to see our good faith. It’s a last-ditch effort, but it’s the only one we’ve got.”
“You want me to start a riot.”
“Not necessarily. A riot sends mixed signals of chaos.”
“What do you expect these people to do? March on the White House?”
Phil caught Olsen’s quick glance. “I’m open to suggestions. But we’re going to die here.” He let frustration flood his voice, all of it genuine. “This isn’t some massive game show you’re putting on for the people! You either do what we need you to do, or you don’t. But I want to know which it will be. Now.”
Mike frowned. He glanced back at the security lines and the peaceful, candlelit demonstration of the “army” beyond. A man in a white robe was performing an ungainly dance, whether motivated by religion or drugs, Phil couldn’t tell. A shirtless child leaned against the railing, staring across the lawn at them. He would be leaving this mess in two days; that was the agreement. In time to reach France and take the antivirus before it was too late.
“Okay,” Mike said. “I’m in.”
They lay side by side in Bancroft’s dim laboratory, ready to sleep and dream. Above them, thirty armed guards the president had called in from the special forces formed a perimeter around the stone building on Johns Hopkins’s otherwise vacated campus. The good doctor had been home when they reached him, but he’d scrambled back to his lab to perform yet one more incredible experiment on his willing subjects. His only real purpose here was to put them to sleep in tandem, but he insisted on hooking up the electrodes to their heads and laying them out like two Frankensteins in his dungeon of discovery.
On the chopper ride, Thomas had spent fifteen minutes on a secure line with the president, laying out his plan with the Israelis. Blair had quickly agreed to the bold steps he’d outlined. Their greatest challenge was to plan and execute the operation without the French catching any scent of it. Problem was, they didn’t know who the French were working with. They might never. The president was more reluctant to agree to no joint chiefs, no FBI, no CIA, no regular military mechanism.
The communication with the Israelis would be handled by Merton Gains, in person. He was the only one Thomas was sure they could trust.
“So then,” Dr. Bancroft said, approaching with a syringe in hand. “Are we ready to dream?”
Thomas glanced at Kara. His sister’s hand was bound to his own with gauze and tape. The good doctor had made small incisions at the bases of their thumbs and done the honors.
“Three miles to the east, exactly as I showed you.” Thomas said. “You have to get there tonight if possible.”
She blew out some air. “I’ll try, Thomas. Believe me, I’ll try.”
21
Mikil woke with a start and stared into black space. It was only the second time Kara had crossed over, but because of her past dealings with Thomas’s dreams, she knew immediately what was happening.
She was Mikil. For all practical purposes, she was also Kara. Either way, Johan and Jamous were asleep beside her.
Mikil jumped to her feet. “Wake up!”
They jumped. Both of them grabbed at their hips, rolled, scrambled, and came up in a crouch, Johan gripping a knife and Jamous holding a rock. Thirteen months of nonviolence hadn’t tempered their instincts for defense.
“What is it?” Johan demanded, blinking away his sleep.
“I’m dreaming,” Mikil said. “Break camp. We have to go.”
Jamous scanned the forest around them. “Scabs?” he whispered.
“You’re not dreaming,” Johan stated. “You’re awake. Go back to sleep and dream some more. You gave me a heart attack!”
“No, Kara is dreaming!” She scooped up her roll and bound it quickly.
They’d secured a new camp for the tribe, and after more discussion than she would have thought reasonable given the urgency of Thomas’s predicament, they’d agreed as a council to send three of their most qualified warriors on a surveillance mission that could be turned into a rescue attempt if the situation warranted.
Five nights had passed since the Horde had taken their comrades. Five nights! And with each passing night, her certainty that Thomas was dead increased. Times like these tempted her to consider embracing William’s doctrine to either take up the sword or flee deep into the desert. Even Justin had swung his sword and fought the Horde once. He’d been Elyon then as well, right? So then Elyon had once used the sword. Why not again now, to rescue the man who would lead his Circle?
She threw the bedroll on her horse, hooked it into place, and spun back to the two men who were staring at her in dumb silence. “Now. We have to leave now! Are you hearing me? Thomas is alive, and he’s just told Kara how to get to him. He’s in the basement of the library three miles east of the Horde city. The others are scheduled to be executed tomorrow.”
