Shrouded Destiny

by Richard William Bates

  He was not a devout man, but he did believe in God and attended church as much as he could. Since he had become a politician, walking into a church had always made him twitch just a little. He knew why but usually chose to pretend not to.

  He found the idea of the Twelve Priests mildly interesting but of no practical importance. The Council of Most Highs was another matter, however. It would certainly explain a lot of things that had never made any sense to him. Why the Federal Reserve had pulled a great deal of the money out of circulation in 1929—money it had put in circulation to encourage the cycle of buying on margin that had fueled the prosperity of the 1920's—which had precipitated the market crash and the Great Depression itself. The Depression had ultimately led to one of the largest periods of government growth in history, with extensions of power that would never again be returned to the people. The buildup of the huge military industrial complex during the Vietnam War. The oil shortage of the 1970's. Had all of these had been manipulated? Each of these incidents had led to an increase in government power in America, as the people were told that the problems were too big to trust to natural market forces, or to the people themselves.

  Harold was hit with a sickening realization. Was this, perhaps, why John Kennedy was assassinated in 1963? Were the conspiracy buffs right after all? Had Kennedy naively presumed to usurp the Council's authority? Is this why his brother Robert was assassinated as well? What about Nixon? Did he defy the Council by independently opening up China? For ending the Vietnam War? If Nixon had been hounded out of office by the Council, that meant that the Washington Post and the New York Times, the two newspapers that had pursued him relentlessly, were both tools of the Council. Could the power of the Council be that far-reaching? Was the Council a “king maker?"

  Harold shook himself out of this dizzying cacophony of questions. The whole idea was insane. That type of global power most assuredly did not exist. If it had, its existence would have been impossible to conceal from a United States senator. So he could pretty much discount all of that nonsense. On the other hand, whether it existed or not, the Council of Most Highs would make a wonderful political weapon when the campaign began in earnest next fall. People were quick to believe in conspiracies. He began to form the opinion that the old priest was pretty crafty.

  Undoubtedly, Crowley's notorious “spin” machine would be hard at work already. Most of the commentators would write him off as a delusional old man. Harold was not so sure. This Angelino fellow seemed to understand that the public wouldn't flinch over a small conspiracy theory. The American public especially, liked their conspiracy theories big. He would have to meet this cagey priest. Perhaps they could be of use to one another. If he wanted to be president, he would have to begin making his move soon. In politics, timing was everything.

  * * * *

  IT SEEMED TO Father Mancini that the entire European press corps had descended upon the Vatican within thirty minutes. Flashbulbs were popping from all directions. Video cameras littered the crowd. Press conferences at the Vatican were always very dignified affairs. No one would think of hollering questions. On this day, all protocol was cast aside. The atmosphere was more like the press conference of a rock star.

  Father Mancini attempted to wave the crowd to silence.

  "Please, please, ladies and gentlemen.” Eventually, the noise subsided and Father Mancini continued. “I have a formal statement from Pope Timothy that I would like to read to you, if I may. I will answer a few of your questions when I am finished."

  Mancini read from his prepared text.

  "Pope Timothy, like many people around the world, has viewed the remarkable statement by the person who calls himself ‘Angelino,’ Father Antonio Angelino Sabbatini. The allegations made by Father Angelino are baseless, and frankly, ludicrous. Furthermore, such statements appear to be the ramblings of a man who has lost his capacity to distinguish between fantasy and reality. Pope Timothy, being a man of God, and a man of deep compassion and understanding, finds it difficult to condemn his old friend. Yet he feels he must, in the strongest of terms, categorically deny any association with or awareness of any organization calling itself The Council of Most Highs; neither is he aware of nor associated with any organization fitting the description of the one Angelino mentioned. No highly placed member of the Roman Catholic Church is associated with, or aware of, any such organization. Father Angelino's statement is patently and totally false.

