SUMMATION

by Daniel Syverson

  He sat down to consider this, finishing his glass of wine. He'd often watched the afternoon sky and graded the changes in color as one of his wines. He did so now as he gazed at nothing through the window where the light, still a bright, light gold reflected off the fields, reminding him of one of his bottles of Chenin Blanc, slowly turning to the deeper gold of a Chardonnay.

  He ignored the ringing phone as he refilled his drink, contemplating options that would have ramifications far beyond those even he could imagine. He sat motionless, savoring every aroma as it arose from the glass. Each swallow was as his last. He held the empty stemless glass cupped between his hands in front of him, not seeing it, elbows resting on the arms of the great leather chair, allowing the final aromas, now warmed from his cupped hands and still lingering on the glass, to make their way up through his delicate and precise olfactory senses.

  The sky outside the window slowly deepened through the rose shades of his Cabernet Sauvignon before finally succumbing to the deep violet of one of his numerous vintage ports. The considerations were important, and life changing for him. He had to consider this carefully. If he played this right, his position would be elevated beyond imagination. He would answer only to the man who would one day rule the world, with all the advantages that entailed.

  If he was wrong, well, it was best not to consider it.

  But he wasn't wrong. He knew it. He'd be recognized and remembered forever as the one who had provided the chest to the Chosen One. For whatever good it was. How best to maximize this? Could he, should he, try to negotiate this on his own? He knew some of those with whom he was dealing. They were not men to fool with. Worse were the men and risks he didn't yet know. The risks were becoming greater. Was the reward?

  The stars were out when he finally rose, decision made.

  He carefully set the glass on the leather coaster at the edge of his desk, then picked up the phone, dialing a direct number he'd memorized long ago, but had never used. He heard a series of clicks as the call was being routed through various exchanges, and finally he heard it ring. It sounded a long ways off.

  He paused as the voice at the other end answered.

  "I have the chest. Where shall I bring it?" He listened for a moment. "I will wait at this line for your instructions."

  He slowly replaced the receiver.

  The man who had answered the phone was Gerhard Richter.

  Chapter 30

  The Secret is Out

  "Detective? You have a call, line 2."

  "Detective Olson. Can I help you?"

  "Detective, this is Officer Roberts up in Roscoe. I have some information you might find interesting. Got a minute?"

  * * *

  From there, the States Attorney's office was contacted, then, since it was such a high profile case, the Illinois Attorney General was called. He contacted Wisconsin's Attorney General, who then called down to the local States Attorney who would make direct contact.

  Except that somewhere in the middle, the German Consulate contacted U.S. Embassy, who in turn contacted Wisconsin's Attorney General. And with all this contact up and down, it was inevitable that others would also find out.

  * * *

  "Resurrected Man Heads to Tehran" - USA Today

  "German Rises from Dead, Goes to Iran" - Chicago Tribune

  "US State Dept Hiding Resurrection?" - New York Times

  "Superman? Jesus II? Who is Hans?" - The Globe

  "New Jesus Secret Love Child of Mother Theresa" - National Enquirer

  * * *

  Those and a hundred more headlines led not only the network broadcasts, but every newspaper across the country. Every paper from USA Today to The National Enquirer had their own take. The secret was out.

  By early the next morning, it was a rare individual that had not heard about Hans Richter. Millions now knew of Richter, though only a handful ever knew the information for one of the most sensational stories in history had been reported by a cop in the little town of Roscoe, IL, and an investigator from the Vatican while having pancakes at Jessica's.

  * * *

  Within a day, that's all people were talking about. People began gathering in churches, praying for the Second Coming. Others gathered at familiar watering holes, the story being just one more topic discussed over a beer. Still, if they looked up to the monitors playing over the bar, and turned up the volume, they, too, would be inundated by stories of either the new Jesus, a brand new prophet, or perhaps one of the successes of the Aryan breeding by Hitler. The theories began reaching further and further.

  The internet began to buzz with searches on anything having to do with the occult, with the Second Coming, with the Aryan race, and more. Conspiracy theorists had fresh material, and due to the fact that the person was German, the U.S. State Department was involved, and now, Iran, they felt their concerns were more than justified.

  * * *

  Maybe they were right.

  Chapter 31

  Joint Dreams

  "That's another one! And this one is from one of their own investigators. I can't believe he hasn't put it together yet, although he's getting close. We've got to move! This waiting is insane. It's too big a chance. We did it before, and we can do it again."

  The colonel listened patiently as the captain went through the diatribe. Again. Or more accurately, still. He had a point; in fact, the colonel agreed, but things just weren't done that way.

  In time, the captain would learn patience. Or was it just giving up? Nodding absently to the captain, Colonel Joachim wondered about himself. Had he just settled? Go along to get along? Become more politician than warrior? Was he more mature? More cautious?

