"What kind of moves, Susan?” he finally asked.
"I'm not sure, Ray. I haven't figured Jesus out yet. In every way he says all the right things, does all the right actions ... he is above reproach."
"And yet you have concerns."
"Yes, I do. It's something internal. I've begun to discover I can trust those internal voices. I am not dismissing it, but it is maddening to not be able to get a handle on what disturbs me about him."
"I appreciate your help with this. Maybe we can both learn something here."
He stood up abruptly. “Have you had lunch yet?” he said, changing the subject.
"No. You inviting me?"
"You bet. Let's go. Can I assume you haven't become too good for Sparky's?"
Her eyes grew wide like a child being told she was going to the circus. “Sparky's! Wow, I'd love it. I'm in the mood for one of those thick, juicy burgers they serve. Let's get crackin'."
Ray laughed. It was good to have Susan back. She was the old Susan again ... playful, a bit sassy, beautiful, and effervescent ... and yet, something a little bit more than the old Susan, too. Whatever that “something” was, he liked it. She stood and threw back her head, tossing her golden hair sensuously over her shoulders, and walked briskly out the door. He followed, grinning.
* * * *
ARNOLD WILLS HAD been to Paris many years ago and it hadn't changed much since. It was a beautiful city in its own way, with its Eiffel Tower drawing the eye away from its seamier aspects. He didn't particularly like Paris, but he didn't particularly dislike it either.
The only clue he had was the de Charny family. Julian had mentioned the banquet when he called and checked in with him. It was clear the de Charny family was involved, somehow. He would have one advantage Julian had not had ... he was alerted to them. He knew Julian had stayed at the Chateau d'Paris hotel, so he checked in there, too. It was the logical starting point. A few well-placed gratuities ensured he was given the same room Julian had occupied. It was not very likely, but maybe there was some clue that had escaped obliteration by the hotel's cleaning staff.
There was a knock on the door. He accepted the cart of beef Wellington, tipped the waiter, and sat down to dinner, deep in thought. Julian and he had been close friends since they had first teamed up together ten years earlier. He had needed a top investigator to track down key witnesses in a federal bribery trial of a mid-western judge, and Julian had found the witnesses in less than 48 hours. All three of them. Those witnesses turned out to be the key to the conviction he'd won, and he made a point of publicly acknowledging the role Julian had played in assisting him.
When he'd been appointed as the independent counsel to investigate charges of corruption and abuse of power by President Crowley, it had taken him all of ten seconds to decide on Julian for his second in command. The Washington press corps had expressed its unanimous endorsement of the appointment by publishing glowing reports of Julian's legendary ability to find what other investigators usually missed: the incriminating microscopic fiber, the witness in hiding, the trail of documents designed to throw off all but the most persevering and tenacious investigator. He'd had a wide reputation for showing bravery and sharp intelligence in his investigations. His addition to the team had lent it popular support.
That support had dissipated, of course, as the White House press secretary and presidential supporters had launched a successful campaign of obfuscation against the independent prosecutor's case, even while the evidence was under seal and still in progress. The tactic of discrediting the prosecution had come into vogue ever since the O. J. Simpson trial. It had worked then, and every defense counsel in the country was trying it, most with great effect.
Arnold, of course, was hamstrung by the independent counsel statute, which forbade him or anyone on his staff from discussing the case, even if only to clarify the lies of the opposition. This had been a source of intense frustration for the entire prosecutorial staff and the scurrilous attacks against them only intensified their resolve to nail Crowley. They'd had to guard against being overzealous in their methods.
Right now, none of that mattered to Arnold. Few people, he suspected, truly understood the magnitude of the conspiracy of which The Council was the heart. Among those who understood, only a small handful seemed concerned by it. So be it. Truth was often a bitter pill for people to swallow. He remembered hearing that people fear freedom because they fear responsibility. He could not subscribe to that. Liberty had to be guarded. It saddened him so few people understood that anymore. They mistook comfort for liberty, never suspecting that comfort was a seductive trap, robbing them of their liberty in subtle ways.
He shrugged off the thought. There was a time and a place to indulge in laments of the state of society. He could worry about that once Julian's killer or killers had been brought to justice.
* * * *
IT WASN'T EVERY day the Pope visited America, and Timothy II was enjoying every minute of the adulation and attention he was getting. It would not have occurred to him to ask what possible importance the papacy held as the representative of God on earth now that the true holder of that title walked among them. The presumed stature of the Pope was ingrained in Timothy's psyche. It did not strike him as odd he took his lead from The Council, and he did not give too much thought to the idea of taking his lead from the one who he supposedly was representing on earth. He saw no contradiction in that. For all he knew, The Council followed the true teachings of Christ. His loyalty was to The Council first. Beyond that, his hierarchy of loyalty was ... adaptable... to conditions.
