by Ed Miracle
Tanner joined him in the back seat and called to the ambulance crew. “Can you spare a bed sheet? Something to cover him.”
Instead, they brought trauma kits and oxygen, as ordered by a perspiring white man in a green surgical smock.
Administrator Joseph waved off the doctor and the medics. He ousted the Jeep’s driver and took his place behind the steering wheel. An older African was seated beside him. This man wore a square, black cap and a white surplice. Over shower shoes. A dozen granular moles stood proud on his cheeks. He smiled at the visitors and recited, “Welcome honored guests.” He pumped their hands and made an odd gesture, a sort of benediction, and his smile expanded.
Which was more than Philip could manage.
Administrator Joseph passed Tanner a white cotton towel, from the medics, then started the Jeep. While Joseph drove, Tanner wrapped Philip in the cloth, forming a cowl to shade his head and eyes.
“How far to the hospital, Joseph?”
“Two kilometers, sir. Only two.” But he slowed as they approached a dirt road. What the rains had long ago softened was now set in endless camelbacks, scarred by deep ruts. Behind them, the ambulance fired up its siren, sweeping their backs with a pointless wail.
The Jeep lurched forward, and Philip clutched the back of the priest’s seat. He curled his injured hand away from the fluttering towel and focused on the pink rubber dice dancing on a string from the Jeep’s mirror. Fifty humps into their journey, he took up Tanner’s old drinking mantra. “I hope I don’t, I hope I don’t, I hope I don’t puke.”
Tanner nudged him. “Try ‘I think I can, I think I can.’”
Philip let his head roll.
“Don’t do that, man. Keep your eyes on the horizon.”
Philip straightened. “Okay. But get ready for slightly-used black beans and melon slices.”
The road curved through a settlement of packing crate shanties, their tin roofs eaten by rust and their odor far worse than the sewers of favela Xavier. Stagnant puddles festered along one side of the road while pedestrians held to the other, indifferent to the motorcade and its wailing siren.
“We gave them Powerpods and cones,” Joseph shouted as he indicated the pedestrians. “But they trust no one. The stronger ones pushed the weak aside and refused to share. Especially with tribes not their own. We will bring Makers to the outcasts again until everyone understands.”
The motorcade emerged from the stench and approached a metal grillwork embedded in a low wall. Just inside a cast iron arch hung the green-white-green Nigerian flag, limp on one pole, with the banner of Chrislam on another. They entered and—mercifully—the siren stopped.
To the left, scores of half-finished bungalows straddled hand-dug ditches in which lay black pipes, white pipes, and blue ones. Building materials lay scattered among the weeds. Beyond the houses, an equal number of tents gathered around a thatched barn, their canvas flaps pinned to catch breezes.
To the right, row crops abutted a rice paddy, which gave way to an orchard of saplings. Then zinc-roofed pens containing cows, goats, and chickens. The convoy passed an ancient tractor hitched to a sway-back wagon, plus five derelict trucks. The lane angled around a crypt-like monument, a tile-roofed residence, and approached a beige, institutional building.
Immediately, scores of men, women, and children, all dressed in fresh, new clothes, converged on the visitors. Someone shouted, “Machen,” and they swarmed forward, smiling and waving their Cambiars. Administrator Joseph slowed as people meandered on the road like cattle. His warning honks only brought them closer. The Jeep crawled forward as women in wrap-around dresses laid palm fronds on the pavement ahead.
“They saw you on the internet,” Joseph said to Philip. “The whole world saw your sacrifice for the little one.” Palm fronds snapped and crunched beneath the tires.
But I failed. Philip tried to wave them off until Tanner pulled down his arm.
“Use the other one,” he said.
Philip hoisted his bandaged left hand, and the crowd burst into shouts and cheers. Wide-eyed children paced the Jeep, chanting, “Mock-en, Mock-en,” until it stopped at the beige building and its gleaming glass doors.
Men in lavender dashiki shirts encircled the Jeep and pushed back the crowd. Cambiars bobbed and winked to photograph the hero. It seemed an acre of smiles had blossomed, with adults lifting children to see.
