Silenced

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “You going to try to get more sleep?”

  “No. I’ve got meetings first.”

  It was all Jae could do to keep from hammering at the religious angle. Paul couldn’t suspect that she had found the letter his father had written him when Paul was born. It had to have humiliated Paul, learning that his father had been covertly religious, but there was no way that influenced Paul now. No wonder his late mother had squirreled it away and never shown him. If only his mother had destroyed it. Jae decided that was what she herself would have to do. As soon as Paul was gone, she would rid herself, and him, and especially her children, of it for good.

  Paul had been raised the way she had, and if what had happened in London, Rome, and Paris over the last two days didn’t prove the validity of their stand against religion, she didn’t know what did. She was proud of Paul, leading the way to ridding the world of such a menace. How such a dangerous belief system had been able to rise from the ashes of World War III after so many decades, she couldn’t compute.

  Brilliant, she thought. Try to win the right to practice your religion by murdering thousands of civilians. Yes, that’s the kind of thing we’d like to see more of.

  Paul parked his Chevy Electrolumina and walked three blocks to Straight’s apartment, not far from PSL Hospital (formerly Presbyterian-St. Luke’s). With his head and ears covered, scarf over his face, and gloved hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, Paul still had to brace himself against the single-digit temperature and the bitter wind. His feet were warm, but having only one layer of clothing on his legs left his thighs, knees, and shins raw as he pushed the button over the name Stuart Rathe. He was grateful Straight buzzed him in immediately.

  At six-four and well over two hundred pounds, the rawboned black man looked imposing in a ragged robe, even hobbling slightly on his prosthetic foot. Having just turned sixty, white and gray had begun to invade his hair. Paul had long been impressed by Straight’s magnificent skin, which usually made him look younger. But this early in the morning his eyes showed fatigue and his cheeks sagged.

  The apartment was small and sparse, but it was warm. “Nothing wrong with vinyl and linoleum,” Straight often said. “It served several generations of Americans. Can’t wear it out.” The former University of Chicago professor kept the place tidy, and his shelves were jammed with the great writings of the world on thousands of discs.

  Paul pulled off his hat and loosened his scarf, but he stayed in his coat and boots as he sat, receiving a large mug of coffee with both hands.

  “Jes’ the way you like it,” Straight said, sitting heavily across from Paul.

  “Just the way you like it, old man,” Paul said, detecting not a hint of cream or sugar.

  “Already had mine,” Straight said. “Ready to get down to business. What do you know for sure about where you’re going to be?”

  “I start in Bern, with the chancellor.”

  “There’s no underground—that we know of—there.”

  “That’s amazing in the cradle of Calvinism.”

  “Maybe you can start one.”

  Paul looked into Straight’s eyes to see if he was serious.

  “Or at least be an underground of one,” the older man said.

  “Any idea how lonely this is?”

  “I can only imagine, Paul. The underground here will be with you, you know.”

  “Be judicious about who you tell.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And you’ll look in on Jae.”

  “Of course. She suspicious?”

  Paul studied the ceiling. “I can’t tell. I’m suspicious of everybody, and though she’s not trained like her father is, I could read something into everything she says and does.”

  “You ask her about the letter yet?”

  “I can’t do that. Unless she comes right out and admits she has it, how will I know she’s telling the truth?”

  “That document doesn’t have to be incriminating as it stands. It doesn’t have to reflect on you that your father was a believer.”

  Paul stood and paced. “If she’s seen the letter, she has to wonder when I became aware of it. Nothing I said or did in the first ten-plus years I knew her could have hinted anything. Had I known of it, I think that would have come out, and at that time I would have distanced myself from my father and his notions.”

  “And now?”

  “Well, she’s noticed a change in me. How could she not? But would she tie that to his letter? Just because I’m a better husband doesn’t make me a Christian.”

  “No. It’s the other way round.”

  “Well, you and I know that, Straight, but that would be a mighty big leap for her. If she believes I’ve become a Christian, she has to also believe I’m a traitor, a liar, and worthy of execution.”

  “All true, under this government.”

  Paul sat again. “You really know how to comfort a guy.”

  “That’s my gift,” Straight said. “You wanna pray?”

  The big man slowly knelt on the hard floor and Paul joined him. “Lord, encourage this brother,” Straight began. “Lead him to whoever he needs to be led to, give him the words to say, and plant a protective hedge of fire around him.”

  Paul could not speak. He could pray only silently, and when he felt Straight’s hand on his shoulder, he knew his spiritual mentor understood.

  Presently Straight looked at his watch. “You’re leaving at eight out of Daley?”

  Paul nodded. “Got to be out of here in ten minutes.”

  “Dengler going to send you to the attack sites?”

  “Likely.”

  “Commit this to memory. Head of the French underground is Chappell Raison. Goes by Chapp. He will not be easy to connect with, but he knows you may be coming.”

  “Was that wise?”

  “Wise as serpents; gentle as doves. If you want to see him, he’s got to know. You won’t find him unless he’s also looking for you. If and when you get to Paris, you talk to me and only me by secure connection, and I’ll give you a location and a code phrase.”

