Caliel smiled as he watched the action, both physical and spiritual. Shining angels who watch-cared over individual church members shared greetings with colleagues who shepherded the apartment residents. It was good to touch base, to mutually guide the process of sharing, of love, to feel the presence and the pleasure of the Lamb of God.
Caliel watched the Holy Spirit fill the Christians with love and power—both those who gave and those who received. The power of that love was almost palpable, transforming all it touched, changing what could have been a perfunctory handout into real ministry. Caliel saw many an earnest conversation, many a personal prayer. Even the language differences posed no barrier to ministry, as the Lord touched those who were prayed for, whether they had an interpreter at their side, whether they understood every word or not.
“Gracias, gracias!” The young woman, beaming with delight, accepted the bag of groceries and placed several small items of clothing into the bag.
Sherry smiled at her. “De nada.”
Two little boys clung to the woman’s legs, unsure about all the fuss and bustle.
Sherry reached down and ruffled their hair, smiling as they peeked out from behind their mother’s skirt.
“Dios te bendiga.” God bless you.
Shy grins appeared on their faces. “Gracias,” their little voices said in unison.
The woman looked at Sherry with watery eyes, then put down the groceries and reached to give her a hug. “Dios te bendiga.”
Sherry watched them walk away and said a silent prayer. She saw Doug talk with another family, shaking their hands, pointing down the road in the direction of their church. That family, too, left with full arms and smiles on their faces. Doug appeared briefly by her side.
“They spoke pretty good English. They’ll be coming on Sunday with some others from the complex.”
Sherry stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Great. Thank you.”
Someone called for Doug—a family needed some financial advice—and Sherry again found herself alone, watching the milling people and the nearby apartment complex.
On the first floor, a door opened, and a new family ventured out. They hesitated when they saw the crowd, then came slowly forward. A man, his face dark and bearded, wearing the clothes of his native land, led a small group of women and children forward. The women wore headscarves and clutched the hands of their children.
Sherry noticed that several in the crowd turned to look. There was a subtle pulling aside, some sideways glances, some whispers as they passed. Sherry stepped forward, smiling, and extended her hand to the man at the head of the little group.
“Hi, I’m Sherry. I’m glad to see you all.”
“Hello.” The man’s voice was heavily accented but clear. “I am Azim. Are you from the Trinity Church, to give away the food and clothes?”
“We are, Azim. Why don’t you come and see if there’s anything you need?”
He nodded, head held high, and gestured the women forward. With shy smiles toward Sherry, they began looking at the clothing, holding the pieces up to their children, turning little shoes over in their hands, their faces eager.
Within five minutes, the women had picked out things they needed, and Sherry took the little group over to the truck to get some groceries. As she filled up several bags, she smiled at one of the women.
“What is your name?”
“Aisha.”
“That’s a beautiful name. What country are you from?”
The woman’s smile dimmed. She looked down. “We are from Saudi Arabia.”
“I hear you have a beautiful country.”
The woman looked up in surprise and nodded. “Yes. It is.”
“Do you like America?”
“Yes.” The eyes were downcast again. “We have good jobs here, good schools for the girls. It is where we want to be.”
“Has it been difficult for you, with everything that has happened?”
“Yes.” The word was quiet. “Yes, difficult.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sherry finished packing the bags and turned to face the woman. “I imagine it is … hard sometimes for people to know how to act, what to say. It’s easy to fear what we don’t understand.”
Aisha nodded, looking at Sherry, her face forthright. “We are surprised that you would serve us, would serve those who are not of your faith. Azim, my brother, he thought you would turn us away.”
“Oh no! Not at all. We’re followers of Jesus—Isa, I believe you call him. And Isa tells us to love everyone, no matter what.”
“In Islam, Isa is the healing prophet. We revere him.”
“We believe Isa is more than that. We believe He is the healer because He is the Son of God.”
Aisha shook her head. “We do not understand this. How can there be two gods? We believe in one God, Allah.”
Sherry smiled. “We do believe in one God, the one who created heaven and earth. But Jesus and God the Father are one.” She looked at the small line that was growing beyond them. “You know, this requires a longer discussion, but I’d like to continue it sometime. Perhaps next time we come back, I’ll bring a book that’ll help me share with you what we believe.”
Aisha gave her a shy smile. “Perhaps.” She took a bag of groceries and called another woman over to receive the second. “Thank you for helping us.”
“You’re welcome. God bless you. We’ll see you again soon.”
Sherry watched as the little family trailed away, again collecting sideways glances as they headed back toward the building, to shut themselves inside.
Lord, You died for all of us. Bring someone in their apartment complex—someone who knows You—to befriend them, to be kind to them. Help me to remember to pray for that family.
Caliel also watched as the Muslim family disappeared inside their building, watched the spiritual forces at work, and prayed that that encounter would someday bear fruit.
The ministry time drew to a close, the parking lot clearing of residents, the tables and racks now almost bare. The church members packed away the remaining items, talking a mile a minute, comparing notes, clearly on a ministry high.