Philip gazed at their faces, absorbed their joy, and fought his panic. He stood from his seat, clutched the roll bar, and hoped not to faint. Then, raising his authenticating hand, he dared to bow. Someone tugged the towel from his head, and he stood revealed.
The crowd cheered and leaped and applauded. Some of them wore T-shirts emblazoned with tri-cone Maker silhouettes. They bestowed congratulatory pats and hugs on each other and continued to chant, “Mock-en, Mock-en, Mock-en.”
The priest in the front seat gripped the top of the windshield and labored to stand. He balanced and stretched his arms before the crowd. He quieted them with waggling fingers, then made a benediction.
“Amen, Inshallah,” he said.
A scorching hot breeze stole parts of their response. “Amen, Inshallah.”
The dashiki brigade helped Philip dismount. They cleared a path to the hospital, the Leonard Machen Memorial Clinic. When the glass doors shut behind him in the cool, bright interior, the crowd pressed fingers and noses to the glass.
He waved with the hand that ached and tingled, its flesh and sinews throbbing with ancient stardust. The clock showed 4:46 p.m., as illness seized him and his knees buckled.
Philip awoke dry-mouthed and dumbfounded, no longer in pain. He did not recall collapsing, as they said he had, before the surgery. Now in the morning after, only a fever persisted from that slaughterhouse table and Kojo’s chicken-chopper. Treatable sepsis, the staff said, not Brazilian dengue. The gruff European doctor assured him he would survive, but Philip knew it already. His mind was clear, and his strength was returning.
He breakfasted on porridge and toast, downed a pint of sweet milk, and asked the nurse to part the curtains. She curtseyed before drawing the linen from a six-pane window. She curtseyed again and departed. Philip hoped her gestures were just a local custom.
Tanner arrived freshly shaved, almost human. He knuckled Philip’s shoulder.
“Good morning, Bwana. How do you like the safari, so far?”
In another time and circumstance, they both would have laughed.
Tanner forced a smile that sagged away. “Mariela has the dengue.”
Philip caught his breath. He choked and turned away. “Tell me.”
“She’s with her family and getting the best care.”
Philip met his friend’s eyes.
“Alive is good. What about Otavio?”
Tanner tapped the Cambiar in his pocket. “From his hospital bed, he says you owe him lunch. Sometime.”
Philip nodded. He turned to the window. Across an empty courtyard, the Chrislam chapel gleamed smooth and white, as oblivious to suffering as the stone from which it was built. Then onto a footpath flowed a dozen men in lavender dashikis. They trotted the court perimeter, clockwise, hands clasped to their chests. Once, twice, three times they circled, before pad-padding away, barefoot.
“Running deliverance,” Administrator Joseph announced. He strode into the room also wearing a dashiki but over blue jeans and cowboy boots. “They prayed for you,” he said.
Then he noticed their faces. “What has happened?”
Tanner shook his head. “Our friends, back in Sao Paulo.” He laid a bundle of clothes on the bed, and told Philip, “Admin Joe and the old guy want us to stick around, but Chuck and I think we better get going. Before certain people spoil everyone’s day.”
“How long?”
Tanner shrugged. “Troops or cops, take your pick.” He pointed to the ceiling. “They know we are here.”
Joseph wrung his hands. “Gentlemen, I am very sorry about the little girl, but stay with us, please. We owe you so mu
ch.” He spread his hands. “Here on our land, the corruption no longer touches us. Thanks be to God—and to you—we serve the Lord with new hope. Even the belligerent imams of the north have proclaimed your machines to be a gift from Allah. They scorn your ways, but secretly they would kiss your hand. I have heard them say this.”
Philip glanced away. “Joseph, your people deserve everything they are building here. Your enclave is an inspiration for more to come. Which is why we must go.”
“Stay, I beg you, sir. We are strong. We have shelters and weapons. Let us defend you. The Army won’t leave the capital, and our neighbors fear us. You are safe here.”
Philip pushed himself up.
“No, Joseph, not one life. Neither yours nor theirs. Tell your people they are beautiful and gracious, and we thank them.” He slipped the covers, swung his pale white landing gear over the edge. “We must not endanger you.” He loosened Tanner’s bundle, unfurled the pants and the shirt.