“Thomas told you all of this?” Jamous asked.
“We don’t have time!” Mikil swung onto her horse. “I’ll explain on the way.” She kicked her mount and headed north through a large field, ignoring Jamous’s call demanding she hold up.
They would catch her soon enough. The sun would rise in less than three hours, and she had no desire to approach the city in broad day-light.
Johan caught her first, pounding down from behind on his large black steed. “Be reasonable, Mikil! Slow! At least slow enough for us to come to grips with this.”
They came to the forest’s edge and Johan eased to a trot beside her. “This library where he’s kept,” Johan said. “He told you how to break him out?”
She ducked to avoid a low branch. The trees were sparse here, but to the east the forest would slow them. She urged her horse forward.
“He gave me some ideas and told me that you would know what to do with them. You lived with the Horde long enough to understand them better than most.”
Johan didn’t respond.
“And he told me some other things about you, Johan.” She glanced at him in the dim light. “We need you to dream as well. Evidently you’re connected to a man named Carlos who needs to see the light.”
“It’s enough for now to talk about freeing Thomas based on a dream,” he said. “How much of the healing fruit do we have?”
“Two each,” Jamous said. “You’re expecting a fight?”
“Do you think Thomas would forgive us if we healed a few of them after putting them down?”
Mikil looked at Johan. “Wounding a Scab and then healing them? I don’t know.” As long as they didn’t kill . . . “Why not? That’s your recommendation?”
“How can I recommend anything without knowing what Thomas told you in this dream of yours?”
“He told me precisely where he was being kept. He gave me the lay of the land, and he said that there was a woman who had unfettered access to him. He suggested I impersonate that woman.”
“And which woman is this?”
“Chelise, the daughter of Qurong.”
They both looked at her as if she’d gone mad.
“How much time do we have?” Mikil demanded.
“Turn around; let me see you by the moonlight,” Johan ordered.
She obliged him. “How much?”
“Less than an hour,” Jamous said.
“Then this will have to do!” Mikil looked at the compound’s wall, just fifty yards to their right.
Jamous spit to one side. �
��It’ll never work.”
“Then give us a better idea,” Mikil said. “How do I look?”
Donning the Scabs’ traditional robes wasn’t unusual—they often wore the cloaks when they ventured deep into the forest. But Mikil had never applied this white clay to her face and hands. Thomas had suggested she become a Scab princess for the night, and Johan had insisted on a heavy layer of the closest substitute for morst that he could find. White clay.
“Like the princess herself,” Johan said.
“Except in the eyes and the voice.”
“Every disguise has its limitations. Just do exactly like I said.”
Jamous was right; the plan was madness. The only thing worse would be to try it in daylight.
“Remember,” Mikil said, “the library is in the center of the garden. He said four guards, two outside and then two in the basement.”
“We have it,” Johan assured her. “Give us five minutes before you draw them out. And you should raise the pitch of your voice slightly. Chelise is as . . . direct as you. Don’t try to sound too soft. Walk straight and—”
“Keep my head up, I know. You don’t think I know what a snotty princess looks like.”
“I wouldn’t say she’s snotty. Bold. Refined.”
“Please. The words ‘Scab’ and ‘refined’ aren’t possibly reconcilable.”
“Just keep your wits about you,” Jamous said. “They may not be refined, but they can swing their blades well enough.”
If Mikil died, Kara would die in Dr. Bancroft’s laboratory as well, Thomas had said. Strange. But Mikil was used to danger.
“Go.”
Jamous hesitated, then clasped Mikil’s arms to form the customary circle. “Elyon’s strength.”
“Elyon’s strength.”
The men vanished into the night. Mikil ran to the tall pole fence and scaled the tree they’d selected. The royal garden, Thomas had called it. The moon was half full—she could just see the outline of shrubs and bushes placed carefully around fruit trees. The large spired building a hundred yards into the complex was clearer. The library.
No sign of a guard on this side of the garden. Mikil grabbed the sharp cones on two adjacent poles, slung both legs over the fence, and dropped to the ground ten feet below. Her robe was black—if she walked with white face down, she would be invisible enough. She hurried through the garden, surprised by the care that the Horde had put into trimming the hedges and shrubs. Flowers blossomed on all sides. Even the fruit trees had been properly pruned.