  Or just tired?

  He didn't like the way this train of thought was going. He abruptly turned back to his computer, cutting off his self-analysis and the captain's soliloquy in one quick turn. He had nothing official to go on, no basis in fact, but there was no question that a variety of people had reported almost identical dreams.

  Certain very disturbing items in the dreams had some important people very concerned. And him too. And the captain. And here we go again...

  The issue was that damned symbol and the constant reference to mushrooms. There was no question the man they had been watching for quite some time had not only access to the nuclear program, no question he had the inclination to use them, but he just didn't have the political power, the official position, to really make use of it. Still, he had earned constant, and tight, surveillance.

  The difference was that symbol. When it was sent out to his contacts, it went here, as well. Obviously, he was about to make his move. Israel couldn't execute a preemptive strike as before, though. World opinion was just too shaky. They were walking a very tight line with many, and had little support in the U.S., and less in Europe. A unilateral move by them would leave them completely isolated, and virtually helpless.

  Their only recourse would be atomic, and once that was used, he didn't even want to consider the aftermath. For either Israel or the rest of the world.

  Any action was supposed to be cleared in advance by the U.S., which Joachim, like others, found insulting. Israel would provide most of the intel, the bases, the planes, the on-site spotting personnel. It was Israel at risk of extinction in a matter of minutes by conventional forces, or in a matter of seconds in an all-out nuclear attack. Yet, they, the U.S., were supposed to clear any military contacts with any country (except minor skirmishes with the Palestinians, of course) with them.

  Which is why he was sitting at this desk, and the captain at his. In addition to the intelligence hook ups, he had another phone on his desk. This one should have been a direct connection to his country's first strike forces, the immediate response forces that could be airborne in minutes. The units that had kept this tiny country afloat against enemies that dwarfed them. But, no, this phone went to the Americans. To the AWACS that circled far above, providing over watch support. A single plane with the capability to provide air tra
ffic control support for the entire region. It was they who would detect planes or missiles in the air, and they who would direct, or at least coordinate, an air strike by the Israelis. Not by themselves, of course.

  He understood the resentment and frustration of the captain.

  No, he decided. He had not gone soft. He had not gone along to get along. Perhaps he had adopted some of the methods of the politicians, but down inside, staying in the background like the rest of the country's ready reserve forces, he was ready, and would do what was necessary, regardless of the Americans.

  He felt a little better now.

  But back to the immediate problem. That damn 3 symbol. It kept popping up. And so quickly. He hadn't even seen the symbol since some math classes years ago. Now, suddenly, in the past 24 hours, he had all these reports of the dreams, not only by his own countrymen, but others, such as that investigator from the Vatican. How do you explain them? It was just a symbol. Common enough in math, but for the everyman?

  Not a particularly religious man, he was still struck by the occurrences. If not some type of supernatural, God-like intervention, it would have to be some incredible psychic phenomenon connecting these people. Or the obvious fraud. But that was ruled out immediately. Too broad, too widespread, with no way to connect anyone involved.

  Something was happening. And then, the intelligence services reported a flurry of activity, all involving this same new symbol, a symbol that had never come up before in this context.

  He had proposed, facetiously, in the last briefing with his superiors, along with the American representative and some of the other intel people, that perhaps this was a plot by mathematicians worldwide, perhaps joined by those accountants, always living on the edge, to take over the world.

  A few of them snickered.

  Others gave him dirty looks, unamused.

  And a few, perhaps most frighteningly, looked confused, not understanding the joke. That was scary.

  He decided not to contribute any more humor to the proceedings. Probably a wise idea.

  And just now, this Hans Richter stuff. Related? Who knew. Too bizarre. But the timing - things were getting just a little spooky. Too many odd things, coincidental things, all happening at once. It had taken over the entire news cycle.

  All day, nothing but stories related to it. Almost no factual information, although more was creeping in. What was scary was the response of so many people.

  He had seen groups of people in the streets demanding that Washington track him down, that they needed to make contact with the "alien" civilization he represented, helping provide food and peace throughout the world.

  Across the street from them was another group, demanding the same thing - find Hans Richter! - because he must represent a powerful alien civilization, and must be destroyed before they destroyed us.

  Then the groups on the religious shows declaring him the Antichrist. And on other shows declaring him the new Messiah. Doctors wanted to know how he came back, to study and examine him, to perhaps help other people heal from severe trauma. Generals wanted to know how he came back, to make sure enemy combatants didn't.

  He hadn't heard what Jerry Springer had to say yet.

  He simply could not believe how hungry the people out there were to believe in something.

  Anything.

  He knew the politicians would soon be posturing to cash in, as were some of the smarter entrepreneurs.

  No question about it. He was worried. He wasn't sure what he should be worried about most, or first, but he was worried. People in the streets, the symbol popping up everywhere, and now even in communications throughout a web of connections in Iran.

