A Reluctant Messiah

by Edward Nicholls

  "That's one of the problems with living on this planet, you want to get away from them, go live in that cave you mentioned."

  "Thanks, that's what I need now, moral support."

  "Sorry, babe, what'd you say we take a shower before we eat. I'll give you some moral support in the tub."

  "The drought's over. You take yours; I'll go in a little later. I have a few more calls to make."

  Chapter 8

  A pale blue sedan edged out of the Washington rush hour traffic and coasted down the ramp leading to the underground parking area beneath the squat office building on Constitution Avenue. The lot was nearly empty and a parking space in the rear seemed most convenient. With the car parked, Enrico Cardinal Bonifazio stepped out and headed for the elevator, his footsteps echoing loudly as they slapped the hollow pavement.

  The ride up seemed painfully slow and he wondered whether or not he should have taken the stairway. He was in no particular hurry, but he would much rather be in control of the action. He could quicken his pace on foot, but in an elevator, it was just a matter of waiting. He glanced up at the lighted floor number and then quickly at his watch as the door slid open.

  "Room 306, to the left," he mumbled to himself as he headed down the corridor. At 306, "Hickory Dickory Dock," he stated above conversational tone and threw the door open.

  Stephen Collinsworth dropped his hand to his side, letting the drapes fall back into place, and cracked a nervous smile.

  "Phil, I believe you know Tom Pirnie. Tom, Phil Taynton, a.k.a. Cardinal Enrico Bonifazio."

  "Yeah, Phil Taynton, now I place it. We worked together before. London, if I'm not mistaken."

  "Actually it was Corsica, '75,” the cardinal said. “We nearly covered the entire three thousand square miles of that goddam island. Looking for a microdot, disguised as a birthmark on the inner thigh of a seemingly innocent peasant girl…. Nearly fucked myself to death that trip." He tugged thoughtfully on his beard and looked up. "Steve, you wouldn't believe how many seemingly innocent peasant girls there are on Corsica."

  "Shit, some memory. That's a good forty years ago," Pirnie said.

  Taynton smile. "Yeah, but who could forget an assignment like that?"

  "I could! I lived in a fuckin' cave on the coast for a month and a half relaying your progress reports back to HQ."

  "Poor fellow, I had to take a sabbatical after that one and use my pecker just for pissing."

  "Okay, gentlemen, enough reminiscing," Collinsworth said. "Let's get down to business."

  “And Steve, about your new secretary —”

  “Business,” Collinsworth repeated.

  Pirnie started for the digital recorder on the otherwise bare desk but Collinsworth waved him back.

  "This is ears only. Phil...go on, sit down you two.... Phil, you're needed back in Naples. Berlusconi made a real mess of things. We still haven’t recovered. It's time to start circulating again. Castle needs you for some gentle prodding. You can get all you need locally; The New Red Brigades’ having a white elephant sale on explosives. Your passport and papers are here. You're Charlie Jensen, a college professor working on a paper, it's all in here. And no bunga bunga parties. Harness that beast.”

  The cardinal’s eyebrows arched. “Must I?”

  Collinsworth rested his hand on the envelope. “There's a flight leaving Dulles —"

  A muted buzzer sounded from the corner of the room. Pirnie bolted from his seat, snatched the revolver from his shoulder holster and backed stiffly against the wall near the door.

  "Expecting anyone?"

  Collinsworth shook his head.

  "Hickory Dickory Dock," the voice sounded from behind the door and Pirnie holstered his pistol.

  "Sorry guys, this couldn't wait." A man wearing a gray, three-piece suit and dark horn-rimmed sunglasses stepped in.

  "What is it, Mark?" Collinsworth asked.

  The man hesitated and glanced at the other two men in the room, not bothering to remove the glasses.

  "Go ahead, they're sanitized," Collinsworth said.

  "More trouble with the Flagg case."

  "Shit, what now?"

  "Pretty bad I'm afraid," he said, flipping the cover of his spiral bound pocket notebook. "It seems that none of the holy rollers at your meeting were exactly who they said they were. Well, Phil here you put in place. I did some digging and it turns out that Davies is — or was — a Fed by the name of Teague, Patrick Teague. DeVries is Matthew Adler with the State Department, the Fraud Bureau and your rabbi friend is one Lawrence Jarrett with the SEC."

