by C. S. Graham
Tobie felt her heartbeat accelerate. “And the others?”
“By far the most significant was a copy of Revelation. Dr. Salah Araji—the professor who was studying the papyri—called it the Babylonian Codex.”
“But if the Babylonian Codex is just a copy of Revelation, why is it significant?”
“For several reasons. The earliest previously discovered copy was the Chester Beatty Book of Revelation, which dates to about A.D. 250—and that is only a fragment of Chapters Nine through Seventeen. The Babylonian Codex is much older. But more importantly, it differs significantly from the canonical version.”
“Differs? In what way?”
A yellow cab turned in through the monastery’s arched gate. They watched it roll to a stop in the elongated turnaround drive, and they walked toward it. It seemed hard to believe that an hour had passed.
Father Saverius said, “Unfortunately, the codex was discovered late in 2001—during the course of some restoration work on a village church that had been damaged by U.S. bombing during the first Gulf War. Dr. Araji was still working on the translation when the United States attacked again in 2003 and the codex was stolen. He was never able to publish his findings.”
Another car was pulling into the monastery: a black Suburban with tinted windows that parked on the far side of the turnaround. Tobie watched it warily. She said, “This Dr. Araji you mentioned—the Iraqi scholar who was working on the codex—is it possible to contact him?”
Father Saverius breathed out a long, pained sigh. “I’m afraid not. His mother, wife, and three children were all killed in an attack. Needless to say, it devastated him. He has cut off all contact with everyone.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Last I heard. But he’s refusing to have anything to do with Western scholars until all foreign troops are withdrawn from the country. As I understand it, he devotes most of his time these days to organizing a movement calling for reparations payments.”
“That’s not going to get very far.”
“No,” Saverius agreed.
The taxi driver, a short, fleshy man with the dark features of a Pakistani or Indian, had gotten out of his car and was walking toward them. He’d left the door of the cab open and the engine running in a not-so-subtle hint.
Tobie glanced toward the Suburban. It had parked, but no one was getting out. Shit, she thought. Shit, shit shit. The wind fluttered her headscarf and she put up a hand to steady it. “Thank you so much for your help, Father.”
“My pleasure.” He gave a small, old-fashioned bow and swung away.
“Ready, Miss?” said the taxi driver.
Glancing across the neat garden at the center of the turnaround, she saw the front doors of the black Suburban fly open. Two men in gray business suits, white shirts, and ties hopped out. One was big and dark, the other sandy-haired and lithe.
It was Mark Kowalski.
Chapter 31
Rather than rely on Wikipedia’s entry on the Council on National Policy, Jax went to see one of his former stepfathers, Benjamin Rosenthal.
Once a national security advisor under Clinton, Rosenthal was now a professor of political science at Georgetown University. A stoop-shouldered, hopelessly nonathletic man with thin gray hair badly in need of a trim, he had black-framed glasses and a basset-hound face that was all sagging jowls.
“The Council on National Policy is a very powerful and very determined group of individuals,” he told Jax as they walked together across the campus. “It was formed during the early years of the Reagan administration. They call themselves an educational foundation for tax purposes, but it’s essentially just a networking group that brings together wealthy donors with ultra-right-wing activists. They meet three times a year to strategize ways to achieve what they call their shared goals.”
“Which are?”
“Minimalizing government regulation of banking and commerce. Gutting environmental protection laws and workers’ safety regulations. Getting rid of the minimum wage. You name it—if it stops the rich from getting richer, they’re usually against it. They’re big on funding for the military industrial complex. And of course they’re heavy on what they call traditional Western values, which basically translates into the law of the land circa 500 B.C. in Jerusalem.”
“In other words, they’re dominionists.”
“Not all of them. But many of them, yes. Cornell University’s Center for Religion, Ethics, and Social Policy has a project they call Theocracy Watch. They’ve named the Council as a leading force in the dominionist movement.”
“Why have I never heard of it?”
“Because they do their best to keep themselves out of the limelight. They’re like the Fellowship—or as it’s often called, the Family: they made a deliberate decision to ‘submerge,’ as their leaders put it. Their meetings are closed and their membership list is a closely guarded secret.”
“So who’s on it?”
Rosenthal grinned. “Ex-Watergate burglars. Ex-Iran-Contra guys. Retired generals. Lots of politicians of the same stripe. A bunch of scarily dogmatic billionaires—mainly from the defense and oil industries, with a few manufacturers and retailers and financiers thrown in. Lots of fundamentalist preachers.”
“Which ones?”
“Just about every one you see on TV or on the best-seller lists.”
Jax stared off toward the river. “So why are these guys called ‘dominionists’?”
“It comes from a passage in Genesis. ‘And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.’ ”
Jax shook his head. “I don’t get it. How do they take a biblical passage about fish and cows and turn it into a godly mandate to take over the United States and impose biblical law on everyone—whether we want it or not?”
“Because they’ve convinced themselves that’s God’s plan, and they’re arrogant enough to believe that He has chosen them to implement it.”
“Now that’s scary.”