The motorcade from the airport was lined twenty deep or deeper along the entire route from Dulles to the White House. Vice President Jeremy Dale had officially greeted the papal party. A short ceremony of greeting followed, and then the formal meeting at the White House was about to take place, as soon as the papal motorcade made its way through the cheering throng. The crush of people made for hairy security and slow progress. The security detail had been tripled for the motorcade. It might not have been enough. Nervous secret service agents and local police attempted to scan the crowd for potential trouble and at the same time, remain close to the papal vehicle—the “Popemobile,” as it had been humorously dubbed by the American press many years earlier.
Timothy was not following the tradition of earlier pontiffs of riding in an open vehicle so the crowd could see the Bishop of Rome. These were dangerous times and Timothy had a responsibility to the Church to protect both the office of the papacy, and the man who held it. He rode in a closed black limousine with darkly tinted windows on the advice of the American secret service. The darkened windows prevented the Pope from being an easy target. The order for the closed limo had come directly from Crowley himself. There was no way he was going to allow anything to happen to the Pope on his watch. All it would take would be for some crank lunatic misanthrope to pick that occasion to stake his claim on history and knock off the Pope. No one on the planet would ever believe Crowley and The Council had not conspired together to eliminate the Pope. History had turned on unforeseen events such as that. But not that day.
Finally, the black limousine pulled up to the White House gate. It was quickly cleared through security. Tens of thousands of people huddled in the cold afternoon air in the vain hope of getting even the slightest glimpse of the Holy Father. They would all be disappointed. But if they were, it did not dampen the loud cheers that accompanied the limousine as it drove past the tall, heavily guarded metal gate.
The White House lawn was covered with cameras and satellite trucks for dozens of television and radio stations broadcasting the arrival to every remote corner of the planet. Jesus was going to be meeting with the Bishop of Rome—the keeper of the faith. The originator of Christianity was coming face to face with the latest of the lineage charged with keeping his Word alive and true.
* * * *
In the Oval Office, Eugene Crowley, Harvey Thatcher, Roger Harmon, and Franklin Morris all wa
tched the Pope's arrival on television. Jesus had not yet arrived. He would just somehow appear when the time was right. As unsettling as that had been for the White House staff, in time they had become used to the way Jesus just seemed to be there when he was needed, or when he desired. Susan had promised to be there, but had not yet arrived, either. No one noticed. Nobody knew where Mathias was. Few cared.
"Gentleman, I believe our guest has arrived."
Everyone turned around, startled by the voice. Jesus was standing there, dressed in his traditional white robe. Mathias stood beside him in his familiar haughty pose.
Thatcher muttered quietly to Harmon, “I hate it when he does that."
Crowley recovered from his surprise and managed a broad smile. “Jesus. I'm glad you're here.” He extended his hand as he walked over to greet him. Jesus accepted the handshake with a smile. “Armand, it is good to see you.” He gave Mathias his best campaign-trail smile.
"It is an important day, Mr. President,” Jesus said, uncharacteristically stating the obvious.
"Yes it is, Jesus,” Crowley beamed. He had every reason to be elated. Having such an historic meeting take place on his watch was worth incalculable political capital. He would be unbeatable now. Many of those who had considered themselves non-Christians had been converted by the very appearance of Jesus. To them, their belief in Jesus had been hindered only by the lack of evidence he had lived. Now that the question had been resolved, they were free to believe in something. Crowley had marveled at how those who had been unbothered by religious beliefs for most of their lives were so willing to embrace their newfound belief with such zeal. He made a note of the lesson to be learned from that—belief in something fundamental was a necessary component for people. As such, it was something that could be tapped into and manipulated.
As a politician, he had always been unconcerned with what people believed. What they believed wasn't important. Whatever they might believe, he had never known the voters to respond in any way other than in accordance with what they perceived to be their own best interests. It seemed the vast majority of Americans considered their best interests to lie in what they could get from the government. He chuckled inwardly. Indeed, it was that reality that gave him the power he had. But compared to the power he would soon have, it was nothing.
Just then, they heard the voice of Elizabeth Martin, Crowley's secretary, outside the door. “You can't go in there, ma'am ... oh, it's you, Ms. Morgan. I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you."
The door flew open and Susan made her entrance, smiling broadly.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Susan said lightly. She entered through the main office door. Crowley's jaw dropped. Susan wore an aqua business suit with a hemline several inches farther above the knee than was considered appropriate for a professional woman. Her hair flowed freely over her shoulders. Her eyes twinkled and her smile told Crowley she looked great and knew it. The faces on the other men in the room indicated Susan's appearance affected them similarly. This was not the same woman. The woman entering the Oval Office radiated confidence ... and sexual power.
Crowley recovered rapidly and walked over to her. “Susan. You look wonderful. Thank you for coming."
She smiled at him. Was it with condescension? He couldn't quite be sure. “How could I not?” The rest of the gentlemen, except Jesus, all but fell over themselves in a rush to greet the woman they had all seen a hundred times before, but who was somehow not the same woman. Jesus regarded her without reaction. As her eyes met his, he noticed they did not lower, as they often had when they had made eye contact in the past. This time, they bore into him, unflinching. Jesus nodded a greeting to her and then turned away to look out the window, as if in contemplation.