Caliel exchanged glances with his team members, their eyes tender on those in their care. They all knew the time was short, and this was only one step. But for a moment, they allowed themselves to revel in the presence of the Lord, His pride in His children.
Something caught Caliel’s attention, and he realized that it was Loriel, arriving at speed. His eyes were grave as he went to greet his commanding officer. The next steps would come soon enough.
FORTY-SEVEN
The old prewar building was a hive of activity. All regular external meetings had been moved or postponed, and all internal ones were short and to-the-point. The first test was going live in twenty-four hours, and there was a lot to do.
Tyson took the stairs in the building two at time, checking that all was running and ready. He checked in with the managers in each department, nearly out of breath from running from one to the other.
Most of the people in the building didn’t know what they were preparing for. Nor would they. Even those with few scruples would balk at the intended results of their labors, if they were to ever discover them. But 95 percent still labored under the misdirection of the “white-collar crime” cover story, and were more than willing to line their own pockets in exchange. The other 5 percent were the top loyalists, people who—like Glenn—knew the score and had ideological or monetary incentives to persevere to the real end.
Only one major worry niggled at Tyson; the persistent feeling that they had a breach. A few things had happened that had made him wonder; small things, like the bust of the Florida drug-running tunnel. Every large organization had its tattlers, of course; no way around it. And, he reminded himself, most of their organization was straight organized crime—nothing fancy. A breach could never affect Proxy’s main plot, could probably never even get close. The loyalist team was handpicked, and only they had
the full story. He had to admit that some external players could probably piece a few things together if they happened to be in the right place at the right time. But even then, no way could they learn enough to compromise the primary plan. It was just impossible.
Tyson pulled to a stop in front of a door with a keypad, entered his code, and slipped inside. The people in the room hardly looked up, intent on the banks of equipment in front of them. The broadcasting studio was small, but more than adequate for their purposes. And they had some of the best encryption people in the world ensuring that they could cover their tracks. If anyone ever even thought to look for them.
Tyson flicked on a television set on the wall. He picked up a DVD lying to the side.
“Is this it?” he asked no one in particular. “Is this the final version?”
One or two of the busy heads nodded without looking up.
Tyson pulled up a chair and slipped the DVD into the televisions built-in player. The screen sprang to life with an image of running feet and a jazzy musical background. The camera zoomed into a panorama of figures: a sports star jumping hurdles, a woman jogging along a misty morning river, kids playing a pickup game, a pro basketball star exploding into an impossible, slow-motion slam dunk.
He kept his eyes on the screen and spoke over his shoulder. “Is this the one-minute or the thirty-second version?”
Someone behind him answered in a distracted voice. “Thirty seconds, chief. Since that’s the one we’re using.”
“Fine.” He watched the entire commercial twice, then stood and stretched. “They did a great job. What’s the cue?”
No one answered him, and he tapped one of his men on the shoulder.
“What? Oh, um … the slam dunk, chief.”
Tyson’s lips curved in a smile. “How appropriate.”
“So did he show it to you?” Ronnie Hanover eyed Tiffany curiously as her friend changed into a conservative cocktail dress.
Tiffany was leaving early, heading out for another night with Wade, a night to celebrate the launching of what had become a series of commercials that would culminate with the Super Bowl ads in January.
“I’ll see it tonight. They just finished the first one. The ad people will show it live at the party. They were going to have the company Christmas party anyway, so they’re combining the two.”
“Cool.” Despite herself, Ronnie was jealous. Marco had asked if she wanted to accompany another executive to the same party, but she just wasn’t ready for another sugar daddy. The bruises had barely healed. Maybe in another few days she’d do this special off-site party Marco kept mentioning.
“See ya.”
Tiffany met Wade at the entrance to the hotel, where well-dressed guests were thronging into the ballroom. She gave him a long kiss. He’d been talking about getting her a new car, so she might as well play it up and see what happened.
She held her head high as Wade took her arm and guided her into the ballroom—even though no one could know it, she had brokered this deal. She half-knew many of the people in the room from previous events on Wade’s arm. She smiled and worked the room, secure in herself and her abilities. She made Wade look good, and he rewarded her handsomely.
An hour later, Wade left her side and appeared on a small stage, under a giant screen.
“Ladies and gentleman, could I have your attention. Welcome to our holiday celebration and the launch of our new high-impact national advertising campaign. Speed Shoes is pleased to announce the first in a series …”
Tiffany clapped along with the others at the right spots, scanning the festive crowd, watching the polite expressions. Her gaze lingered on two men from the advertising agency standing alone at the back of the crowd. They were clapping as well, but seemed tense, keyed up. She recognized one as a man that Marco had tried to set Ronnie up with.
Wade was wrapping up his little speech, enjoying his time in the spotlight. “We’ll be watching it live here in a moment, and the clock will begin to tick toward the most effective Super Bowl ad in the history of advertising.”