Joseph squirmed in his boots.
“Sir, before you go, The Prophet requests the honor of an audience.”
Tanner tapped his watch, shook his head.
Philip nodded, continued dressing. “Five minutes, Joseph.”
Relief flashed over the administrator.
“One moment,” he said. He drew a Cambiar from his tunic and spoke in an African tongue. He gestured as if the person he spoke to could see him. Abruptly he nodded and tucked the phone away. “Five minutes,” he said. “Follow me, please.”
He led them out from the hospital, across a wooden breezeway, to a screened sitting room of the adjoining residence, furnished with wicker chairs and overstuffed sofas. Grime-encrusted fans stirred the heavy air over the priest, who awaited them in full regalia. His brilliant green vestments seemed to float on layers of white satin. For him to sit would ruin an hour of his valet’s meticulous work. Behind the priest, a video camera stood on a tripod, directed at an altar where a golden crucifix merged with a golden crescent. To the right, a second camera focused on the stage curtains behind the priest.
“Gentlemen, may I present The Prophet, Third Patriarch of Chrislam, His Holy Royal Highness, Libor Tella.” Joseph bowed to the priest.
Philip put his hands to his chest as he had seen the courtyard joggers do, but he did not bow.
Tella’s moles bobbled happily on his cheeks.
Joseph pronounced the visitors’ names then translated Tella’s words.
“You are the Mock-en? The one who gives us land and a hospital?”
Philip nodded.
“The one who blesses the poor with abundance from a three-headed machine?”
“I am.”
“You are not a god?”
Philip shook his head. “No.”
“What is your faith, my brother? What guides you?”
Into the priest’s stern gaze, Philip said, “I believe justice, morality, and freedom cannot be enacted without sufficient and universal means. I intend to bestow those means on all who will take up the responsibility of caring for each other. That is my faith.” He offered his left hand in testament, while his mind filled with faces—Nigerian, Brazilian, and those of his family.
Tella noted the bandages but focused on Philip’s scar. “Our visions foretell the coming of a divine messenger,” he said. “An emissary in white raiment, a bearer of glad tidings. The apocalypse is rescinded. There will be no rapture. And Allah who is God shall reign on Earth during our lifetimes. All peoples shall be saved. All peoples, not just Muslims and Christians. The emissary will prepare us for His return. We shall know this messenger by his bountiful gifts, and by a mark.” Tella pushed back his sleeve and raised his hand. “During holy benediction,” he said, revealing his tattoo, “the V becomes an A. The mark of Antiochus.”
He pointed to Philip’s wrist, clapped his hands, and spread his arms. Joy radiated from his face. He hugged Philip and began jumping up and down, urging him to hop, as well. “You are the one. You are the one.”
Philip refused to pogo, so the priest released him and turned to the curtain. He drew it open, revealing two golden thrones, each with the Chrislam logo embroidered in gold on blue cushions.
Philip stared in silence until Tella’s gaze hardened. “You deny the prophets, yet you wish to move our hearts. Whom do you serve?”
Philip stiffened. “We serve each other, we who build the new ways.”
Tella pointed upward. “You are a mortal son of Yahweh, servant to Allah upon His Earth.” He pointed down. “This I know. Why do you not know it also?”
Joseph stopped translating, said something that made Tella scowl. The priest raised his palm, imperious. He ordered Joseph to continue.
“You are the instrument of God,” he said, “sent to deliver us from the evils of scarcity, the sins of hoarding. Open your eyes, Lord Mock-en. Accept who you are. Like me, you are His prophet. A greater prophet than I, for bringing gifts from heaven. Let us proclaim your prophecy.” Tella indicated the thrones and the cameras. “Together we shall spread Allah’s gifts, and honor His revelations.”
He raised his green-silk wings and spread them wide. His entire face smiled.
Philip accepted the old theist’s warmth and humanity and longed to express the gratitude swelling in his throat, but he could not wrap himself in make-believe. Though it would be so much easier than birthing a new moral vision without shortcuts. The temptations had briefly occurred to him in Brazil, and now again here—the adoration, the glory, and the immunity on offer. He could be a saint, a god, a deity. If only he would play that game.