It was clear to everyone in the room something had changed with Susan. Her days of invisibility were over. She was the same Susan Morgan who had taken NBS by storm with her confident—some said arrogant—demeanor, before her fall from grace. She was that same Susan Morgan ... and more. She had just put those who chose to see it on notice she was no longer going to cower in the shadows.
Harvey Thatcher shifted the focus. “I think we had better get out there, Mr. President. It won't look good to keep the Pope waiting today."
"Of course, Harv,” Crowley headed out the Oval Office door with the others following closely behind him. Susan waited for the men to vacate the room before she joined the procession heading out to the south lawn.
* * * *
"HOW MUCH FURTHER?” Monsignor Cassidy asked. They had been hacking their way through the dense Mexican jungle for what had seemed like days. The oppressive heat was made all the worse by the thick humidity which hung a thick haze over the land. The haze partially obscured the sun, but it did not reduce the overbearing heat. Sweat poured down Cassidy's face into his eyes. He stopped to take a breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He reached into his backpack for his canteen and took a swallow of water. It provided little relief.
"You know,” he said, while catching his breath, “suddenly, Milwaukee winters don't seem so bad to me."
Angelino smiled. Although sweating from the heat, he seemed to Cassidy to be unperturbed by the arduous trek they had been undertaking. He looked up to the sun and then consulted a map he pulled from his backpack. He studied the map for a few moments and then said, “It looks like we have about ten more miles. We should arrive before dusk."
Cassidy's shoulders slumped. “Ten more miles?"
Angelino slapped him on the back playfully. “What's the matter, Raul? The world of academia has made you soft."
"Tell me about it."
Billy was standing nearby, stoic as always, his face turned to the horizon. He was even fresher than Angelino. Cassidy chalked that up to his youth and physical condition. He was beginning to feel his age. He hadn't felt like this for as long as he could remember. He made a note to himself to begin visiting the gym once they got back to civilization.
Angelino called out to Billy. “Do you see it?"
"I think so. It looks to be about another ten miles."
"Do you think they know we're coming yet?"
"They know,” Billy said, matter-of-factly.
Angelino nodded. “Let's rest here for about a half hour."
Cassidy mouthed, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” to Angelino, who smiled back at him. Cassidy collapsed onto some soft grass and leaned against a thick tree trunk. He closed his eyes to rest, while Angelino walked over to Billy to plan the next leg of their trip. It was easy to lose one's way in the dense underbrush of the Mexican jungle, so it was important they map out a course and stick to it.
Cassidy dropped off into a very light sleep when he was started by rustling in the underbrush off to his left. He opened his eyes, not certain if he had imagined it or not. A moment later, there was another movement of the bushes, about fifty yards away.
"Angelino. Billy,” he called out. “I think there is something in the bushes over there."
They both ran over to Cassidy. Billy cocked his rifle by swinging it John Wayne-style as he dashed over. Although the Mexican jungle didn't have any large predators like lions or tigers, bobcats and wild boars could tear into people.
"Over there,” Cassidy said quietly, pointing to the spot from which he had heard the rustling. “In those bushes."
Billy started toward the bushes but was restrained by Angelino. Angelino was alert, all of his senses primed. “Hold on a minute, Billy. I don't think it's an animal."
"Then what is it?” Cassidy asked, somewhat confused.
His question was answered as a male figure, clad in a loincloth, emerged from the bushes. He was brown-skinned with straight black hair that fell to his shoulders. Other than a knife sheathed in a leather case at his side, his only other adornments were a pair of leather sandals and an ornate gold necklace that hung loosely over his chest. At the bottom of the necklace was a round gold medallion. He moved toward them slowly and cautiously, but without any tra
ce of fear.
The brown-skinned man stopped about twenty feet from them. Angelino took a couple steps toward him and smiled. “Hello there,” he said. The man remained still. From his reaction, they could not tell if he understood or not.
"Are you lost?” Angelino said, not really knowing what else to say.
Again, no response or reaction.
Angelino reached into his backpack. The stranger instinctively placed his hand on the knife handle and took a posture that indicated he was prepared to fight them all if it came to that.
Angelino raised his hand and said, “It's okay. Let me show you.” He produced a candy bar from his backpack. “It is food. Are you hungry?” He extended the hand with the candy bar in it, offering it to the man.
The man's eyes darted back and forth between the candy bar and Angelino's face, as if he were making a decision whether to accept it or not. Angelino tore the wrapper off the candy bar and broke it in half. He began eating one half, while offering the remainder to the stranger.
"See? It's good. It won't hurt you."
That seemed to decide the matter. The man walked over quickly, grabbed the bar from Angelino and then stepped back to his previous position. Without taking his eyes off of the intruders he took a bite out of the candy bar. His eyes widened with delight and a big smile came over his face. He pointed at the candy bar and nodded his head with enthusiastic approval.
"I told you it was good,” Angelino smiled. He turned to Billy. “Billy, do you know any Spanish?"
"Not a word,” he answered.
"I know some,” Cassidy volunteered. “It's been awhile, but I'll give it a try.” He advanced toward the man slowly so as to show he was not threatening him.
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