“The implications are even scarier. Since dominionists think they’re doing God’s work, that means that if you stand against them—or even just disagree with them—then as far as they’re concerned, you’re disagreeing with God. And if you disagree with God, then you’re obviously on the side of Satan.”
“How long has the movement been around?”
“The Family first arose in the thirties, in opposition to the New Deal and labor unions. But the movement was given a real impetus in the 1970s when a man named Rousas J. Rushdoony started what he called Reconstructionism. He wrote a big, nasty book called The Institutes of Biblical Law, in which he argued that the United States—all societies, in fact—must be governed by Old Testament law.”
“Must?”
“Must. According to Rushdoony, when God gave his followers dominion over all the earth, it came with an injunction that requires them to subdue all nonbelievers in preparation for the return of the Messiah.”
“Subdue? How?”
“Any way they can. The guys who came after Rushdoony have been more subtle. They toned down his rhetoric, got rid of the most overt racism and—unlike Rushdoony—they don’t usually talk openly about stoning homosexuals and adulterers. But if you look at the various dominionist groups—the New Wave Reformation, the New Apostolic Reformation, Joel’s Army, the Spiritual Warriors moment, the Prayer Networks—you’ll see Rushdoony’s influence. What we’re talking about is really a reactionary, radical political movement that has cloaked itself in religion but is very serious about taking control of our government and institutions.”
“Stoning adulterers?”
“It’s in the Old Testament.” Rosenthal pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. “Traditionally, evangelicals believed in the idea that salvation comes from faith in Jesus Christ. The emphasis was on repentanc
e and the conversion of individual souls; when they talked about the Kingdom of God, they were talking about something spiritual.”
“ ‘My kingdom is not of this world,’ ” quoted Jax softly.
“Exactly. Well, the dominionists have basically thrown all that stuff out the window. They teach that salvation can only be achieved by setting up a literal, physical kingdom of God on earth, and that’s what they’re determined to do. Their role models are guys like Machiavelli, Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Polpot. Even Genghis Khan and the Mafia.”
“They don’t actually say that, do they?”
“They do indeed. Don’t get me wrong—they obviously don’t share Stalin or Mao’s political philosophies. But they do admire their techniques, and they study them. We look at Hitler and Stalin and see mass murderers—the ultimate in evil manipulation and coercion. But the dominionists look at those guys and see a genius for organizing, and a model for inspiring followers and working by stealth. They even call their prayer groups cells.”
“Cells?”
“Cells. They go on and on about how much they love America and how they’re fighting for freedom. But the truth is, they hate America—or at any rate, the America that really exists. And while they talk a lot about liberty, what they really want is to be free to impose their views on everyone else. It’s basically totalitarianism, dressed up in religious trappings.”
They walked along in silence. After a moment, Rosenthal said, “Why are you asking me all this, Jax?”
“You know I can’t tell you that, sir.”
Rosenthal pressed his lips together and nodded in understanding. “The former president was a dominionist, you know.”
“Randolph?”
“Randolph. They played a huge part in his election, and he repaid them handsomely. Take a good, hard look at the appointments he made and you’ll see that almost every one of them was a dominionist. I warned President Pizarro before he was inaugurated that he needs to work quickly to get these people out of the federal government—especially the military. But you know Pizarro. He’s being so careful not to do anything that could in any way be perceived as partisan. He doesn’t understand that these guys don’t believe in compromise. As far as the dominionists are concerned, if you’re not with them one hundred percent, then you’re an enemy of God. They genuinely believe that Pizarro is evil.”
“Because he doesn’t want to see this country turned into a theocracy?”
“That, and because he’s a half-Jewish Catholic whose parents immigrated from Mexico. The dominionists might have buried Rushdoony’s racism, but it’s still there. A lot of them believe in the demon seed theory.”
“The what?”
“The belief that white Anglo-Saxon Christians are descended from Adam through Abel, while everyone else is descended from Cain and Satan via Eve’s little misadventure with the serpent.”
“But . . . that’s just nasty.”
“That doesn’t mean people don’t believe it.”
Jax squinted up at the winter sun. “You say the dominionists are powerful in the military. What about the FBI?”
“The military, the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service, Homeland Security. You name it. They’ve had eight years to burrow in deep. And make no mistake about it, these people’s first allegiance isn’t to this country. It’s to their vision of the way they think this country should be.”
“If there were a plot to overthrow the new administration, would these guys support it?”
Rosenthal’s face sagged. “My God, Jax. What are you saying?”
“Nothing you can repeat.”
Rosenthal stared off across the quadrangle. After a moment, he said, “There’s someone up in Olney, Maryland, you need to talk to. A Major Richard Kjos. He’s retired now, but he used to be a Lutheran pastor in the Air Force until the dominionist influence got so bad he couldn’t stand it anymore and got out. He’s dedicated his life since then to exposing their agenda. He knows far more about them than I do. I’ll give him a call. Tell him you’d like to meet him.”
Jax turned their steps to where he had left the rented Toyota. “I can understand how a few crazies might believe in this stuff. But military men? Government officials? Is it really possible?”