  “Why not give it to me now?”

  “I know nothing until I need to know it, and neither should you.”

  “And Italy?”

  “In Rome you want Enzo Fabrizio. Same setup.”

  Paul repeated the names. “Got it.”

  “I have something for you,” Straight said. He picked around behind a row of discs on a high shelf and brought down a black, leather-bound book. “The whole Bible on paper.”

  Paul held it gingerly, treasuring it. “Old Testament too, eh? This must be valuable.”

  “Dangerous is what it is.”

  “But I’ve got reasons to be studying these ancient texts.”

  “Just don’t tell anybody where you got it. And God be with you.”

  The 4,400-plus-mile direct flight to Bern would take a tick over two hours.

  As soon as Jae dropped the kids off at school she drove straight to the bank in Park Ridge. She knew it was only her imagination, but she feared every car following her until it turned off. She felt watched even as she walked to the entrance of the bank. An iris and a fingerprint scan opened her lockbox, from which she pulled the letter to Paul from his father, which she had found in the basement of Paul’s late mother’s home.

  Her fingers trembled as she stuffed it in her purse and carried it to the car. How to dispose of it? Fire was the only way. There was no question Paul had seen it; that had been clear from the way everything in the basement had been arranged. Some stuff was still covered in dust. The letter was among things that had been perused.

  Was it the first time he had seen it? And what would it have meant to him? Back in her car, Jae checked her mirrors and pulled the letter from the heavy, cream-colored vellum envelope that still carried the residue of a blob of wax on its flap. Was it possible Paul had been the first to break the seal? Unlikely. If his mother had hidden it from him all these years, it had to be because she knew what w
as inside.

  On the front, in heavy, dark ink: “For My Son on His Twelfth Birthday.”

  From the date on the letter, Paul Stepola Sr. had written it the day Paul was born.

  My beloved son,

  Your birth today was a miracle, filling me with a joy greater than I have ever known or thought possible. Holding you for the first time, I felt blessed with the ultimate earthly gift. One day you will hold your own child and understand the profound depth and breadth of a father’s love.

  The day you read this letter you will turn twelve. On the threshold of manhood, you will be old enough to understand another kind of love—the love of God.

  Jae remembered her horror and revulsion the first time she read that.

  It is a much maligned love at the time I write. There have been persecutions and terrorist acts around the globe—supposedly undertaken in the name of God, as different groups construe Him—which have drawn us into world war. Many, your mother among them, have turned away from a God they see as the root of the world’s misery. But you must not turn away, Son. First, God’s love transcends all earthly gifts, even the gift of your birth for me. God so loved the world that He sacrificed His perfect, only Son, who died on the cross to save us. Accepting that love has been the most important and fulfilling decision of my own life.

  The second reason is that God’s Son has promised to return in glory to gather up those who believe in Him. The Bible tells us “He will lead them to springs of life-giving water. And God will wipe away all their tears.”

  But those who have rejected God will face a very different fate: punishment and suffering beyond anything we can imagine or have ever managed to inflict upon each other. The end of the Bible, the book of Revelation, describes in vivid and terrifying detail what will befall those who incur God’s wrath.

  This may happen in your lifetime, Son. Many scholars see our current world conflicts as the fulfillment of the Bible’s ancient prophecies. The Gospels tell us that we must be ready at all times, “for the Son of Man will come when least expected.” And in Revelation, the Lord Himself reminds us several times, “I am coming soon.”

  I hope to be at your side when you read this letter. But if I am not, I hope I will at least have had time to educate you in these things as soon as you were old enough. Otherwise, you must seek the truth for yourself. I urge you to open your heart to the truth—to become not just a man but also a man of God.

  Your loving father,

  Paul Stepola Sr.

  The first time Jae had read the letter, her eyes had raced across the page and the words had sickened her. She had driven straight to the bank to secure it in hiding. In the ensuing months Jae had recalled that the thrust of the letter was that Paul’s father had been a Christian and intended to make his son one too. It had flown in the face of everything she knew and believed, and at her core she wondered if it compromised Paul’s role with the NPO. Could a man whose father believed like this be trusted to carry out his duty? Would there not be a temptation for him to sympathize with people of faith, knowing that his own father had been such a person?

  Paul’s record showed otherwise. He had had to kill underground zealots. He had been lauded for his work.

  And somehow, this read-through of the letter was different. Jae was not so uptight. She had been merely eager to destroy it so it would not influence her own children. But this time she had been able to read between the lines, to catch the emotion and feeling of a new father. This was a picture she had never had of the man who would have been her father-in-law.

  Wrong. Misguided. Delusional, surely. But how he loved his son! Naturally Paul could tell her nothing of his father, as he died when Paul was an infant. And his mother said little about him, even while showing ancient photos. She seemed respectful and deferential, admiring of his military record. But her stories of Paul Sr. had always seemed formal, somehow distant. Jae realized she had never heard their love story, anything touching really.

