“What does that mean?” he said. “I throw bottles because it gives me something to do?”
Felicia put a hand on his knee. “Let’s stick together, buddy. It’s been you and me all these years, and we’ve gotten through everything else.”
“Yeah, but—” here it came again— “this is in a whole different league, baby. You can see that. I’ve about gone mad here, and you’re hearing God talk to your soul.”
“But I did! He told me He loved me! He loves everybody!”
“Strange way of showing it.”
“That’s just it. He’s been trying to show His love for centuries, and His creation has rejected, rejected, rejected. We worship everything but Him. We worship stuff. Worse, we worship ourselves. We worship our minds; we satisfy our wants and needs. We decide He doesn’t even exist. He hears the prayers of His true believers and rains judgment on Los Angeles, and we quickly explain that away and go back about our business.”
“He told you all that?”
“I got it; that’s all I know. God is more than love and goodness and patience. He’s also righteous and just. And His patience has limits.”
“Obviously,” Cletus said. “Did He say anything about killing a fly with a nuclear bomb?”
“I’m not following.”
“He overreacted, wouldn’t you say? Wasn’t there some other step in there, between drought in L.A. and slaughtering a billion men and boys and babies? Couldn’t He have tried again to get our attention before unloading His whole arsenal?”
Felicia was suddenly awash in fatigue. She had thoughts; she even had arguments. She just couldn’t utter them. She shook her head. “I don’t know. And I don’t guess I’ll know till I see Him face-to-face.”
“I’d like to see Him face-to-face right now,” Cletus said.
“Careful, love. We have a way of getting what we ask for . . . what’s coming to us.”
“This was what we had coming?” he said, rising.
Felicia hadn’t noticed how he looked, how he moved like the old man he claimed to be. Poor Cletus. He’s at the end of himself.
“Listen,” she said. “All I know is we paid a high, high price for God finally getting our attention. And now that He has it, I want Him to know He’s got it. I accept that He’s God, that He’s in charge, that He did what He had to do. I don’t like it. And at times I don’t like Him. But I believe in Him. How can I not? Did I receive Him and confess it to you because I don’t want anything else bad to happen to me? to us? Maybe. That was part of it, sure. But I’m in, Clete. Whatever more it costs, whatever else it means, I’m in. I’m on His side. I’ll fight for His cause. I’ll fight His enemies.”
“Your employer. Your government.”
“You bet,” she said. “We are the ones who have tried to shut Him out, to ignore Him, to pretend He doesn’t exist. You know anybody still saying that? They may be fighting Him, may be furious with Him, but only a fool would still claim He’s not there.”
19
RANOLD B. DECENTI HAD A ROUTINE, and he stuck to it. One privilege of his station was access to emergency services the common man did not enjoy. He had been able to get the bodies of both his son, Berlitz, and his wife, Margaret, transported to a government morgue. Funerals and burials were beyond even his control, however, with the sheer numbers service personnel had to accommodate.
But Ranold drew some modicum of satisfaction from meeting his obligations. He had done all he could for the time being, and if his dead loved ones had to lie in repose in refrigerated chambers—even for months—so be it. He was, frankly, glad to not have to worry about the bodies and felt no sense of urgency to do more.
Aryana, Berl’s widow, was already proving a nuisance. He had been kind to her at first, matching her grave tones word for word, commiserating that between them they had lost a husband, a son, a mother-in-law, and a wife, and wasn’t it just the worst thing that anyone could ever imagine.
Well, of course it was. Yet Ranold had been able to swallow his true assessment of both his wife and his firstborn son. Margaret had been a facile, if boring, mate lo these many years. And while he had chastised his son-in-law, the rogue Paul Stepola, for infidelities, Ranold had enjoyed countless dalliances himself, with Margaret, to his knowledge, none the wiser.
Would he miss her? He couldn’t imagine. He could pay for the services she rendered, in the home and in the bedroom. And with his power and income and prestige, for some of that he would not have to fork over a cent. He found himself thinking about Margaret occasionally; they’d made their memories. There had been trips and high-level ceremonies, introductions to and banquets with heads of state. And the raising of the kids when they were young enough to be malleable, pliable, less than disappointments.
But Berl had matured—strange word for it—into a life-sized regret. The women, the money, the marriages. The jobs. The hopes and dreams or lack thereof. Oh, face it, Ranold told himself. Berlitz was a loser. And the emotion Ranold had felt when Berl died? Natural. He was shocked, surprised, repulsed. But in a strange way, losing the boy—the middle-aged boy—was no great loss. In fact, alive Berl had been a complicator, as his widow was now.
Ranold’s patience with Aryana had run out earlier Wednesday evening when she called for the umpteenth time. “It’s left to you and me,” she said, “to plan the service.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” Ranold told her. “You have no idea the backlog of bodies in that facility—”
“Well, but . . . yes, but, Dad, I’d rather we not refer to Berl as one of the backlog of—”
“And I would prefer that you not call me Dad, Aryana.”
