by Ted Dekker
She walked up to him and drew her finger over his shoulder, stepping behind him. “I expected nothing less than this tirade. You flatter me. But you did misunderstand, my lord. Now tell me why you’ve come.”
He wasn’t buying her toying wholeheartedly, but she’d effectively cut him off.
“I have changed my mind about the blank Books,” he said, still stern. “They have vanished. My men have searched every possible hiding place for such a large collection, and they can’t be found. I think the sorcery of this albino is to blame. They disappeared about the same time he arrived.”
“I have no sorcery,” Thomas said.
Woref dismissed the claim. “I demand that you convince your father to withdraw his request that I find the Books before we are married.”
“You’ve talked to him about this?”
“I have. He’s obsessed with these blank Books.”
“And I understand why,” Chelise said. “The blank Books make the collection complete. Surely you can find them.”
“As I said, they no longer exist. I won’t delay my possession of you over this nonsense!”
“Then make my father see the light.”
“He will only concede on the albinos,” Woref said. “I need you to help him see the light in regard to the Books. I can assure you that I’ll make it up to you.”
“How has he conceded on the albinos?” Chelise asked.
“He’s agreed to kill the other four tomorrow. He said that you thought they should be kept alive, but I’ve convinced him otherwise. One living albino is bad enough.”
She glanced at Thomas and saw the fear cross his face. But she had to choose her battles.
“Fine. Let me think about how to persuade Qurong to forget about the blank Books. Now if you’ll excuse us, we are in the middle of a lesson.”
Woref stared at Thomas for a few seconds, spit upon the floor, and walked from the room without closing the door.
“I beg you, Chelise, you can’t let them die!” Thomas whispered.
She hurried to the door and closed it. “It’s out of my hands. How would it look for me to beg for their lives?”
Thomas paced, frenzied.
“We’re on dangerous ground here. Not only you, but now me. I know Woref’s kind, and I promise you that one day I’ll pay for what he just saw. You have to be more careful. Please, keep your distance.”
He suddenly stopped and faced her. “I can dream now!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been drinking the rhambutan juice because Woref has been holding my friends’ lives over my head. He’s just removed that threat! I’ll refuse to eat the fruit and dream tonight. But they may try to force me. Can you stop them?”
She didn’t respond. Why this business of dreams was so terribly important to him, she didn’t know. But he was right; Woref had undermined his own threat.
He rushed over to her and grabbed her hand. “Please, I beg you. And you can’t say a word about this!” He kissed her hand. “Please, not a word!”
“I . . .” He was still holding her hand. “This isn’t keeping your distance.”
Thomas released her and stepped back. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean that. I lost my mind.”
“Clearly.”
“But you’ll help me?”
“I can’t help you. But I don’t see the harm in a few dreams.” And then she added something that shocked even her. “As long as you promise to dream about me.”
19
THE HELICOPTER sat down on the White House lawn with a thump that pounded through Kara’s head. Thomas was on that helicopter. Her brother, who had traveled to hell and back in the last three weeks. Or was it four weeks now?
The rotors wound down slowly. The door opened and Thomas emerged into the afternoon sun. He stepped onto the grass, ducked his head, and hurried toward them.
“Hey, Thomas.” She closed the gap between them and met him by the line of secret service agents, which had doubled since news of the crisis had flooded the airwaves.
Thomas took her in his arms and hugged her. “Hey, sis.”
“You’re alive,” she said.
“And kicking.”
He turned to Monique, who waited with a sheepish smile. “Monique.”
She took his hand and kissed his cheek. “Hello, Thomas.”
“How’s it feel?” he asked.
He was asking her about waking from the dead, Kara thought.
“You tell me,” she said.
“Like waking from a dream.”
“Been doing a lot of that lately, from what I understand.”
“More than I care. Although I have to say, I think I’m on to something this time.”
Merton Gains stepped forward, hand extended. “Good to have you back. The president’s expecting you.”
The situation room was buzzing when Thomas stepped in, followed by Kara and Monique. President Blair saw him and excused himself from a conversation with the secretary of state. He approached with a tired smile and stuck out his hand.
“The cat has nine lives after all.”
“Two, actually.” Thomas glanced around the room and lowered his voice. “What I have to say has to be said in private, sir. I’m not sure who we can trust.”
“And I can’t work in a vacuum,” the president said. “Not this late in the game.”
“Please, sir, just hear me out. Then you can decide who needs to know. You were told they have someone on the inside?”
“Yes. Okay, wait for me in my office. Give me a minute. Merton, please show them into the Oval Office and leave them.”
“Right away, sir.”
Blair took his chief of staff aside and spoke quietly.
“This way,” Gains said. They followed him silently through several halls bustling with activity. Into the Oval Office.
They stood in the stately office, surrounded by silence.
“The Book crossed over with me, Kara.”
“The blank Book? What do you mean ‘crossed over’?”