  "Security and Exchange Commission! What the fuck were they doing in on this?"

  "Well it looks like they figured this Flagg kid was going to incorporate himself and they wanted to get in on the ground floor."

  "Holy fuckin' shit, does the Bureau know it was us that neutralized this guy posing as Davies?"

  "Not yet, at least I don't think so."

  "What the fuck is this? Why wasn't I told any of this?"

  "From what I can gather, nobody thought it was important enough to go through channels. They all filed form SGR1400 — Requisition after the Fact — and sent it on to your office. They're probably still sitting in the DC Post Office."

  "Fucking Postal System," Collinsworth snapped. "Taynton, get your ass on that plane tonight and you don't know shit about this operation, you got that. I was in the Oval Office for forty-five fucking minutes this morning getting my ass chewed out for this Flagg business and now it's gone too far.” He pinched a bowl full of tobacco from his pouch, packed his pipe and tamped it down. “A decade plus into the new millennium. We’re overripe. We’ll have a goddam mad prophet crawling out from every overturned stone. Harold Camping’s Rapture crowd hasn’t even gone cold yet. Thousands line up to see the face of Christ in a taco shell or a piece of burnt toast. A guy with a halo running around?” He struck a match. “It’ll be goddam Armageddon for sure. He’s a danger to our way of life…. To my way of life. I haven't got the time or the patience for it anymore.” He lit the pipe and then tossed the envelope containing the passport and papers to Philip Taynton.

  "James Michael Flagg is overdue for the dry file," he said.

  Chapter 9

  At 9:45 A.M. the chalk-white sky allowed a few snowflakes to dance about but they were gobbled up by the wind before they reached treetop level. The temperature was an even twenty degrees and the people, bundled and scarfed, walked quickly about the Mall leaving trails of steaming breath.

  The silver and black Rolls-Royce Phantom VI eased slowly down D Street, turning left onto Second. Mike lit a cigarette, exhaled, then crushed it out in the ashtray and fidgeted for a more comfortable niche in the soft leather upholstery.

  "You think if I asked for something a little pretentious, Craven would've let me take my Volvo?" he said.

  Cheryl looked up from the magazine in her lap. "Always complaining. Just relax and enjoy the ride. I kinda like it."

  "You would."

  "I always wanted to ride in one of these babies, so don't upset my fantasy just because you're bummed out."

  "Fantasy huh? Poor Cheryl, looks like you're gonna have to set a new life goal."

  "Stuff it in a sack, mister," she said.

  Mike readjusted his position, tugged his necktie loose and tapped lightly on the glass partition separating them from the driver and the other occupant in the front seat.

  "You think you can turn down the heat a bit, it's a little warm back here," he said to the chauffeur.

  "Of course," the driver said. "And sir, there's an intercom button and private climate control on your right, if you prefer to use them."

  "Yeah, thanks." The glass panel slid back in place. "An intercom...ya think the rich hire people to wipe their asses for 'em? The guy's four feet away...an intercom indeed."

  Michael lit another cigarette.

  "I'm going to have to decaffeinate you, you're a nervous wreck. And stop with those cigarettes, they only make it worse.
Just take a few deep breaths and relax, hell, it's only a speech."

  "Only a speech. The last time I gave a speech was freshman year of college, communications course. Twenty kids in the class and I was petrified. I remember, I spoke on pet peeves."

  "You, bete noire, I didn't think you had any," Cheryl teased.

  "You're right. Deep hatred is what I got. And public speaking is one of them. I tasted the whole worm, as Reverend Spooner would've said. I dropped the course any immediately switched my major."

  "Got 'em on the run, huh, spoonerisms and all. Let me sew you to your sheet.”

  "Hey, why don't you be my spokesperson? You and your calm self."

  "Can I speak in French?"

  "Sure, Lithuanian if you'd like. It'd take the heat off me."

  "But I don't have a halo, they'd never go for it."

  "Pretend. Make believe it's part of your fantasy."