  "Pope Timothy and Father Angelino, along with Cardinal Gregory MacArthur, were students together many years ago. During those years, Angelino exhibited a profound jealousy of Ronald Johnson, the man who is now known as Pope Timothy I. For many years, Angelino has attempted to undermine the papacy of the current administration for no other reason than his animosity for the Holy Father. Timothy regrets that his old friend has become so bitter and vindictive with advancing years. He has, out of respect for their once close friendship, been reluctant to publicly speak out against Angelino. However, given the seriousness of these charges, His Holiness feels he cannot indulge Angelino's fantasies any longer. He asks that all Catholics say a prayer that Angelino might recant these accusations and confess his hostile attacks on the Holy Catholic Church.

  "That is the end of His Holiness’ prepared statement. In addition, you have all been issued additional information in the press kits we have distributed. You will find a complete medical and psychiatric history of Antonio Angelino Sabbatini. Notice the many years of professional treatment for schizophrenia and his treatment for substance addiction several years ago."

  The medical records were first-rate forgeries. The Council had acted quickly. Perhaps too quickly. MacArthur, who was standing in the wings observing the proceedings, worried that someone would question why they would have this material at the ready. He need not have worried.

  "His Holiness regrets the confusion that Angelino's mental instability has caused you all.” MacArthur nodded his approval to no one in particular. Mancini was doing a very credible presentation. This was aided by the expectations of the press. It was much easier to lie when those you lied to had every reason to believe you were being honest with them.

  Several reporters began shouting out questions. MacArthur listened for a few minutes until he was satisfied that the cover story was holding. Then he closed the door and returned to be with his old friend.

  * * * *

  IN THE WHITE House pressroom, press secretary Franklin Morris once again walked into the what had once been a lion's den. He looked out over the battle-weary press corps. Once upon a time, they had been a formidable band of truth seekers, relentlessly pursuing facts. All of that had been drained from them in a war of attrition that President Crowley was clearly winning. It had simply gotten easier to accept the denials and White House “spin” than to beat their heads against a wall pursuing a story that nobody cared about anyway. Morris felt saddened by that somehow. It was one thing to lie to the American people. It was quite another to have the lies believed. A part of him wished that the press would pressure him a little more, push harder for the truth, attack the President's veracity. While it was a real fight, Morris could rationalize his position by telling himself that it was a game they were all playing together, in which all players knew that it was a game. It was a facade that neither side was supposed to win. Each side pretended not to know the cards the other held. It was supposed to be a staged stalemate. This was never explicitly spoken of, of course. It was simply The Game. The thought of one side actually winning had never seriously crossed anyone's mind.

  Yet, the White House was winning. Morris regarded the entourage with a newfound contempt. So be it. If they were determined to be dupes, who am I to deny them that pleasure?

  He still had to play the role, however. He strode up to the podium and displayed his friendly smile. “Ladies and gentlemen. Good evening. I have a statement, if you will allow me to read it to you."

  Crowley watched from behind his desk in the Oval Office. Harmon and Thatche
r stayed out of view from the press in the anteroom adjacent to the pressroom.

  * * * *

  "The President is amused by the fairy tale presented by NBS earlier this evening. The activities of the priest known as Angelino have been known to the CIA for a number of years. Until now, he has been regarded as a somewhat eccentric, but harmless cleric. His dissidence has been confined to Roman Catholic Church. He is known to be mentally unbalanced and has spent considerable time under psychiatric care. It is the view of the President that Ray Cutler has allowed himself to be duped by a deceptively seductive but delusional old man who has invented a place of importance for himself in his fantasies."

  * * * *

  Morris looked up from the paper he had been reading from, delivered a curt, “Thank you,” and then walked from the podium amidst the voices of reporters attempting to ask him questions.