“Sorry. But just now I feel so close to—”
“We’ve been over this ground before. You’re hardly Berl’s first wife, and so frankly it’s been hard for me to even view you as family. I mean, I hope I’ve been nothing short of cordial, but—”
“No, you have,” she said, but her tone indicated the opposite.
Ranold considered himself a trained observer of human nature. He knew when people were lying, when they were deceiving even themselves. “I’d prefer you call me Mr. Decenti or—”
“That seems so formal. I mean, my last name is Decenti now, you know. It would be like my calling Berl Mr. Dec—”
“—or Ranold, I suppose, but you know what, Aryana?”
“Sir?”
“I say, do you know what?”
“No, what?”
“I’d prefer you not call me at all.”
“Sir?”
“Did you not hear me or not understand?”
“I heard you, sir. I hope I did not understand.”
“I’m not trying to be unkind, Aryana. But we have nothing more to talk about. My son—your husband—is dead. There is the matter of the funeral, which I will of course attend and will look forward to seeing you there.”
“Look forward?”
“You know what I mean. Please don’t parse something negative from every word. We will do the right thing by the man, and—”
“The man?!”
“He was a man, Aryana. Maybe not a man’s man; let’s not mince words. But now he is gone, and I will do the right thing, as I know you will.”
He had silenced her. He wasn’t sure how and didn’t care. It was just good to hear nothing from the other end of the phone, especially when he considered the alternative: the plaintive, whiny, throaty pleading. But the silence was short-lived.
“You’re family, Mr. Decenti. I need—”
“Oh no. No you don’t. Don’t start with this. We were barely family when you married in. And Berl’s death ended all that. You know, of course, that technically you’re not my daughter-in-law anymore.”
“But I want to be! It doesn’t have to be legal, official, whatever. You’re my last tie to him. I loved him. I—”
“You think being married to him for a season entitles you to something? Let me tell you, young lady, he had a negative estate, as you well know. And not a p
enny of mine will find its way to your grubby little—”
“Ranold! This is your grief talking! Your anger! I want nothing from you. I would never presume—”
“Aryana! Aryana! Would you then do me a favor and return to my earlier statement. I am not trying to be rude or insensitive. My wish is that you not call me. How about I call you when I hear from the morgue that a time and place has been cleared for the funeral. There we can be cordial, share a memory or two, and get on with our lives.”
The click of the receiver surprised Ranold, but it was certainly not unwelcome. Best of all, he assumed it meant the end of these incessant calls.
That evening Ranold changed into his silk pajamas and floor-length robe, watched an hour of news—all of it bad, of course—and retired to bed with his favorite newsweekly. He read until he fell asleep.
This morning he shaved and showered and dressed in a suit tailored for his massive frame. The tie cost more than he once paid for shirts, but by the end of the day he knew he would be eager to shed the whole outfit.
The pilfering of his NPO car by his son-in-law and its becoming evidence proved a mixed blessing. Ranold had to use his own car for personal errands after hours, but he had been assigned a car and driver to get back and forth to work, despite that personnel were stretched far past their capacities since The Incident.
Ranold saw the car approach, knowing the driver would not make the same mistake twice: The day before he had pulled to the curb and waited. And so Ranold had waited him out. Then came the courteous tap on the horn, which Ranold also ignored. Finally the driver called Ranold’s home number from his cell, and Ranold refused to answer. The message said, “Thought I was to pick you up at your house, but I don’t guess you’re here.”
As the car had pulled away, Ranold phoned his office and told his secretary to “get on the horn to that motor-pool fool and tell him to get his can back here, come to the door like a gentleman, carry my briefcase, open the car door for me, and do his job if he wants to keep it.”
Today the man pulled into the driveway early and jogged to the door. He rang the bell and reached for Ranold’s briefcase as soon as the man opened the door. The driver was obsequious and deferential, but Ranold neither responded to any comment nor made eye contact.
On his way to the office his secretary called and informed him that International Chancellor Baldwin Dengler’s people had phoned to arrange for a private call within an hour of Ranold’s arrival at his office. Ranold knew The Incident had decimated the intelligence workforce around the world, and especially within the NPO. But the world chancellor wanting to talk with him personally? That could mean only one thing: promotion. Perhaps he was to ascend to his rightful place as head of NPO USSA or—who knew?—even NPO International.
20
DESPITE THAT CLETUS WAS RESTLESS and probably had not slept, Felicia found herself rested Thursday morning. She had awakened every hour or so, checking to be sure he was still beside her. Usually he was. Sighing. Tossing and turning.
Once she had found him gazing out the window. “Are you all right?” she said.
“Of course not, Felicia. Are you?”
“Yes and no. My heart aches. I’m scared. And yet I have a deep peace. I can’t explain it.”
He pointed to his head and twirled his finger.
“I’m crazy?” she said.
“Of course. We both are, or we would be dead.”
Felicia had fallen back to sleep, somehow confident Cletus would make it to the morning sun. Her own grief was always at the edge of her consciousness, and yet she sensed she had made a decision that had altered the rest of her life. Her choice was made; the die was cast. She had committed herself to the resistance at the risk of her safety, not to mention Cletus’s. And yet she knew there had been no other choice. No other decision would have allowed her to sleep and truly rest with everything going on in her mind.
