Soon

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Paul noted that most of the people his age and younger chose erotica or porn, and no one seemed selfconscious about what they were seeing or doing. Older people inclined toward the classics. Paul wondered what it would be like to stand next to Humphrey Bogart while he interacted with Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca.

  Ranold said he would like to be “John Wayne, just once.”

  To Tiny the stuff was old hat, but he insisted that Ranold and Paul satisfy their curiosity. Ranold couldn’t quit talking about being Rooster Cogburn in a gunfight. Paul actually reached over piano player Sam’s shoulder in Rick Blaine’s nightclub and played “Chopsticks,” then slid onto the bench himself and took Sam’s place, for ten minutes becoming the piano player in Casablanca. He declined to purchase his scene.

  When Paul returned to the table, Tiny and Ranold were occupied with the latter’s exploits in True Grit. Thinking it was safer here than at Tiny’s house, Paul slipped into a quiet hallway to call Straight. He brought him up-to-date, and Straight said he would pass along the information, primarily about the military presence, to the nerve center in Detroit. Straight also gave him leads to the Christian community.

  “Where do I start?” Paul said.

  “Kirk Quinn,” Straight said. “Goes by Specs because he actually still wears glasses. He’s a lone wolf, a computer techie, but he knows everybody. He can put you in touch with whoever you need. He’s the mastermind behind most of the mischief out there. But be careful, Paul. If you’re under Decenti’s thumb, let the various factions pass messages back and forth for you. Limit your direct contacts. Obviously, you’re going to be watched.”

  29

  IN THE MORNING, as Paul waited for his car, army personnel pulled up in a security vehicle the likes of which Paul had only read about. It could purportedly withstand a missile attack. It looked slow and heavy until Ranold, lavishly welcomed by all on board, got in and it raced away.

  Paul drove his NPO-issue electrosedan back into the city. Bureau personnel went through the formalities of welcoming the religious adviser from Chicago, but Ranold had been right. It did seem like the blind leading the blind. These people apparently had no real leads and seemed demoralized that Ms. Balaam was in charge of the operation. She had already been out there laying the groundwork and had raised hackles, Paul gathered, by implying that the locals had proven incompetent to check the rebellion. She was treating them like lackeys who had to redeem themselves.

  The L.A. bureau chief, a sixtyish no-nonsense woman named Harriet Johns, displayed a fancy chart of the city’s eight major areas, pointing out the most likely places subversives might choose to meet. They had traced underground activity, she said, to an abandoned college not far from Los Angeles International Airport, which had been a Catholic university. They also believed a small cell might inhabit an abandoned nightclub in South Central.

  “As Washington advised,” she said with an edge, not mentioning Balaam’s name, “we’ve got informants inside both cells. But they haven’t been terribly effective yet. And we might not have time to pull them before a raid.”

  NPO would leave an infiltrator vulnerable? Paul worried even more about his encountering one.

  He offered to check out potential meeting sites and to look for signs of subversive activity, and he left. Paul was quietly gratified that he had more information than the task force. Unfortunately, according to what Straight had given him, the task force was right about the abandoned university and South Central. Paul called him from the car.

  “I know that college location,” Straight said. “It was once Loyola Marymount University. The government turned it into a reprogramming center after the war. Taught people how to get along without the encumbrances of religion. Wasn’t that nice of ’em?”

  “Hey, Straight, do the believers here have a talisman of any kind?”

  “Yes. A penny.”

  “The old English coin?”

  “American. Worth one percent of a dollar. Used them up until the end of the war. Abraham Lincoln’s on one side, and it says ‘In God We Trust’ on it. Dark brown ’cause they’ve got some copper in ’em.”

  “Does that relate to Revelation?”

  “It’s a little more obscure than the other symbols. Lincoln was known as Honest Abe, of course, a virtue we want to be known by. And the ‘God’ line on there is one thing that took the penny out of circulation. But because of the color, the penny also represents gold.”

  “Sure is a lot of that out here.”

  “Well, the believers aren’t the ones who have it. The line the penny relates to is ‘I advise you to buy gold from me—gold that has been purified by fire.’ ”

  “So Los Angeles is Laodicea. But I’m still not sure why.”

  “Laodicea had to bring in its water by aqueduct, for one thing, as L.A. does. And remember what else that passage tells you to buy: ‘ointment for your eyes so you will be able to see.’ Laodicea was a big maker of eye salve for the ancient world.”

  “L.A.’s movies could be considered eye products today.”

  “You got it—not to mention what they used to call ‘eye candy’—the beautiful people.”

  “Incredible. Where would I find a penny?”

  “Other than the underground there? Got me. Use their code phrase to make your connection, then see if you can get a penny from them.”

  With his map on the seat beside him, Paul ventured out to find his first underground contact. He hadn’t seen anyone in glasses since he was a kid. According to Straight, Kirk Quinn was one guy on whom laser eye surgery didn’t take. But that hadn’t seemed to hamper Quinn’s current task. Though no one outside the underground knew who he was, his work was seen and commented upon by millions in L.A. every day.