  "Tsk, how do I put up with you?" she said. "You'll do fine. Talk to them like regular people. And for heaven's sake, don't talk to them like you talk to me, they'll throw rocks at you."

  "I'm sorry, I'll send ya flowers."

  Cheryl poked him in the sides with her fingers and he laughed. "See, you're getting back to your old self already."

  *****

  The auditorium was filled with a mixed bag of curiosity seekers, ranging from the mildly inquisitive highway rubberneckers and fire chasers to the pitiful and merciless carnival geek seekers. Clergymen, in denominational robes, and bag people clutching their only possessions other than the rags they wore. Children running about followed closely by scolding parents. And, of course, members of the press, sardined at the foot of the stage, vying for the perfect launch site for their questions.

  When Timothy Craven received word that the limousine was in sight, he immediately set up a gauntlet of two dozen of the most Neanderthal-looking men on his staff at the side entrance. Another half-dozen surrounded Mike and Cheryl and led them, surprisingly without incident, backstage where Craven greeted them.

  "Mike! You look terrific, love your hair."

  Mike looked askance at him. "I think I'm getting used to you, Tim."

  "How kind. Listen, there's refreshments in the back room. Coffee, booze, food, whatever you want. You'll have to excuse me though, I have to earn my keep." He sped toward the rear of the auditorium where his men were scattered the thinnest.

  Mike turned to Cheryl to remark on the crowd. "At times like this, I wish we lived in New York. I'd fit right in."

  "Yeah, was it you that told me about the guy dressed like a Viking?"

  "Umm, sharing a bottle of cheap wine with a guy wearing a lizard mask and a crown of thorns. Funny thing is, I felt out of place — me — with a three-piece suit."

  "Loosen up, you're gonna knock 'em dead." Cheryl twisted the leather band of the inexpensive wristwatch that was buckled to the strap of her purse. "We got about twenty minutes before showtime, what do you say about getting something to wet your whistle?"

  "Sounds good," Mike agreed

  *****

  .

  The back room was cool, airy and spacious. Light poured in from a caged skylight directly above the center of the room and two barred windows, one with a broken pane, the result of a well aimed toss of a vandal's projectile. The recently buffed wooden floor glimmered as the light rebounded from its worn surface. Along the sides of the room, makeshift tables consisting of planks of plywood balanced on wooden sawhorses and covered with white, crepe paper tablecloths contained an array of foods selected to satisfy a broad range of tastes. Silvery-domed warming trays lined the far wall with a portable grill nestled in the corner.

  Craven had spared no expense in arranging the buffet. Considering, at last count, several hundred thousand dollars had come in, in the way of contributions, he felt justified. A few staff members, unaware of Mike and Cheryl's entrance, speared cold cuts from a serving tray and chatted amicably with a police officer assigned to exterior crowd control. Mike spun around and saw what he wanted — in the corner to their left stood a bar, complete with bartender. Mike ambled over.

  "Morning," he said, "I'll have a beer. Heineken, if you have it."

  "Good morning," the bartender replied, straightening from his stoop. "It's a pleasure, Mike. I heard about you from the other guys. Boy, that's really something."

  Mike smiled and shook the man's hand. The bartender popped the cap off the bottle and placed it on the counter.

  "Michael." Cheryl tugged at his jacket sleeve. "I meant coffee or something. It's quarter after ten in the morning!"

  "Shhhh." He turned from the bartender and eased her a few steps away. "I already had two pots of coffee this morning, remember? And if you're gonna start countin', I'm gonna drink 'em two at a time. So behave yourself, okay?"

  Cheryl pouted. "Just remember your last hangover."

  Mike smiled, catching her meaning, and kissed her on the top of her head. "Just one, I promise. My mouth's dry and I'm going on in a few minutes."

  "Okay," she said, "but you promised." She latched her hand around his neck, bringing his head down to hers and kissed him on the lips.

  "Those guys are really chowin' down back there, check it out." Mike motioned with his head as the uniformed officer heaped a second helping of potato salad onto his cardboard plate. "Little early for that too, huh?"

  "They've probably been here all night. From the looks of Craven's eyes, he probably didn't get much sleep either."