  She knew she should head back home and burn the document in the privacy of her own kitchen. And yet . . .

  Jae read it through once more, this time slowly and deliberately. She could not identify with Paul Sr.’s language, with his manner of expression, with what he was saying. She was diametrically opposed to his worldview and beliefs. And yet he reached her—even though she was not the object of the letter—with his love for his child. She knew what it was to love a child. And she knew what it meant to love his child. She loved Paul with all her heart, in spite of everything.

  Would it be right, fair, to destroy this precious piece of her husband’s past? There was no evidence it affected Paul in any negative way. If there was, Jae would have no qualms about sharing it with her father. He would know what to do. Ranold B. Decenti always knew what to do.

  As Jae stepped back into the bank to first photocopy the letter and then to replace it in her box, she felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach. What niggled at her was that by even considering what her own father would do with such a conundrum, she had forced herself to compare him with a man she had never met. And her father had been found wanting.

  Had her father ever loved her the way Paul Sr. clearly loved his son? Perhaps. But had he ever expressed it in such a heartfelt way? Had he ever expressed it at all?

  Jae was not raised to be an emotional woman. She cried infrequently, and then only because of frustration and anger. And her husband had most often caused that. Well, he had done nothing to make her weep lately except to leave for an undetermined period in Europe. Yet she found herself overcome as she drove home. In fact, she could hear the splats of tears as they leaped from her face to her lap, even over the crunching of the frigid snow beneath her tires.

  Jae didn’t know what had gotten into her. All she knew was that she already missed Paul and missed him desperately. The thought of spending much of the rest of the daylight hours alone at home, waiting for the kids, caused a cavernous grief and loneliness to overtake her.

  She used to laugh with her friends about how sometimes—even though they knew better—they found themselves tempted to pray. For help. For rescue. For someone or something to take care of their loved ones. Now all she could do was wish and hope that Paul would be all right, that he would not be gone long, and that he would come back to her the same loving man she had discovered him to be.

  4

  JUST ENOUGH SUNLIGHT REMAINED west of Bern to bathe the Jura Mountains in yellows and oranges. That beauty gave the illusion of warmth, but Bern proved only slightly warmer than Chicago. Paul was grateful to be met at the gate by an international government aide who said another waited behind the wheel at the curb.

  The man who met him was cordial, welcoming him to Switzerland “on behalf of Chancellor Dengler. You will find him most inspiring.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Paul said, hurrying out into the deep freeze and climbing into the car with him.

  While the heater blasted inside the car, the driver—who had black curly locks peeking out from under a stocking cap—seemed as chilly as the weather. “So this is Doctor Stepola. The expert.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Paul said, extending his hand. Paul knew Curly had seen it, but he plainly pretended not to. “Hey, maybe you can tell me something. How did Bern get to be the international capital? I mean, Switzerland makes sense, but why not Zurich?”

  “Bern is the capital of Switz—,” the driver said.

  “Sure, but—”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “To Zurich, but never to Bern.”

  “Then why would you say it shouldn’t be the world capital?”

  “I didn’t. I was just wondering—”

  “The minute you set foot in our city, you disparage it? Zurich is bigger, so Zurich is better?”

  “You must be from here,” Paul said, which he knew was not true of Chancellor Dengler. The head of the International Government was from Berlin.

  “What of it?”

  “It’s inspiring
to meet someone so loyal to his hometown.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “You bet.”

  “Where you from, Doctor? Washington? New York?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Same thing.”

  That was hardly true, but Paul wouldn’t bite. “Well, you sure have a lovely city here.”

  “That’s why it’s capital of the world.”

  “No doubt.”

  The light was fading fast, the sun having dropped nearly all the way behind the mountains, but the lights of Bern made it sparkle in a light snowfall. A quarter of a million people lived here, Paul knew, twice that in the greater metropolitan area. The Aare River looked black in the twilight, but near its banks tiny flashes of white showed it was flowing furiously.

  The city’s midsection boasted ancient buildings with new facades and arches that vaulted over sidewalks. Paul stared at the beautiful fountains, idle in the below-freezing temperatures. “Does the Zeitglockenturm run in this weather?” he said.

  The driver laughed, pulling off his cap and shaking out his curls. They stopped just below his ears. Regulation. “For more than five hundred years now. No coffee breaks. You want to watch?”

  “If we have time.”

  “I get it.”

  In a few minutes the driver pulled within sight of the famous clock tower. “The dancing bears, the wood figures, and the knight appear on the hour,” he said. “But that is forty minutes from now. The chancellor is expecting you.”

  “Yes, thanks. We should go.”

  Not far south of the clock tower lay a more modern area that housed four museums near Helvetia Plaza. “Helvetia is the Latin name for Switzerland,” the driver said.

  “I know,” Paul said. “Learned it in graduate school. Religious studies. This used to be quite the hotbed for—”

  “But no more,” the man said. “See all the buildings that look like churches? Years ago they had crosses and such. Now they are all shops and office buildings.”