Shadowed

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  A long pause signaled Ranold that he had overstepped the bounds of propriety. “I’m sorry, Chancellor. That is none of my business. I—”

  Dengler sighed. “No, that’s all right. I suppose if anyone has a right to know, you do. Sure, the law enforcer in me wants to bring Stepola down. On the other hand . . . do you have a minute?”

  “Certainly.”

  “General, we’re of similar ages and backgrounds. We have seen our share of tragedy. I know your history.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Perhaps Stepola was still being coy with you,” Dengler said, “right to the end, but the fact is, in his own way, he tried to warn me.”

  “Warn you?”

  “Of what was coming. He urged me to carefully consider the warning from the resistance.”

  “The underground zealots,” Ranold said, a hard edge to his tone.

  “At the time,” the chancellor said, “I thought he was just being a good soldier, in the NPO sense. Consider both sides; cut losses; play it safe; keep an eye on the long term, the big picture, the greater good.”

  “All that, yes,” Ranold said. “And no, he didn’t take that tack with me. Made me believe he was loyal until it became obvious he wasn’t. Of course, you know I was on to him. Had been for some time.”

  Another sigh from the chancellor. “Well, the point is, we’re all on to him now, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, and that’s why I’m curious about your intentions.”

  “To be perfectly frank, General, I want to know more about what he knows. It’s clear which side he’s on, and like it or not, he’s cast his lot with the side that is winning.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Come now, Decenti. You can’t admit we got a whipping this week? Denial can be worse than defeat.”

  “But you don’t lose a battle and concede the war, do you, sir? I find my back is up; I’m on the offensive. I want to retaliate, to take no prisoners, to win.”

  “Well, don’t we all? But if history has taught us anything, it’s to know when we’re outmanned.”

  Ranold couldn’t help himself. “Outmanned? You believe we are outmanned?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m willing to admit I may have underestimated the enemy. But the only thing Tuesday did was make me more resolute.”

  “Well, good for you, General. I guess that’s what we want at your level of the intelligence community.”

  “But that’s not where you are, Chancellor?”

  “Where I am is facing reality. We oppose a force with the power to slay a billion males in an instant. That should give us all pause and make us plead for an audience with the other side.”

  Ranold found himself standing, fuming. When the conversation ended he returned to the lav and kicked the door so hard the knob drove a hole in the paneling and brought his secretary running.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  Ranold bent over the commode and vomited.

  “Do you need me to call someone?”

  “I’m fine!” Ranold managed, gasping. He wiped his mouth and faced himself in the mirror again. He felt puffed with rage. Who’d have guessed Chancellor Baldwin Dengler would prove a wuss? Was Ranold going to be forced to fight this battle alone? If the world needed anything right now, it was a leader.

  * * *

  Paul awoke to a raft of messages on his phone: three from Felicia, six from his father-in-law.

  Felicia filled him in on all the activity in Chicago and warned him not to call her. She would call him when she had a chance. The messages from Ranold were full of expletives and invectives and warnings, in essence commanding him to call Dengler.

  Now that was interesting. Paul would let the man—yes, the chancellor—wait. He had to be sure there was no way Dengler could trace the call. But what could the man want beyond talking about God and what He had done? There was little else to say. Surely Dengler wouldn’t congratulate Paul on duping him. The time for talking directly with the chancellor might come, and it would be crucially strategic, but for now it would have to wait.

  * * *

  Dr. Gregory Graybill told Straight that he had learned the best place for a clandestine meeting was in plain sight. So they arranged to meet in the cafeteria. “People can think we’re talking patient strategy,” the doctor said. “And perhaps we will.”

  They loaded their trays with institutional delicacies and set about pretending they were old friends. As soon as they were seated, the doctor opened a cup of pudding and leaned forward so only Straight could hear him. “We need to trust each other,” he said.

  “Do we?” Straight said. “Why is that?”

  “Because I know you are a believer.”