  Paul took the Santa Monica Freeway west to the postwar incarnation of Venice-on-the-Ocean. There he located a row of single-story brick buildings housing movie postproduction facilities.

  Paul parked a few blocks away and seemed to attract no attention walking through parking lots to the buildings. On a simple directory he found “K. Quinn” listed as a freelance editor in suite J, second from the end.

  The suite had a locked door with a peephole and a small window in the wall next to it with its shade pulled. Paul pressed the button on the intercom.

  “Not taking any work for a while,” came the staticky response.

  “What if I was a friend of a friend?”

  “Still not taking any work.”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “Too busy.”

  “What if I was from the National Peace Organization and had a warrant to search the premises?”

  “Then I would cordially invite you in. Hold your card up to the peephole.”

  The door opened almost immediately upon a short, pale, balding, midthirties man with, sure enough, black hornrimmed glasses. The place was a royal mess—dishes, cups, and electrical equipment everywhere.

  Paul saw a hot plate and a dirty saucepan. “You live here too?” he said, shaking hands with Specs.

  “Creative wall making,” the man said. “Through that curtain are my quarters. Your warrant extend that far?”

  Specs pulled a folding chair out from behind the refrigerator and set it up for Paul. He plopped himself on a counter after sweeping aside some clutter. “What have I been suspected of now, and what can I do for you?”

  “You’re suspected of being the projectionist who’s vandalized billboards and the Hollywood sign.”

  “Holywood, you mean?” Specs said, smiling.

  Paul nodded. “How do you do it?”

  “Whoever’s doing it, it would all be a matter of hacking. I love the term projectionist, though it is, of course, archaic and inaccurate. These high-tech visuals are all run off computers, so if a person did want to mess with them, he would have to understand the inner workings of the machines, be able to access the images and manipulate them, then hardwire them to revert to the—shall we say, fix?—as the default every time someone tries
to override the new programming.”

  “I’ll pretend to understand that and ask if that’s what I would find on your computers if I were to confiscate them and have them studied.”

  Specs ran a grimy hand over his shiny head. “If I had the brains to pull off what I just described, don’t you think I would also have the capacity to so encrypt the programming that it would be undetectable?”

  “I don’t know that much about it,” Paul said. “But I should think someone else at your level would be able to decipher it.”

  “That would be the challenge for both sides. Your suspect trying to keep anyone from doing that, and the other side trying to crack the code.”

  Paul intertwined his fingers behind his head. “So with you unwilling to admit it’s you, and with us unable to find evidence on your equipment, it’s a stalemate?”

  “Given those variables.”

  “How about another variable? What if I were to tell you that I amyour brother in Christ and that the only reason I don’t have my penny to prove it is that I have not yet made contact with the local underground leadership?”

  Specs cocked his head and folded his arms. “Now there is a conundrum.”

  “How so?”

  “If I were who you think I am, I would want this to be true so badly that I would declare myself. But if you are not who you say you are, my words could convict me.”

  Paul leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I am who I say I am, and you can believe it because I say it in the name of the risen Christ, who said, ‘My purpose is to give life—’”

  “‘—in all its fullness.’” Specs shook his head. “So you’re that guy? You’re really that guy?”

  “That guy?”

  “You can imagine it’s getting around that we have a contact in high places.”

  “It’s me.”

  Kirk Quinn slowly removed his glasses and set them on the counter. He covered his face with both hands and began to weep. Paul stood and put a hand on his shoulder, whereupon Specs grabbed him and pulled him close, hugging him tight. “We’ve felt so alone, so isolated, for so long.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Paul said. Then, imitating John Malkovich in Con Air, “Love your work.”

  That made Specs laugh. He wiped his face and put his glasses back on, then dug in his pocket and gave Paul a card with his cell phone number on it. “This is constant work, you know. Unfortunately, it’s fairly easy to override my protocols for defaulting back out of the fixes.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Well, I know they’re going to try to change what I’ve done, so I make my new program the default. But that’s merely a nuisance to them, and they quickly rebuild a new platform for the operation. I have to be constantly on the lookout for that and start over. Often several times a day.”

  “Why can’t they figure out what you’re doing and make it impossible for you?”

  “The truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s not humble.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “They’re not as good as I am.”

  Paul was telling Specs about the danger to both Loyola and South Central when he heard a tone in his head. “Excuse me, Mr. Quinn,” he said, turning toward the door. He pressed his fingers together. “This is Paul.”

  It was Ranold. “Wherever you are, get to South Central.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just hurry. You’re going to want to see this.” He gave Paul an address.

  Paul told Specs to warn the people at Loyola. “I have to run.”

  Specs nodded. “Soon,” he said.

  Paul smiled. “Soon.” He rushed out and sprinted to his car. Just the other side of the new Marina del Rey, he hit traffic, so it took him an hour to reach South Central. There he found his father-in-law amidst a knot of military men in combat gear, congratulating each other on the success of a shoot-out that had killed five Christians, wounded six, and seen a dozen captured.

  When Ranold noticed Paul he rushed over, palm raised. Paul ignored it. “Ranold, how did we get from suspecting a small cell here to this holocaust?”