  Just then Craven himself bolted through the door.

  "Brewskis! All right, Mike! A man after my own heart. Why don't you finish up, it's almost time." He slapped Mike hard on the shoulder and drew him in closer and, as if in confidence, he whispered: "Everything's set out there, when you get out just snap on the microphone and you're set to roll. Nervous?"

  "Nah," Mike lied.

  "Atta boy," he said, placing his other arm around Cheryl. "And you stick with me in the wings, beautiful."

  "Cheryl," she said.

  "Cheryl you want, Cheryl it is, beautiful."

  *****

  Mike was more conscious of the creaking of the floorboards than the roar of the crowd as he stepped out onto the stage. He walked up to the dark hardwood podium and snapped on the portable PA system placed on it. Feedback ripped through the hall and reverberated off of the walls, drawing the crowd's attention to center stage. Mike tapped lightly on the microphone to test it.

  Thunk, thunk. "Good morning everyone...and thank you for coming."

  MI KULL! MI KULL!

  In the rear of the auditorium, a bearded man in frayed and faded jeans, unbuttoned and slipped off his army fatigue jacket, letting it drop to the wooden floor in a rumpled heap. His well polished, black shoes had been ill-matched with his otherwise tattered appearance but became more suitable as he let the long, black priest's cassock, which was hiked to his waist beneath the jacket, fall into place. He clutched a copy of the Holy Bible to his chest and his vacant stare led him through the crowd.

  MI KULL! MI KULL!

  "Thank you all very much...now please —" Michael's voice echoed through the hall and the crowd was frenzied.

  The man moved closer.

  YEEAAAHHH!

  "Michael, please bless my child," a woman screamed near the front of the stage, holding an infant above her head.

  "Michael saves," another cried.

  MI KULL! MI KULL!

  "I came here this morning to..."

  The cassocked man stood center stage!

  "...let you know..."

  He flipped the cover of the Bible open.

  The book was hollow!

  A pistol! A .45-caliber pistol!

  "...what has been going on since...."

  He lifted the gun from the cavity, aimed and fired.

  BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

  The five hot lead slugs ripped into Michael's chest spewing blood onto the podium as he grappled to maintain his balance. He buckled, collapsing to the floor, dragging the lecter
n with him in a crashing thud.

  OH MY GOD!

  The reporters spun around toward the man.

  “GET THE GUN! FOR GOD'S SAKE, GET THE GUN!”

  It was too late.

  The robed man sucked the barrel of the automatic pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The slug tore through the back of his skull spraying chunks of bone and matted hair into the crowd. He slumped into the arms of a news reporter, then to the floor, dead.

  OH MY GOD! NO! PLEASE GOD, NO!

  Cheryl ran from the wing of the stage diving onto Michael pressing her hands on his chest to try and stop the flow of blood.

  "Please God! Please! Nooooooooo!" she cried.

  *****

  The siren sound swallowed back as the rubber wheeled gurney bounced onto the concrete at the emergency entrance. The electric-eyed doors slid open and the paramedics rolled the carriage into the illuminated corridor. Two nurses joined them at the door and trotted alongside the accelerating gurney.

  “GCS is 4; repeat 4” said a paramedic.

  "Room 117, get a blood type?" a nurse asked.

  An attendant lifted a blood donor card from Mike's wallet and waved it in the air. "AB Negative," he said.

  Another nurse was waiting midway down the corridor holding the elevator doors open. As Michael's body was eased off the elevator on the second floor, the operating team waited by the entrance to Room 117.

  "AB Negative," the nurse shouted to no one in particular.

  “Prep ‘em, he’s a fountain,” said Dr.Carlton, the head surgeon.

  "Yes, sir." She darted into the OR with the gurney close behind her.

  "Okay, let's get 'im up. One, two, three. Hook 'im up and set up a lidocaine drip. Nurse, two amps of bicarb, stat.

  "Blood pressure dropping fast, doctor!"

  "Monitor, nurse, monitor."

  "Eighty over fifty, I'm sorry."

  "Save it. Pulse?"

  "Fifty...forty-five...forty."

  "Arterial clamps.... Fight it, kid, fight it!"