“My brother,” he said, “I honor your compassion and your good will. Your community is an inspiration for all the world. Tell your people I love them. However, our mission lies elsewhere, and we must go. Thank you for your kind hospitality. I hope we shall meet again.” He offered his good hand.
The priest dropped his arms, dismayed. But he gripped Philip’s hand in both of his and bowed to him. Then he clasped his palms to his chest, lifted his gaze to Philip, and pronounced, “Welcome honored guests. Amen, Inshallah.”
Joseph backed from the Patriarch. He turned and led his guests outside, into the oppressive Nigerian heat. As they rushed to the Jeep, he said, “His Holiness meant no offense, sir.”
“None was taken,” Philip said. He touched the man’s sleeve. “Thank you, Joseph. You are a good man.”
They shook hands.
Across the dusty street came a jittery fellow in a sweat-stained frock.
“Administrator,” he called.
Joseph stopped, one foot in the car.
“There is a coup, Joseph. The Army has sealed the capital. Muslims and Christians are barricading their neighborhoods. They say it is civil war.”
Joseph digested this. “Are they shooting? Do you know?”
The man shook his head. “My sister left the city. She did not say about shooting. May I bring her here, sir?”
“Yes.” Joseph nodded. “I will return in twenty minutes. Alert His Highness. Tell the others.”
Philip surveyed the hospital, the crops, the men building houses. Two sentinel Makers stood nearby, surrounded by bricks and pipe and lumber. He wanted a peaceful future for these people. He wished he could help them deflect the angry winds blowing down from the North.
Now in the back seat, Tanner squinted at the clear blue sky and spoke to his Cambiar.
“Warm up the engines, Chuck. We are rolling.”
THIRTY-TWO
Washington, D.C. Friday, May 22
Day Thirty-five
Attorney General Nick Brayley paced the red carpet between the work table and his burled walnut desk.
“Nigeria is having a coup d’etat, and Machen can’t escape? You’re certain?”
His intel flunky, a baby-faced Ensign on loan from the Pentagon, pointed to her screen.
“Not in that old MD-11, sir. Even stripped down, with minimum fuel, that runway is a thousand feet too short.”
Nick wanted to pop her.
>
“So how did they get that clunker from Brazil to Nigeria in 83 minutes?”
Intel did not respond.
Nick continued to pace. Central Intelligence said they had no operational assets within a thousand miles of Ibadan. For the FBI or the military to enter Nigeria through the front door would require Nigerian permission. And neither the National Security Adviser nor the President would authorize a covert mission, much less an armed invasion. He doubted the Nigerians, in their present chaos, would offer much help.
“Are they still on the ground?”
Intel tapped a key. “Yes, sir. Haven’t moved.”
Nick returned to the screen of his STU-5.
“What’s your take on this, Majers? What are they doing over there?” For once the California twit was prepared.
“There’s a religious compound near the Ibadan airport, sir. Agent Parker has confirmed the Machen Foundation donated the land and built a hospital for them.”
Nick sat down, drew the bulky STU-5 closer. He had been wondering how Orin Machen’s non-profit foundation figured in Philip Machen’s scheme. Nearly four billion dollars spent on real estate and infrastructure, then sold at cost or given away. But why? The goal was never profit, of this he was certain. During the past six years, according to Agent Parker’s report, the Machen Foundation bought sixty-one parcels of land overseas on which they constructed schools, houses, and hospitals. In the U.S. they built 889 private, gated communities. Acres of condominiums, laid out in towers, duplexes, or stand-alone units, in twenty-four states. 70,000 dwelling units in all. Each with its own Powerpod.
“He’s built 900 Freemaker enclaves right under our noses.”
“Yeah,” Majers said, “but if he expects those people to go Freemaker, he never told them about it. So far, we haven’t uncovered any quid pro quos—no closet ideology, no secret agreements. He hasn’t asked them to do anything except share their Makers and help each other.”
Nick shifted in his chair. “But they are helping him. That’s why he went to Nigeria, right? Folks are more disposed to help a benefactor than to turn him away, yes?”