He gestured for the lights to be lowered, and the screen above him sprang to life with a scene from a popular cop drama.
Tiffany watched the two men. They were whispering together and looking at their watches, seeming hardly interested in the upcoming commercial. Odd, since they created it. And why were they so stressed? They should be enjoying themselves and their success with a major, high-profile account.
One man turned his head and looked straight at her. Tiffany realized she’d been caught staring—staring at them instead of the screen. The man’s expression tightened, and Tiffany gave him a coy grin and pointed at the screen as if to say “congratulations.”
The man relaxed and, noticing her figure and long bare legs for the first time, made eyes at her. Tiffany returned the look, confident that Wade would let nothing come of it.
The screen flashed to black, and Tiffany looked up to watch the long-awaited results of her very profitable labors.
The world was black outside the windows of the security station, set into the clifflike concrete wall above the towering dam.
Inside, two guards sat in front of a bank of monitors that flickered between every conceivable interior and exterior view. Another two guards waited in a nearby break room for their next shift, watching a popular police drama beamed in via the satellite dish outside. Another two teams were outside in the cold keeping an eye out for anything amiss. In half an hour, each of the four teams would rotate to a different post.
No one was overly worried, but just that morning another special alert had been issued. The threat of terrorist activity was judged to be higher than usual. No specifics, of course, and the men were annoyed at having to work longer hours so close to Christmas. But these days, each industry, each company, had its own way of responding to heightened terrorist threats, and this was theirs.
One of the guards walked the path that circumnavigated the giant reservoir above the dam. Hundreds of millions of gallons of water sat silent and still, undisturbed under the stars. From his position on a gentle slope, the guard could look downward over the water and over the lip of the dam, to the dark river ravine below.
The river was managed, of course, as the dam engineers constantly let out the appropriate amount of water to keep it running smoothly—without flooding the cities and towns just a few miles downriver. This dam wasn’t one of the largest, or the most productive, but it had faithfully served the residents of this area for the many years since that time, without incident.
The guard turned and looked upriver. In warmer weather, many of those residents came here to relax amid the natural beauty of the river and the upper lake. The recreational area ended at a concrete barrier across the lower lake, a half-mile upriver from the dam, but every now and then some bumbling tourist pulling an overpriced boat on a trailer managed to get himself lost and find a little-used back road into the restricted area. Because their dam wasn’t particularly large or profitable, and was in a remote area used primarily for recreation, the massive perimeter was not fenced in. There was really no feasible way to fence so much land; unless what you were fencing was an army base or a missile silo or other such installation. The municipality that owned the dam relied on signs, monitoring, and sturdy fencing near the dam itself to discourage the back-roaders. But once or twice, a tourist had managed to miss all the warnings, and to put in at points on the lower lake where the firm bank made a perfect natural boat ramp down to the water.
The guard shook his head, tolerant of human stupidities. He’d been there for one such case, under a bright August sky, when the infuriated boat owners had been confronted by guards appearing out of nowhere on Jet Skis, to be told that they would have to pack up and leave forthwith. A Hawaiian-shirted man—half drunk, and in a party mood, had demanded to see a map that proved they were on restricted space before he would incur the trouble of loading up his boat. The guards had, with some amusement, shown him their official identi
fication—along with the loaded weapons that were strapped securely at their sides. The blustering boat owner had rapidly decided that was all the road map he needed, and had departed at speed.
Chuckling at the memory, the guard scanned the dark water—and froze. He blinked, thinking the memory had come to life. No, there it was again: A motor-boat, calmly drifting down from around a bend, was headed straight down the middle of the lake. Toward the dam.
The guard cursed and sprinted forward, grabbing his radio out of his belt.
“Code Red all teams! Code Red all teams! Unsecured boat heading toward home base, over!”
The radio crackled to life as he tried to keep pace along the shore. He pressed the transmit button again, trying to talk and run at the same time. “Appears unmanned! No one in the cockpit! Thirty seconds to home base, over!”
He heard his supervisors calm voice over the radio. “Sending team to intercept. Can you tell if it’s a threat?”
“Negative … home base …” The guard was panting now, unable to keep up with the boat. “No way … to know. But it feels wrong. Nighttime … unmanned … how’d it get here?”
He heard his supervisor ordering out a team to intercept the boat, but he knew they’d never reach it before it reached the dam. He began sprinting again, arriving at the dam and taking the downward steps two at a time, down toward the verge. His view was momentarily blocked by the high stairway walls, but he could hear the security boats engine being revved.
Inside the security station, the break room was deserted, a spilled coffee cup betraying the haste of the guards’ departure. The lonely television flickered with the final moments of an intense police scene, then went black, transitioning into the commercial break.
Perched high up along the outside of the dam, the small satellite dish received its signals, transmitting them to the television inside and any other receivers within range. One such receiver sat quietly nearby, gently rocking in the wake stirred up by the nearby security boat and the man who had come aboard in haste to hook up a towline.
The Lights of Tenth Street Page 38
