So, wait a minute,” Demonaco said. “Have you had any military experience?”
“None at all,” Race said.
“Jesus. What are you, some kind of anonymous hero?”
“Something like that.”
After they spoke some more, Demonaco gave Race the telephone number and address of the American embassy in Lima and the name of the FBI liaison there. The FBI, he said, would take care of the trip back to the States.
After he hung up, Race just stared out the window at the mountains swooping by beneath him, his battered Yankees cap pressed up against the glass, his right hand fingering the emerald necklace that hung from his neck.
After a while, he blinked and extracted something from his pocket.
It was the thin leather-bound notebook that Marquez had given him that morning during the banquet.
Race flicked through it It wasn’t very thick. In fact, it was only made up of a few handwritten pages.
But the handwriting was familiar.
Race turned to the first page, started reading.
FIFTH READING
To the worthy adventurer who finds this notebook.
I write to you now by the light of a torch in the foothills of the glorious mountains that dominate New Spain.
By my amateur reckoning, it is now approximately the Year of Our Lord 1560, nearly twenty-five years after I first came to these foreign shores.
To many who might read this work, it will mean nothing to you, for I write it in anticipation of penning another, fuller account of the remarkable adventures that befell me in New Spain—an account that I may not even write at all.
But if I do write it, and if you, oh, brave adventurer—having come across this notebook through the ministrations of some most noble natives—have indeed read that account, then what follows will certainly have meaning for you.
It is close on twenty-five years since my incredible adventure with Renco, and all of my friends are dead.
Bassario, Lena, even Renco himself.
But fear not, dear reader, they did not the of any foul deeds or subterfuge. They died in their sleep, all of them, victims to that villain no man can escape—old age.
Now, I am the last one left alive.
Sadly, as such, I have nothing left to live for in these mountains and so I have decided to return to Europe. I intend to end my days in some distant monastery far away from the world, where, God willing, I shall write my amazing tale in full.
I leave this notebook, however, in the good hands of my Incan friends—to pass on to their children and their children’s children—and to give it only to the most worthy of adventurers, indeed, only those of a stature commensurate with my good friend Renco.
That said, owing to the pedigree of those who will read this account, I shall endeavor in this notebook to dispel some of the fictions that I intend to include in the larger recounting of my tale.
After the death of Hernando on the enormous stone tower, Renco did indeed enter the temple with the two idols, but he would emerge soon after, from an underwater passage at the base of the giant finger of stone, safe and sound.
The inhabitants of Vilcafor would abandon their village at the base of the plateau and relocate to higher ground, to a new site above the enormous crater that housed the temple.
I would live with them for the next twenty-five years, enjoying the company of my friend Renco. Why even that rogue Bassario, who proved his worth in our final confrontation with Hernando and his men, became a faithful companion of mine.
But, oh, how I enjoyed my time with Renco. Never have I had such a good and loyal friend. I feel fortunate to have been able to spend the greater part of my life in his company.
Oh, and another small tale for you, noble reader—but one which I beg of yotf not to tell my holy brethren.
After a time, I would marry.
And to whom, you might ask? Why, none other than the beautiful Lena.
Yes, I know!
While I had admired her from the first moment I laid eyes on her, I was not to know that she entertained similar feelings toward me. She thought I was a brave and noble man and, well, who was I to disabuse her of that impression?
With her young son Mani—whom Renco doted upon in the manner of uncles the world over—we made for a wonderful family, and indeed, soon Lena and I would expand our brood to include two delightful daughters who, I say with pride, were the spitting image of their mother.
Lena and I would be married for twenty-four years, the most wonderful twenty-four years of my life. It ended but a few weeks ago, when she fell asleep by my side, never to wake.
I miss her every day.
Now, as the guides prepare to take me north through the forests to the land of the Aztecas, I think of my adventures, and of Lena, and of Renco.
I think of the prophecy that brought us together and I wonder if indeed, I am one of the people mentioned in it.
There will come a time when he will come,
A man, a hero, beholden of the Mark of the Sun.
He will have the courage to do battle with great lizards,
He will have the jinga,
He will enjoy the aid of bravehearted men,
Men who would give of their lives, in honor of his noble cause,
And he will fall from the sky in order to save our spirit.
He is the Chosen One.
I ask myself, am I a “bravehearted man”?
It is strange—most strange—but now, after all that I have been through, I actually think that I am.
Worthy adventurer, this tale is at an end.
May these writings find you in good health and I wish you every happiness in life and love.
Farewell.
A.S.
Race sat in the back of the Goose, staring at the last page of Alberto Santiago’s notebook.
He was pleased that the kind-hearted monk had found happiness after his adventure. He deserved it.
Race thought about Santiago’s transformation—his trans-formation from timid monk to stalwart defender of the idol.