  “You know nothing of the sort,” Straight said. “You risk your freedom and your life by even talking like this, so I urge you to tread carefully.”

  “The time is long past for that,” Dr. Graybill said. “If it makes you feel more secure, I’ll declare myself first. I am a believer. I work with like-minded physicians to determine who’s with us and who isn’t. When the enemy is under our care, we slow them a bit.”

  “You slow them?”

  “We do not violate the Hippocratic oath, but let’s say it takes these people longer to get back to work than some others. Did that with a blind patient you worked with last year, for one.”

  Straight shuddered. Is this what The Incident had accomplished? It made the underground reckless? “What if you have misread me, Doctor?”

  “I’ll know that soon enough, won’t I? You’ll turn me in, and when the decimated government forces get around to it, I’ll be arrested, tried, and—I presume—executed.”

  “That simple, eh?”

  The doctor nodded. “I would not have made this contact if I wasn’t sure about you, but it would set my mind at ease if you would assure me we’re on the same side.”

  Straight sat back and studied the man. Bravado or desperation? He didn’t know how to read the doctor. Surely the man couldn’t suspect Straight was well connected with the underground. If Graybill had figured that out, Straight could be in deep weeds. “For the sake of discussion, let’s assume you’ve not just committed suicide. What could you possible want with me?”

  Dr. Graybill rushed to chew a saltine cracker and followed it with a sip of iced tea. “Patient information,” he said. “You know before we do whom we’re dealing with. All we get are names—some we recognize, of course—and medical histories. I’m guessing you have a better handle on who’s who, whom we should target for, shall we say, more deliberate care.”

  Straight sipped his coffee, then rubbed his eyes and wiped his face, realizing he had forgotten to shave. If he were a poker player, that would have been a tell, and Dr. Graybill would have known he had found his man.

  “Let’s leave it this way,” Straight said. “If you get news about an incoming patient or two, you can breathe easier and act accordingly. If, instead, you are arrested, you’ll know how grievously you have misread me.”

  * * *

  Felicia waited until most of the suits, including Harriet Johns, were gone, before she found her way to Hector Hernandez’s cubicle. The young man was deep into something on his computer, so when she tapped lightly on the wall, he jumped and spilled coffee on his desk.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Felicia said. “Didn’t mean to—”

  “No, it’s okay, ma’am. Come in, please.”

  Hector wiped his glass desktop with a small napkin, and as Felicia moved to help, he held her wrist with one hand and used the index finger of his other hand to draw opposing and intersecting arcs in the residue.

  He quickly wiped it all away, but the significance was not lost on Felicia. “Seafood fan, Hector?” she said.

  “I love fish. You?”

  She nodded. “You’re taking a great risk,” she whispered.

  “When rumors began about your boss, I wondered how you could keep working for him. Unless . . .”
/>
  “Unless I was a fish lover?”

  He motioned her close with a nod. “You know there’s a network of other, ah, fish folk here and at other bureaus.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me? I sure could have used the support.”

  “No other fish friends?” Hector said.

  She shook her head. “A relative or two, but they’re not close.”

  “Let me show you something,” Hector said.

  She leaned over his shoulder to see his screen. “This secure?” she said.

  “Think I’d risk it otherwise? I design the security systems here.”

  Felicia started when a throat cleared behind her.

  “What are you two up to so late?”

  21

  WAS IT POSSIBLE Felicia’s ruse was over this quickly? How had Paul lasted so long? She was an amateur; that was sure. Two days into her new life on the edge and she had been found out.

  The interloper was Trudy Nabertowitz in gray-on-gray security fatigues. Stocky and short-haired, she had been at the Chicago bureau nearly as long as Felicia. In fact, Felicia remembered the woman’s first day. She had been young and thin, smiling and energetic. She sure seemed to love that uniform, the leather belt, the handcuffs, the baton, the assumed authority. And she hadn’t seemed to harden over the years, as happened to too many security guards.