  The common denominator with the symbol seemed to be a man named Zarin. And he was connected, and the symbol was connected (through communication ties), to Iran's nuclear forces. Not officially, not through the government channels, but connected none the less.

  That was why they were all losing sleep. Mushrooms on the bagels might be amusing in a dream, but dozens of reported dreams of nuking Israel was a whole 'nother story. Dozens reported. How many others had gone unreported?

  Who would actually call in a dream?

  You might tell a spouse, or a friend, about an odd dream. But call it in? Who would do that? It would have to be some dream to do that. He wondered why he hadn't had one like that. Or the captain. Or anyone in that meeting. Or had they? Would they have told someone of a bad dream, or dismissed it early on, or been too embarrassed to tell someone?

  They were being careful. Their people in Tehran were watching. The agencies were watching. And even the Americans, reluctantly, were watching. He wondered if God was watching, too.

  * * *

  Perhaps God should have been. Or maybe He was. Maybe He was just waiting to see what played out.

  Chapter 32

  A Leader Elevated

  He turned to his circle of leaders. "This could be the last item we needed to move forward. In a few hours, I'll be meeting with Richter. If all goes as I expect, the waiting is over. It's not a matter of if anymore, just when, and even there, the when is how soon. We are so close. I have just now received confirmation - he held up the folded document - of our destiny."

  He unfolded it, and held it up. "The names on this roster - look closely. Who has signed off on it?"

  The closest were able to see the signatures, and their eyes grew wide. They read the prophecy.

  "Was it not as I have always said? And now, this prophet, appearing from nowhere, and again, disappearing, with documents signed over hundreds of years. Could it be clearer? Our destiny more defined?

  They sat back, nodding in agreement, looking at each other, then back at him with a new respect, as if seeing him for the first time. "This is my father, and his father before him. Truly I tell you this has been our destiny, foreordained years ago."

  Ever the showman, he paused for dramatic effect, looking at the document again, as if rereading it. He set it down slowly, almost reverentially, on the table. He leaned forward onto the table with both arms, slowly turning his gaze to each in turn.

  "Now, go, and complete the final preparations. The announcement is imminent, perhaps within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

  They scurried off with a new sense of urgency. No question that for more than one, this was the first time they truly, deeply, believed in what they were doing, and in who he was.

  He called his adjutant over.

  "I am going to rest, shower, and change before our guests arrive. Let me know as soon as they have landed, and bring them directly here." He was smart. He would be rested, showered, and operating on his home turf. The notification would give him about a half hour to prepare. He would be looking and feeling his best.

  They would be jet-lagged and exhausted. Needing a shower, needing a shave, needing a change of clothes. Even though they were on his private jet, they would still be tired. No shower, perhaps a quick shave - at best they would be presentable, but certainly not rested. It would give him a strong psychological advantage. Of course, it could play against him as well, with them considering him a rude host, but this did not really concern him. The need to present a powerful image was paramount.

  His staff had all gone. He shut the door to his office. His driver and security team were waiting. Word of the document had raced ahead of him, and the new deference and respect was obvious, even from those who had supported him all along. He rode silently home, nodding to each in turn as he passed them through opened doors, but not speaking. Finally, alone, he turned on the hot shower, undressed and stepped in. He let the stinging streams have their way, as he leaned with both hands against the wall, letting his head rest in between. Steam filled the shower, and then the room. He stayed this way for nearly forty minutes before lathering up and completing his shower. He dried off and climbed into bed, alone, naked. He checked his clock.

  Picking up the phone, he notified the staffer answering that he wished to be awakened in exactly four h
ours. Exactly four hours. He knew it would happen, to the moment. That would give him enough time for a quick refreshing shower, and time to dress. His limo and a security detachment would meet him outside so he could return to his office and meet them.

  For the few that actually had the opportunity to meet him there, he found they were always impressed. Again, the psychological advantage. Perhaps when this was all over, he wouldn't need those advantages. He laid down, thinking about that. But only briefly, as he was out in seconds.

  * * *

  As he slept, those around him raced to complete the tasks assigned. Time was suddenly critical. Everyone was called in. Some awakened, some called back from days off. All needed to be available, and certainly all wanted to be. No one wanted to miss what was coming next. Everyone wanted to be able to tell their children and their children's children how they were there when it happened, how they had had the ear of the Chosen One.

  Although the inner circle knew of most of the plans and organization their new leader had planned, only a very few, very trusted knew of the plan's initiation. The first action taken would be so dramatic, so mind boggling in its audacity and finality that the world would be rocked back on its heels, putting him in the position to walk in.

  Colonel Rashik was one of the very few who knew the plan. To him went the honor of setting off the entire event. He and his men, most of only knew fragments of the plan, were finalizing preparations.