  His father-in-law flushed, leaning close to Paul’s ear and hissing, “Listen to me, Cub Scout. Don’t ever challenge me in front of my subordinates. And you ought to be proud to be part of this. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Is it common for the zealot underground to be armed? Did they return fire?”

  “You’ve never been close enough to the action to see anything but a fireball coming at you, Paul. Grow up.”

  A tall, rangy figure in fatigues detached from the group and sidled over. It took Paul a moment to register that it was a woman. Got to be Balaam. When he was introduced to her in the Rose Garden, he had been blind.

  “Dr. Stepola,” she said, extending the bony hand he remembered. “Glad to have you on board.”

  Paul took her hand, recalling the smugness in her voice when she had talked about making it “unhealthy” to be a Christian. Her eyes mesmerized him. Like her hair, they were silver and seemed to pulse and shift like pools of mercury. They also seemed to rob his head of thoughts. She looked nearly inhuman.

  “You had a tough time in Gulfland.”

  “Not as tough as those who died. I was lucky.”

  “Very lucky,” Balaam said. “And with the guidance of your father-in-law, this operation is going to be very lucky too.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  The soldiers were getting into their vehicles, calling out to Ranold and Balaam.

  “Join us, Paul,” Ranold said.

  “I’m chasing a lead. Let’s catch up tonight.”

  Paul returned to his car and sat gasping. He called Straight. “I just heard,” Straight said. “Those people weren’t armed and had no munitions. Word we got was that they were packing up, trying to get out of there.”

  “Who’s left, Straight? Who do I try to contact now?”

  “Quinn should be able to tell you. You met him yet?”

  “Just came from there. Oh no.”

  “What is it, Paul?”

  “One of the billboards just went dark.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Straight said. “They go back and forth gaining ground against Specs, and then he regains the ground. Call him.”

  Paul dialed but got no answer. He had to make sure Specs let the Loyola faction know what had happened in South Central and warn them they could be next.

  Traffic was lighter going away from the raid, but Paul noticed all the movie billboards going dark now. Had Specs seen the news? Was this his attempt at a statement, a memorial of some kind? Or was he shutting down for his own safety? Had he abandoned his studio?

  Paul forced himself to stop thinking the worst. Specs was merely busy.

  Too busy to answer his phone.

  30

  PAUL KEPT PHONING Kirk Quinn as he sped toward Venice. He drove all the way to the parking lot directly across from suite J. His heart sank when he saw people milling about near the door.

  “NPO government business,” he announced as he shouldered through. A huge hole had been blown out of the door where the knob had been. The tiny office looked as if a storm had hit. Every computer and monitor had been smashed to bits.

  And there on the floor by the back wall lay Specs in a wide pool of black-red blood, lifeless eyes wide under thick lenses, teeth bared, throat slit from ear to ear.

  Paul was nauseated and shaking, but he forced himself to pull a notebook and pen from his pocket and ask people what they had seen. “A team of commandos,” a young man said. “They slid up here in three or four army jeeps, and next thing I knew—boom! Door flies open, they burst in shouting. I hear stuff being smashed, lots of yelling. Then they’re out of here. Couldn’t have taken thirty seconds. Is that guy all right, that guy with the glasses?”

  Paul had just met Quinn, yet he felt as if he had lost a dear brother. What a waste. What a tragic loss.

  The
danger should have been obvious—a car issued from the NPO pool, now under the control of an aggressive Washington agent who would trust no one, especially the competition. Paul was a twice-injured operative viewed as a hero in the agency and even more threatening as the son-in-law of Ranold Decenti. No, Bia Balaam would never give Paul a chance to show her up by chasing his own leads and possibly making his own arrests. She would insist on knowing what he was up to at all times, to be sure he was no challenge to her authority.

  With the bystanders’ attention still on the mayhem in Specs’s studio, Paul dropped to his knees and quickly searched under the car. He found a tracking device behind the right front wheel. Now, where to put it? Down the block was a bright yellow sports coupe that probably saw a lot of action, day and night. Tracking it would keep the monitors busy though now, with the raids underway—and so successful—it was unlikely that Balaam would have more time to focus on Paul.

  Back in the car, he called Harriet Johns. “Guess what?” she said. “The army got the billboard projectionist.”

  “I’m here at the scene.”

  “That figures. They tell you, one of their own, but we just got the word a few minutes ago. Looks like Washington expects us to wait in line too, only one step ahead of the cops and the press.”

  “That’s not how it went,” Paul said. “I happened to be nearby and stopped to see what was going on. According to witnesses, the army blew a hole in the door, trashed the place, and then a minute later sped off. The body is still lying here on the floor, covered with blood.”

  “Sounds ugly.”

  “It is ugly. And I’m going to have to start beating off the gawkers. Is somebody coming out to clean up this mess?”

  “Coroner and cleanup crew are on the way,” she said. “Hey, I’ve got the news on. The billboards are all coming back up. And if you get into the Hollywood Hills, check out the sign.”

  “Back to normal?” Paul said.

  “Better than normal. You’ve got to see it. I suppose you heard about South Central.”