It made no sense, she told herself. All the way into the office Thursday morning she repeated that, sometimes aloud. She had talked Cletus into calling in sick, trying to get some rest, and planning to get back to his teaching and coaching within a week. Felicia had sensed in him a flicker of life. All she wanted was that he somehow distract himself from their loss. That he might one day share her faith was too much to dream for now. Her top priority was keeping him alive.
The office was abuzz with the search for Paul Stepola. Chancellor Dengler himself wanted to talk with Paul, and the brass had directed his people to Ranold B. Decenti in the Columbia branch. The place was also hopping with news of Bob Koontz’s replacement: Harriet Johns of the L.A. bureau. She had been reassigned to San Francisco after the drought, and now a nationwide game of musical chairs put her in Chicago.
The first person she wanted to speak with? Felicia Thompson.
“I might have thought you would be on time every day,” Ms. Johns began, “this soon after The Incident.”
Felicia had just hung up her coat and was fewer than twenty minutes behind schedule.
“Forgive me,” she said. “My husband and I lost a son.”
“You have my sympathies, but of course you know that we in positions of trust must separate our personal and professional lives, and that you are hardly alone in your grief.”
Felicia nodded.
“And so I expect you here on time from here on out, at your desk and ready to go at starting time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That said, Mrs. Thompson, I need to know whether, during all the years you worked side by side with Agent Stepola, you ever suspected him of being a double agent.”
“Didn’t we all? Didn’t you?”
“You’re not interrogating me, ma’am,” Harriet said. “I’m interrogating you.”
“You are?”
“Questioning you, yes.”
“Am I being suspected of something? charged with something?”
“Certainly not. I just need your input. Naturally you would have been closer to Agent Stepola than anyone else.”
“Naturally.”
“And so?”
“Yes, I suspected him. And for a time he was under heavy scrutiny. Then he solved the European terrorist attacks and deflected all suspicion. He had me fooled.”
Felicia found it hard to reconcile this stranger in Bob Koontz’s office. The woman was forthright, not unlike Bob; she had to give Harriet that.
“Do you know where Agent Stepola is now?”
“I do not.”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“I do not.”
“You haven’t thought about it?”
“Sure I have.”
“And your guess?”
“I suppose I would be surprised if he was far from where he was last known to be.”
“At his father-in-law’s home,” Harriet said.
“Correct.”
“If he’s hiding in Columbia, he ought to be easy to find.”
Felicia smiled.
“You disagree.”
“I do.”
“You remain loyal to Agent Stepola?”
“I remain an employee of the National Peace Organization.”
“And if you hear from Agent Stepola?”
“I will do the right thing.”
“Very good. And have you heard from him?”
“If I had, I would have done the right thing.”
“Excellent.”
* * *
Ranold Decenti hung his hat and coat and visited his private lavatory, primping before the mirror, even though his appointment with Chancellor Dengler was by phone.
He buttoned his suit coat, tugged at his sleeves, straightened his tie, and ran his hands through his hair. Dengler might not be able to see him, but the chancellor ought to be able to sense he was talking with a man of prestige and power, a man of accomplishment. He ought to be able to detect a peer—there was no other way to say it.
Ranold let his secretary talk with Dengler’s people until it was ti
me for the two of them to converse over a secure connection. Ranold reminded himself to curb his proclivity for dominating a conversation. He must come across respectful and deferential, especially if he was in line for an important assignment.
“General Decenti?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Baldwin Dengler from Bern, bringing you greetings from international government headquarters.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Chancellor.” Ranold at first wondered if it was really Dengler. Where was the sharp, clear voice, the air of confidence? Dengler was formal and professional, but the power was gone.
“I understand you have suffered as many of us have, General.”
“Please, call me Ranold.”
“Ranold, you have my condolences on the deaths of your son and your wife.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m managing.”
“I understand Agent Paul Stepola is your son-in-law.”
“Regrettably so.”
“I need to speak with him. Can you help me with that?”
“Sir?”
“I assume you have a cell number on him. Bottom line: I would like him to call me.”
“Um, sure. I should be able to get that message to him. Or I could just give you that number. . . .”
“General, please. I think we both know he is not likely to accept a call originating from Bern.”
“I have stopped trying to predict his behavior, Chancellor Dengler. You know he brainwashed my daughter into murdering my wife.”
“Terribly sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, and forgive me, sir, for not acknowledging your own loss. You had a son die too, did you not?”
“We’re all coping the best we know how, General. Thank you. Please get a message to Agent Stepola that—”
“He’s certainly no longer an agent, sir.”
“Well, of course. See if you can get him to call me, would you?”
“I’ll do my best. An honor to speak with you, sir.”
“Likewise.”
“Nothing else I can do for you?”
“That’s all, General.”
“But I—sorry.”
“Was there something else, General?”
“Well, I—forgive me, sir, but may I assume your reason for wanting to connect with Stepola aims at his eventual capture and prosecution?”
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