  * * * *

  Similar denials were being dispensed from both the Federal Reserve and London. The Council's reach was every bit as extensive as Angelino had warned. Having been alerted by Pope Timothy, it had been able to easily orchestrate a defense discrediting him. There were always some people who were willing to believe any conspiracy theory. There was nothing that could be done about them. They were regarded as a fringe element of people who felt estranged from normal society and were therefore of little consequence. Over the next several weeks and any other time that the name Angelino was to be spoken, there would be someone ready to repeat the charges of mental instability about him. History had taught the Council many centuries ago that if a lie is repeated often enough and with enough congruity, it will be believed, even in the face of incontrovertible evidence against it.

  * * * *

  NUMBER ONE, WATCHING a bank of a dozen televisions, nodded in satisfaction. It was apparent from the attitude of all of the news commentators around the world that the lie had taken root. Of course, that was inevitable. Most of those commentators were agents of the Council. Many of the others acted on its behalf without even realizing it. Cutler would have to be watched closely, though. He was a wild card. It was doubtful he could be enlisted to their cause. But then, every man had his price.

  * * * *

  ARMAND MATHIAS SLOWLY walked around the gestation tank containing the inanimate body of Jesus. The backup monitoring equipment had been acquired and was operating flawlessly. It had been almost a week since the gestation of Jesus had begun. Mathias was beginning to grow concerned. Hadn't their other experiments grown to full development in three days? Why was this taking so long? When he had asked Steven about that, he had seemed unconcerned. He had explained that this was the first human they had attempted to clone so they had nothing to compare it to. It would take as long as it would take and there was nothing anyone could do about that. Much of the cloning process was still a mystery to them. In essence, Doctors Hamilton and Barber planted the seed, in a manner of speaking, and nature took care of the rest, albeit at a greatly accelerated pace.

  Mathias stopped pacing and moved in closer to get a better look at the man's face. It was a wonderment to him to realize that he was gazing up at the face of the Lord Himself ... the first human being to look into the face of God in two thousand years. He studied the face for the hundredth time. It bore the weathered appearance of one who had lived in a desert climate. Yet, there was a youthfulness about it as well. The hair was shoulder-length and had a slight but detectible wave to it. The beard, barely detectable a few days earlier, had grown in and was thick but closely cropped. The hair and complexion were both much lighter than the normal coloration of the Jew. Mathias thought that must have contributed greatly to his distinctiveness among his people when he had walked the earth.

  Without warning, the eyes of Jesus popped open. Mathias jumped back, startled by the suddenness of the movement. The eyes caught his presence and looked directly at him. Mathias’ heart pounded and he struggled to catch his breath. He scarcely noticed the alarms sounding on the console behind him. They had been set to sound the moment when life entered the body of Jesus. He stood frozen in place, stunned by the enormity of the moment. Steven and John, alerted by the alarm, raced into the storeroom. Their movement caught Jesus’ attention and his eyes shifted to look at them. They stopped in their tracks. Like Mathias, the actual moment of awareness, that this was a living human being created by their cloning methods, hit them with full force. The fact that this human being was none other than Jesus of Nazareth made the moment even more profound, even for these men of secular bent.

  For a moment, which seemed like an infinity, they simply stared at Jesus. His open eyes were the proof that this was, indeed, life.

  As if being overcome with a frightful awareness, Jesus began to struggle within the embryonic liquid. His arms and feet flailed. The monitoring equipment sounded alarms of distress as his heartbeat and blood pressure shot upward. It took a few moments before Steven and John realized what was going on.

  "Quick,” Steven shouted. “We have to drain the fluid out of there. His lungs are attempting to breathe air now. He's drowning."

  John raced over to a large valve and turned it. Quickly, the liquid level subsided. Jesus coughed out the liquid from his lungs as the remaining fluid drained from the tank. “Open it!” Steven yelled out to John.

  John threw open a watertight latch and one side of the tank flew open like a door, pushed open by the pressure of the streaming fluid which flowed over the floor. Steven and John ignored the fluid. The figure of Jesus slumped to one knee, continuing to expel the fluid from his lungs. John and Steven each took one of his arms and helped him out of the storeroom into the main lab. The small padded cot Steven had been sleeping on was just outside the door. They led Jesus to the cot and laid him down on it. He was shivering from the cold. John covered him with the blanket. Mathias observed all this with silent awe.