Then Race looked at the prophecy again and thought about Renco. And then for some reason that he couldn’t fathom, he began to think about the similarities between Renco and himself.
They both bore the Mark of the Sun.
And they had both fought with caimans, and they had each displayed catlike balance and movement.
Both of them had most certainly enjoyed the aid of bravehearted men, and they had both risked their lives for their cause.
And lasdy, of course, they had both fallen from the—
Wait a second, Race thought.
Renco had never fallen from the sky . . .
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INTRODUCTION
From: Katz, Caleb
The C. B. Powell Memorial Address: “The Presidency”
(Speech delivered at the School of Politics,
Harvard University, 26 February 1999)
There is no other institution in the world quite like the President of the United States.
All at once, the person who holds this tide becomes the leader of the fourth most populous nation on earth, the commander-in-chief of its armed forces, and the chief executive officer of what Harry Truman called “the largest going concern in the world.”
The use of the term “chief executive” has made comparisons with company structures inevitable, and to a certain extent, they are appropriate—although, what other corporate leaders in the world have 2 trillion dollar budgets at their fingertips, a license to use the 82nd Airborne Division to enforce their will, and briefcases at their sides that can un-leash an arsenal of thermonuclear devastation against their competitors?
Among modern political systems, however, the American President is unique—for the simple reason that he is both head of government and he
ad of state.
Most nations separate these two functions. In the United Kingdom, for instance, the head of state is the Queen; the head of government is the Prime Minister. It is a separation born out of a history of tyrants—kings who wore the crown, but who also governed at their often erratic pleasure.
But in the U.S., the man who runs the country is also the symbol of the country. In his words and his deeds, the President’s every act is a barometer for the glory of the nation. For his strength is the people’s strength.
John F. Kennedy staring down the Soviets over Cuba in 1962.
Harry Truman’s nerves-of-steel decision to drop the atomic bomb on Japan in 1945.
Or Ronald Reagan’s confident smile.
His strength is the people’s strength.
But there are dangers in this arrangement of things. For if the President is the embodiment of America, what happens when things go wrong?
The assassination of John F. Kennedy.
The resignation of Richard Nixon.
The humiliation of William Jefferson Clinton.
The death of Kennedy was the death of America’s innocence. Nixon’s resignation drove a knife into the heart of America’s optimism. And the humiliation of Clinton was the global humiliation of America—at peace summits and press conferences around the world, the first question asked of Clinton was invariably directed at his sexcapades in a study adjoining the Oval Office.
Be it in death or disgrace, decisiveness or courage, the President of the United States is more than just a man. He is an institution—a symbol—the walking, talking embodiment of a nation. On his back ride the hopes and dreams of 276 million people . . . [pp. 1-2]
From: Farmer, J.T.
“Coincidence or Co-ordinated Murder?
The Death of Senator Jeremiah Woolf”
Article from: The Conspiracy Theorist Monthly [circulation: 152 copies]
(Delva Press, April issue, 2001)
. . . The body was found in the woods surrounding the senator’s isolated hunting cabin in the Kuskokwim Mountains in Alaska.
Truth be told, at the time of his death Jerry Woolf was no longer a senator, having retired abruptly from Congress only ten months earlier, surprising all the pundits, citing family reasons for the unexpected move.
He was still alive when they found him—no mean feat considering the high-velocity hunting bullet lodged in his chest. Woolf was immediately taken by helicopter to Blaine County Hospital, one hundred and fifty miles away, where emergency residents tried in vain to stem the blood flow.
But the damage was too severe. After forty-five minutes of emergency treatment, former United States Senator Jeremiah K. Woolf died.
Sounds simple, doesn’t it? A terrible hunting accident. Like so many others that happen every year in this country.
That’s what your government would have you believe.
Consider this: Blaine County Hospital records show that a patient named Jeremiah K. Woolf was declared dead in the emergency ward at 4:35 P.M. on the afternoon of February 6, 2001.
That is the only record of the incident that exists. All other records of Woolf’s examination at the hospital were confiscated by the FBI.
Now consider this: on that very same day—February 6, 2001—on the other side of the country, at exactly 9:35 P.M., Jeremiah Woolf s Washington townhouse was destroyed in an explosion, an explosion that killed his wife and only daughter. Investigators would later claim that this blast was caused by a gas leak.
The FBI believes Woolf—previously a vibrant young senator, crusader against organized crime, and potential presidential candidate—was the victim of an extortion racket: leave us alone, or we’ll kill your family.
This is, without a doubt, a government smokescreen.
If Woolf was being blackmailed, well, one has to ask: why? He had retired from the Senate ten months previously. And if he was killed in a routine hunting accident, why were the records of his emergency room procedures at Blaine County Hospital taken by the FBI?