  “Oh, yeah, hi,” Felicia said. “We’re just—”

  Hector interrupted. “Finalizing a report for General Decenti in Washington on—”

  “Listen, Mrs. Thompson,” Trudy said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Here’s the deal. My chief sees you on the monitor, says you can’t be too careful these days, can’t trust anybody, blah, blah, blah. He’s going to swoop down and give you what for for bothering a techie who likely has after-hours clearance. I tell him I know you; he says who doesn’t? I say I need to stretch my legs and will bring him a coffee. He lets me come.”

  Hector seemed to take this in stride, but Felicia’s heart was doing Tae Bo against her ribs. She wasn’t cut out for this. Frantic to invent an explanation, she froze, staring first at Trudy, then at Hector, imagining herself in prison orange.

  “Me?” Felicia managed, her voice squeaking. “I’m on my way home, saying good-bye to—”

  Trudy’s eyes danced. “Well, which is it, Mrs. Thompson? Hector here hectoring you about your former boss so’s he can put it in the big report to Washington, or you just saying good-bye to your friend who nobody knew was your friend till right now?”

  “I,” Felicia said, “that is, we—”

  Had Trudy just winked at Hector? Had Felicia been set up? Could she have been that careless? that stupid? She clammed up, resolved to say nothing until she had a lawyer.

  “Didn’t see you at Wilson’s last month, Hector,” Trudy said.

  “I’ll be there in two weeks,” Hector said. “Everybody’ll be there. Probably even Mrs. Thompson.”

  Monthly meeting? Wilson’s?

  “You know Wilson’s,” Trudy said, “don’t you, Felicia?”

  “I know a Wilson’s,” she said, her voice cracking. She felt like one of The Three Stooges playing spy. “The restaurant in Joliet?”

  Hector peeked at her knowingly. “More specifically, a seafood restaurant in Joliet.”

  “Monthly meeting there,” Trudy said. “Of real seafood lovers. So, is Hector right? Maybe we’ll see you there next week?”

  Felicia couldn’t control her pulse. “Maybe.”

  “Peace be with you,” Trudy whispered.

  “And also with you,” Hector said.

  Trudy turned to face Felicia. “Peace be with you.”

  Felicia hesitated. Clearly this was some code. She looked to Hector, who nodded and mouthed the response. And Felicia said, “And also with you.”

  Trudy smiled, but Felicia was nonplussed. “All right, I’m totally confused,” she said. “How did you—?”

  “I came down here to protect a brother,” Trudy said, “but I could tell from Hector’s face he felt safe with you. Since The Incident, more and more of us have been coming out of the woodwork. That’s why next week’s fish fry is going to be the biggest yet.”

  “That’ll make it more dangerous,” Felicia said.

  “More dangerous than what? You been readin’ the papers?”

  “Newspapers? No. Who’s had time?”

  “Take time. Editorials, opinions, letters to the editor— everybody’s ready to cut the underground some slack. Huge groundswell.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’ll happen,” Felicia said. “These people are just foolishly identifying themselves to the authorities.”

  “I’m telling you,” Trudy said, “even unbelievers are getting on the bandwagon. Nobody wants a repeat of what just happened. Now, please, tell me you have after-hours security clearance like Hector does, so I don’t have to lie to my boss.”

  “Of course,” Felicia said.

  “Good. Carry on.”

  “Want to know what we’re really doing?” Hector said.

  Trudy raised a hand. “The less I know, the better.”

  * * *

  By Monday, January 28, Paul had still not called Ranold, let alone Baldwin Dengler. The hacking into the underground computer system continued unabated, and there wasn’t a techie in any underground who could assure Paul the entire communications system—phones included—had not been compromised. He asked Jack how that was possible with the seemingly impenetrable security system in place.

  “You don’t want to know,” Jack said.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Has to be an insider. No one could crack that code otherwise.”