  Jesus gasped loudly, drawing in his first complete lungful of air. He gasped to draw in yet another ... and another ... until at last his breathing became steady, if somewhat labored. Steven sat beside him on the edge of the cot, wrapping the blanket tighter around Jesus.

  Jesus looked at him. He was confused and disoriented. He attempted to speak, but was unable to. Nearing panic, he moved to sit up. Steven restrained him gently and said firmly but kindly, as he looked directly at him, “Take it easy. I know you're probably frightened, but everything is okay.” Steven knew Jesus did not speak his language, yet he seemed to understand nevertheless. He laid back and became calmer, although his eyes still revealed confusion as they darted around the room, attempting to process and make sense of what must certainly have been a torrent of strange and unfamiliar images.

  Jesus closed his eyes and began speaking softly, as if to himself.

  John looked at Steven. “What's he saying?"

  "I don't know,” Steven responded.

  "It's Hebrew,” Mathias spoke up. Steven and John had almost forgotten he was there. “I studied it at the seminary when I was younger. He's praying."

  Steven nodded his understanding.

  After a few moments of prayer, Jesus opened his eyes and looked at Steven, who was still seated beside him. He nodded at him as if suddenly understanding everything, smiled and said something to him in Hebrew. Without breaking eye contact with Jesus, Steven said, “Mathias, what did he say?"

  "He said, ‘Thank you'.” Mathias said softly.

  Steven smiled at Jesus and said, “You're welcome.” Jesus looked to Mathias for the translation. He was orienting very quickly. Mathias translated. Jesus smiled and nodded his understanding.

  "Mathias, tell him that I'm going to give him something to help him sleep. It will hurt a little but it won't harm him. Tell him that he must rest, and that after he has slept and gained his strength we will explain everything to him."

  As Mathias translated, Steven prepared a hypo with a mild sedative. Jesus’ body would be unused to any form of medication and he did not want to risk any damage. A mild sedative would undoubtedly be effective
on a body that had never experienced drugs before. Jesus watched with interest as he injected the needle. Steven expected him to react to the needle prick, but he seemed undisturbed by it.

  "You will sleep now,” Steven said. Mathias translated. Jesus nodded his understanding again. Soon he was sleeping peacefully.

  Steven stood and looked down at the sleeping figure of Jesus. John and Mathias walked over and joined him in contemplating the form lying on the cot. No one spoke for a long time. It was Steven who finally broke the silence.

  "By the way, John,” he said. “I assume all of the video equipment has been operating properly. Please don't tell me I'm wrong about that."

  "Yeah, it's working, Steven."

  Mathias’ eyes remained riveted on the sleeping form on the cot. “What video equipment?"

  "Steven always has video running for these experiments, so that there is a running real-time record of everything. That way there is no doubt as to what happens here. Without it, who would believe that we've just brought Jesus back to life?"

  "I see. Good idea."

  "Well, Chief. What now?"

  Steven shook his head. “I have no idea, John. I have no idea."

  Chapter 8

  SUSAN MORGAN SAT peacefully at the water's edge. The river was low this time of year, as the winter runoff from the nearby mountains was months behind and cooler temperatures heralded the impending arrival of autumn. It had been many years since she had returned to this place, a place where she had spent countless hours in her childhood. Now it served as a sanctuary for her and Angelino. Serenity, she had named this place when she was just ten years old, quite proud of herself for coming up with such an adult-sounding word, and even more proud of herself for knowing what it meant. Nearby was a small cottage that Susan's parents had left to her. She had never used it before now. It was the perfect place for them to relax, undetected. Susan was grateful for the respite. The recent events had set her mind reeling and she welcomed the opportunity to sort everything out.