What really happened to Jerry Woolf? At the moment, we just don’t know.
But consider this final point: owing to the time difference, 9:35 P.M. in Washington, D.C., is 4:35 P.M. in Alaska.
So at the end of the day, after all the talk of hunting accidents and Mafia blackmail and faulty gas valves is cast aside, one fact remains: at the exact same moment that former United States Senator Jerry Woolf s heart stopped beating in an emergency room in Alaska, his home on the other side of the country exploded in a gigantic ball of flames . . .
PROLOGUE
Protected Inmates’ Wing,
Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary,
Leavenworth, Kansas,
20 January, 12:00 P.M.
It had been his last request.
To watch the inauguration ceremony on television.
Sure, it had delayed the trip to Terre Haute by an hour, but then—so the powers-that-be at Leavenworth had reckoned—if the condemned man’s last request was reasonable, who were they to refuse him.
The television threw a flickering strobelike glow onto the concrete walls of the holding cell. Tinny voices came from its speakers:
“. . . do solemnly swear . . .”
“. . . do solemnly swear . . .”
“. . . that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States . . .”
“. . . that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States . . .”
The condemned prisoner watched the television intently.
And then—despite the fact that he had less than two hours to live—a smile began to spread across his face.
The number on his prison shirt read: “T-77.”
He was an older man, fifty-nine, with a round, weather-beaten face and slicked-down black hair. Despite his age, he was a big man, powerfully built—with a bull neck and broad shoulders. His eyes were a bottomless unreadable black and they glistened with intelligence. He’d been born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and when he spoke, his accent was strong.
Until recently, he had been a resident of T-Wing—that section of Leavenworth devoted to inmates who are not safe among the general prison population.
Two weeks ago, however, he had been moved from T-Wing to Pre-Transit—otherwise known as the Departure Lounge—another special wing where those awaiting execution stayed before they were flown out to Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary in Indiana for execution by lethal injection.
A former Civil War fort, Leavenworth is a maximum-security federal prison. This means it receives only those offenders who break federal laws—a class of individuals that variously includes violent criminals, foreign spies or terrorists, organized crime bosses, and members of the U.S. armed forces who sell secrets, commit crimes or desert.
It is also perhaps the most brutal penitentiary in America.
But in that peculiar way of prisons the world over, its inhabitants—men who have themselves killed or raped—have, over the years, developed a strange sense of justice.
Serial rapists are themselves violated on a daily basis. Army deserters are beaten regularly, or worse, branded on their foreheads with the letter “D.” Foreign spies, such as the four Middle Eastern terrorists convicted of the World Trade Center bombing in 1993, have been known to lose body parts.
But by far the most ferocious treatment of all is reserved for one particular class of prisoner: traitors.
It seems that despite all their own crimes, all their own atrocities, the American inmates of Leavenworth—many of them disgraced soldiers—still profess a deep love of their country. Traitors are usually killed within their first three days in the pen.
William Anson Cole, the former CIA analyst who sold information to the Chinese government about an impending Navy SEAL mission to the Xichang Launch Center, the epicenter of China’s space operations—information which led to the capture, torture and death of all six SEAL team members—was found dead in his cell two days after he had arrived at the
prison. His rectum had been torn from repeated violations with a pool cue and he had been strangled, hog-style, with a bed leg tied across his throat—a crude simulation of the Chinese torture method of strangulation by bamboo pole.
Ostensibly, prisoner T-77 was in Leavenworth for murder—or more precisely, for ordering the murder of two senior Navy officers—a crime which in the U.S. military carried the death sentence. However, the fact that the two Navy officers he’d had killed had been advisers to the Joint Chiefs of Staff elevated his crime to treason. High treason.
That—and his own previous high ranking—had earned him a place in T-Wing.
But even in T-Wing a man isn’t entirely safe. T-77 had been beaten several times during his short residency there—on two occasions, so severely that he’d required blood transfusions.
In his former life, his name had been Charles Samson Russell and he had been a three-star Lieutenant General in the United States Air Force. Cad-sign: Caesar.
He had a certified IQ of 182, genius level, and as such he had been a brilliant officer. Methodical and razor-sharp, he’d been the ultimate commander, hence his call-sign.
But most of all . . . patient, Caesar thought now as he watched the flickering television screen in front of him.
The two men on the screen—the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the President-Elect—were finishing their duet. They stood in gray, wintry sunshine, on the West Portico of the Capitol Budding. The new President had his hand on a Bible.
“. . . and will to the best of my ability . . .”
“. . . and will to the best of my ability . . .”
“. . . preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.”
“. . . preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.”
Fifteen years, Caesar thought.
Fifteen years, he had waited.
And now, at last, it had happened.
Temple Page 49