  Jae seemed settled and pensive at the same time, worried about the children yet thrilled with her work with Angela. The kids were eager to tell Paul what they were learning every day. He listened closely, as did Jae. They were learning too. Stories from the Bible and the life of Jesus—fascinating, moving, insightful stories they should have known for years.

  Jack Pass seemed more eager than ever for a road trip, one that would take him and Paul to the other undergrounds to encourage them, tie them together, and rally them to pray for one more dramatic act of God. Paul was fighting him, agreeing with Greenie that if the slaying of firstborn sons around the world had not reached the hard hearts of the people, nothing would.

  But Jack would not be dissuaded. He spread half a dozen dossiers on the table before Paul, showing him how he could appropriate any one of the identities of men his age and build who had died in The Incident. Some were black, some Indian, some Hispanic.

  “I have people who can make you look like any one of them,” Jack said. “Skin dye, hair color, contact lenses, dental prostheses, clothes, you name it. Your own wife wouldn’t recognize you.”

  “She wouldn’t want to. If I left her now, she probably wouldn’t want me to come back.”

  Paul’s molar phone chirped, and he pressed his fingertips together, making the caller ID communicate directly to his inner ear. “Number classified and private.” He whispered a code and was informed the number was government issued. Good that he had resisted the urge to merely answer. He waited until the end-of-message tone, then excused himself and moved down a long, empty corridor.

  Dengler? Ranold? Felicia? Harriet Johns?

  He couldn’t have been more surprised to hear the unmistakable voice of Bia Balaam. They had history. Boy, did they have history. His surreptitious research had uncovered that she had been behind the martyrdom of Andy Pass, his former special-ops commander and Jack’s brother. She had suspected Paul early on and made no secret of it, following him around the world and trying to trip him up.

  Nearly six feet tall, rawboned, and with eerie silver eyes that matched her hair, Bia was everything the former Paul Stepola would have admired in an NPO chief: ruthless, cold, cruel, ambitious, condescending, sarcastic.

  But that’s not what he heard on this message. It was her voice all right, but in a tone and with a timbre he
had never heard. He didn’t trust her. Of course he didn’t. But she certainly pulled out every trick in her bag to convince him she was sincere.

  “Paul,” she said, “you must call me. Please. You have my private cell number, and it is secure. Ignore your father-in-law if you must. Blow off the chancellor too, if you don’t trust him. But do call me. Here’s how deadly serious and transparent I am: Before I even tell you what I want, I am going to betray the NPO, betray my government, and go against everything I ever knew, was ever taught. I am going to tell you what we know about where you are and what is planned for those in league with you in the Columbia underground.

  “You may choose not to believe it, but you will have to wonder how I know and why I am telling you this. There is only one reason. I’m conceding. You win. Your people and your God have proven themselves, at least to me. I have lost my son, my everything, and I have nothing more to lose, nothing more to offer. No way I’ll risk my daughter’s life for a cause I no longer believe in.

  “Paul, I know where you are. I know who you are with. And I know the danger you are in and how long you have to get out of there. When I give you the details, you will know I am telling the truth and, I hope, know how patently sincere I am. I must hear from you. Please.”

  22

  FELICIA STOPPED for a Chicago Tribune before heading out of the city. She would save it to share with Cletus—they had to do something together besides cry and commiserate, eat and try to rest. But she couldn’t help glancing at the headlines, and sure enough, Trudy Nabertowitz had been right. Something had emboldened the populace, even people who described themselves as anything but religious.

  This must have been the way it had been nearly forty years before, Felicia decided, when the world was so devastated by the gruesome war and the pandemic loss of life that even well-meaning people agreed the banning of religion would be a good start to eradicating war.

  Now the sentiment had finally seemed to reverse itself, and as she and Cletus sat next to each other at the kitchen table, forcing themselves to nibble and keep their strength while leaning shoulder to shoulder as if they would otherwise topple, they read to each other from the paper.