“I imagine most sane Germans said the same thing back in 1933.”
Jax smiled. “You’ve heard of Godwin’s Law, haven’t you? The minute you bring Hitler or the Nazis into a political discussion, you’re supposed to lose all credibility.”
Rosenthal didn’t smile. “Make no mistake about it, Jax: as someone who lost family members in the Holocaust, nothing infuriates me more than the baseless or exaggerated comparisons that have become far too common these days. But there is also a very real danger in arbitrarily shutting down all discussion that could legitimately use such an important lesson from history to help us understand our own times. You see, it seems to me that Godwin’s Law is based on a fallacious assumption: that nothing like Hitler or the Nazis can ever happen again—or at least, that such a thing could never happen here, in the United States. It’s a dangerous fantasy—as if we’re too pure, too good, too God blessed. We’re not. No one is.”
“Still . . . it’s hard to think of it happening here.”
“You know what Sinclair Lewis said, don’t you?”
They paused beside Jax’s rented Toyota. “No—what?”
“He said, ‘When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.” Rosenthal put his hand on Jax’s shoulder. “Go see Major Kjos.”
Chapter 32
Tobie’s gaze met Mark Kowalski’s across the wide loop of drive-way. “Shit,” she whispered and started to run toward the taxi.
Kowalski and his companion reached under their coats.
“Look out!” she shouted to the taxi driver. “Get down!”
The boom of the FBI men’s big Glocks shattered the monastery’s silence. She heard the taxi driver let out a startled cry. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him go down, his left leg blooming scarlet.
“Oh, God, no,” she said on a frightened exhalation of breath.
Lunging through the open door of the taxi, she slid behind the wheel. Fumbled with the gearshift. Threw the car into drive and hit the gas.
The taxi—an old Buick—lurched forward, the door slamming shut as she careened through the monastery gates. Ignoring the stop sign at the end of the wide drive, she veered right onto the cross street, tires squealing. The driver of a silver Mercedes sedan stood on his brakes and laid on his horn as she fishtailed in front of him. She threw a quick glance in her rearview mirror. No sign of them.
Yet.
The taxi drove like a mushy old boat. She tore down the tree-lined street. Her breath was coming in frightened pants and she was shaking so hard she had to grip the wheel until her knuckles ached. She figured she had at most one or two minutes before the bad guys scrambled into their car and came roaring after her.
Along with the rest of the FBI and every cop in the district, she reminded herself. If she was going to lose them, she had to do it now.
A road opened up to her right in the heavily wooded, hilly parkland that lay just past the monastery. She swung into it, the taxi’s bald tires skidding in leaf mold and mud. The lane was narrow, little more than a roughly paved track that curved down a hill through winter-bared trees and shrubs. Too late, she realized that what she’d turned on wasn’t a road at all but a drive that curled around to a parking lot at the rear of the monastery. Beyond that she could see a couple of abandoned greenhouses at the base of the hill, then a field.
There was no way out.
Shit, shit, shit.
Plowing through the trees, she slid around a long, sloping curve and spotted what looked like an abandoned caretaker’s cottage or shed, built into the side of the hill and close to the lane. She spun the wheel to the right, cutting in tight beside the old clapboard structure. Her left front fender caught a wheelbarrow and she heard the crunch of metal, t
he crash of breaking glass as she took out a headlight.
Slamming on the brakes, she slid to a stop in the lee of the weathered building. She waited, trembling, her gaze fixed on the rearview mirror. She could hear the Suburban’s powerful engine gunning around the wooded curve. She waited until the big SUV’s shiny black hood appeared around the edge of the barn.
Then she threw the taxi into reverse and hit the gas, hard.
The taxi screamed backward. She rammed into the Suburban broadside, the force of the impact sending the big car careening off the road.
The SUV slithered sideways down the barren hillside, cocked at a crazy angle. Then it toppled, filling the air with the tearing crush of metal and the shattering of glass as it tumbled over and over.
Tobie rammed the taxi into drive and took off without looking back.
She was heading toward Michigan Avenue when she heard the explosion. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw a billowing cloud of black smoke roiling up against the cold sky.
She kept going.
Jax was parked on a narrow street near Georgetown, where he and Tobie had agreed to rendezvous, when a battered wreck of a taxi clanged up behind him and screeched to a stop.
One front fender was crumpled, its headlight smashed; the entire back end was caved in to the point he wondered how the wheels managed to turn. As he watched, the rear bumper fell off with a clatter.
October slid out from behind the wheel.
He went to meet her. “What the hell happened to you?” he said.
She shoved the hair out of her face with a shaky hand. Her hijab had slid down and was wrapped around her neck like a scarf. “They found me.”
“You okay?”
She leaned back against the side of the taxi and nodded. “They shot the cabdriver in the leg. I hope he’s going to be okay.”
Jax walked around the cab and let out a low whistle. “You really did a job on the poor guy’s taxi.”
She pushed away from the Buick and gave him a long, hard look through narrowed eyes. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to talk. How many cars have I seen you wreck?”