“When I woke up on the gurney in the basement of Fortier’s complex, it was with me. It’s the only object that’s ever crossed between the realities. Skills, blood, and knowledge—and now this Book. And if I’m right, the rest of the blank Books may have followed somehow.”
“The Books are knowledge,” Kara said. “Knowledge crosses. This is incredible!”
“No, this isn’t incredible. I lost the Book. It was taken by one of the guards, who has no clue what it can do. How much time do we have with the virus?”
“Five days. Maybe less, maybe more. Ten before it’s all over.”
“Then I guess the Book will have to wait.”
The door suddenly opened and the president walked in alone.
“Sorry, I got hung up.” He walked to his desk and picked up a warm Pepsi can, then ushered them to the sofas.
“Okay, Thomas. You’re on.”
“This office is clean?”
“Swept for bugs this morning.”
“By whom? Sorry, never mind. I can’t decide which world I’m in.”
Blair nodded. “Talk to me.”
“Okay.” Thomas took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the couch. “Follow me closely. I understand the immediate crisis between Israel and France has been defused.”
“For the time being. But things could get bad anytime. In three days we lose our nuclear arsenal.”
“We’re going to need the Israelis.”
“How so?” the president asked.
He decided to hold back. “What would you say if I told you I may have a way to put a man in their inner circle?”
“You mean next to Fortier?”
“Close enough to smell his breath.”
“I would say we should have done that two weeks ago. Who?”
“Carlos Missirian.”
“He’s with them. I don’t understand.”
“I think we may be able to get inside of Carlos’s head. I’ll
need Johan for that. They’ve shared a connection once before; I think Johan could do it again. But he’ll need to dream while in contact with my blood.”
“I’m not sure I know this Johan.”
“Johan is . . . connected with Carlos?” Kara asked.
“You’re saying that if Johan dreamed using you as a gateway, he would wake up as Carlos!” Monique said.
“Yes.”
“It could work!”
The president held up his hand. “Excuse me. Maybe you could be a little clearer here.”
“It’s the way our dreams work,” Thomas said. “All three of us have dreamed. We know someone in the other world who could get to Carlos.”
“Is that all? I’m surprised I didn’t think of it.”
“Please, we’re running out of time, Mr. President.”
Blair lifted both hands. “Fine. I’ll try anything at this point. How do we get to this Johan?”
“Well, actually, we have a problem there. I’m being held captive at the moment. We have to get Johan to me, which is where Kara comes in.” He looked at his sister. “Come back with me. As Mikil. You and Johan have to break us out of the city—the others are scheduled for execution tomorrow.”
She stared, lost in the suggestion. “Break you out without fighting?”
“I have an idea. It’ll be tricky, but with Johan’s help you should have a decent chance.”
“You can’t fight?” Monique asked. “You should go in there and do whatever’s necessary. Kill the lot if you have to!”
“No,” Thomas said. “That’s not the way the Circle works now.”
The president sat back and crossed his legs. “If we weren’t facing extinction, I might be calling security at this point.”
All three looked at him. Thomas turned back to Kara. “You have to get me out. If Mikil is still near the Southern Forest, a day’s ride south, it may already be too late. But I can’t think of any alternatives.”
A thick black leather-bound book lay on the end table to Thomas’s right. A Bible. His dream of the Circle spun dizzily through his head.
“But you’re not scheduled for execution, right?” Kara asked.
“No,” he said. “Does the phrase ‘bread of life’ mean anything to you?”
They were silent, not expecting the odd question. Thomas looked at Kara. “The bread of life. The light of the world. Two of a dozen metaphors we use in the Circle to talk about Justin.”
“The bread of life,” Kara said. “Sounds like a phrase Dad would have used when he was a chaplain.”
“From the Gospels,” the president said.
Thomas reached for the Bible and lifted it slowly. The Gospels. Was it possible? The air felt thick. Words spoken by his father years earlier wove through his mind. He’d never paid much attention to them, but they spoke softly from the back of his memory, like whispers of the dead.
Or of the living?
He cracked the book open and thumbed through the latter half. Found the Gospels. The Gospel of John.
Thomas read the first line and felt the strength leave his arms. Here in his hands he held a copy of the one book Justin had left them.
The Histories Recorded by His Beloved.
Kara had walked up and was staring at the book. “The Book of Histories?”
Thomas closed the Bible and set it down. “One of them.”
“That’s one of the Books?” Monique asked. “How is that possible?”
“Everything that happens here is recorded in the Books of Histories,” Thomas said. “Everything.”
But it was more than that, wasn’t it? This was the one book that Justin had left them with. The Circle’s dogma was largely based on this book.
President Blair cleared his throat. “Assuming you get to Carlos, what’s the plan?”
Yes, the plan.
20
THE CROWD was swelling exponentially, but not nearly fast enough for Phil Grant. The plan had been simple enough, and the senate majority leader had come through, but time was running out, and now Thomas Hunter had pulled this dream stunt of his again.
Phil walked across the lawn with his radio in hand, dabbing his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. A line of tan APCs had been stationed every fifty yards to form a large perimeter around the White House grounds. Regular army. A full division had been assigned to Washington. Several tanks sat on the driveway, hatches open and operators sitting on their turrets. Their presence here had been tolerated only because the nation was preoccupied with worse matters. The National Guard had taken to the streets of the nation’s fifty largest cities, spanning from New York to Los Angeles. No incidents of fatal conflict. Yet.
A thousand sets of eyes followed Phil as he walked. The protesters stood behind the fence, a good hundred yards off, but their glares pointed even at that distance. The people were a combination of I-told-you-so end-of-the worlders, antigovernment activists, and a surprising number of regular citizens who had connected with Mike Orear and decided that adopting a cause—no matter how practical—was better than sitting at home waiting to die.
Dwight Olsen kept up with Phil’s even stride. Phil looked at the opposition leader. The man was oblivious to the real game here, but his hatred for the president had made him an easy pawn.
“We’re down to the wire,” Phil said. “Tomorrow at the latest. If you can’t pull this off, the president’s going to try something stupid. You understand that, right?”
“You’ve said that before, but you know I can’t force this. I can’t imagine the president starting a war. He and I may not see eye to eye, but he’s not a fool.”
“That’s the point; we can’t let him start a war. It’s too late for that. Our whole purpose here is to prevent a war.”
They approached the front lines of the protest. Mike Orear walked toward them, looking haggard. Dozens of well-known politicians were involved in getting out the protest, but the world’s eyes were focused on this one man.
Phil had slipped the suggestion to Theresa on the flight back from Bangkok, and she’d listened intently. They had to give the people a heads-up, and the only way to do it without breaking the president’s confidence was to bring in someone who might make the decision to go public on his own. Someone like her boyfriend, who had broad media access. If she hadn’t taken the bait so quickly, Phil would have used any of several other leads he had working. The trick had been to hold back the news long enough to let Fortier secure his grip on France. When the news finally broke, they needed it to break big.
Orear grinned and ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “Impressed?”
“Mike, I’d like you to meet Phil Grant, director of the CIA,” Dwight Olsen said.
They shook hands. “Quite a show you’re putting on, Mike.”
“It’s all the people, not me. I’m sure it’s an inconvenience for all you political jocks, but the world is obviously way beyond considerations of convenience, isn’t it?”
Phil glanced at Olsen. “Well, that’s just the thing, Mike,” the senator said. “We’re not so sure your vigil is such an inconvenience after all.”
Mike gave him a blank stare.
“In fact, after a careful analysis, we’ve concluded that it just might be the only thing that has any chance of shifting the balance in this game.”
“You mean forcing the president to come clean.”
Phil grinned. He took Mike’s arm and directed him away from the security lines. “Not exactly. Can I count on your complete confidence?”
Olsen walked beside them.
“It depends.”
“That’s not good enough,” Phil said. “This is beyond any one man now; surely you understand that. The decisions made in the next few days will determine the fate of hundreds of millions.”
“Then you’re talking about changing the president’s mind.”
Bingo.
“We’re running out of time.”
“And the public doesn’t have a clue what’s re
ally going on,” Mike said. “That’s the whole point of this vigil, isn’t it? The public’s right to know. And how do you suggest we change what we don’t know?”
“I’ll tell you what the president’s planning,” Phil said. “But I need your complete confidence; I’m sure you understand that.”
“Fine. If I think you’re shooting straight with me, you’ll have my confidence. But don’t think I won’t tell the people what they deserve to know. I won’t betray their trust.”
“I’m not talking of betraying the people. I’m talking about serving them. You may have more power than anyone else in the country now. We need you to use that power.”
Mike stopped. “Spare me the political pap.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to trust you, Mike. I hope I’m not making a mistake.”
The CNN anchor just looked at him. He was the perfect man, Phil thought. He really believed in this nonsense of his.
“The president is planning to start a nuclear war. He’s convinced that France won’t deliver the antivirus as promised, and he’s decided as a matter of principle to go down in flames. If he doesn’t comply with the demands we’ve received, this country will cease to exist.”
“But you don’t think he’s right.”
“No, we don’t. Most of his inner circle is against him. We have intelligence that leads us to believe the French will come through with the antivirus in time. Under no circumstance can we allow the president to pull his trigger.”
Mike Orear looked at the White House. “So the president doesn’t trust the French. And you do.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Dwight Olsen stepped in. “If the president starts a war, we don’t have a chance of finding the antivirus, plain and simple. If he doesn’t, we have a chance.”
“I take it our scientists aren’t as close to creating an antivirus as we’ve been led to believe.”
“No.”
“You sick . . .” The muscles on Mike’s jawline flexed with frustration. “So this vigil of ours is nothing more than our own funeral procession.”
“Not necessarily,” Phil said, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. “By tomorrow you’ll have over a million people involved. An army. With the right encouragement, this army might be able to change the president’s mind.”
