His handsome profile excited her and she welcomed the desire that washed through her thighs. With a final glance out the window, she turned, silently walked behind him, and thumbs digging gently, she massaged his shoulders. Reaching up, he absently patted her hand.
"You'll have to wait, my dear. Vittorio will be here any minute. In this office, I am Pope Munoz, not Raphael Munoz."
She kissed the back of his neck, let her lips move to his earlobe.
Lifting his arm higher, he grasped her hair and pulled her face down to his. His breathing grew shallow as she forced her tongue between his teeth to caress the roof of his mouth. Twisting around, he pulled her onto his lap. His hand slid up the inside of her leg.
"Jezebel incarnate. That’s who you are, Bianca Raborman," he whispered at last. "A wicked woman, indeed."
"I've been called that before." Her fingers stroked the length of his erection one more time before she jumped up and moved around his desk to sit in a maroon leather chair.
"Does he still call you wicked?"
She flushed. "Occasionally. But not for the same reasons," she said boldly. She looked into the glittering blackness of Munoz's eyes and smiled. "Try not to keep Vittorio here too long, Raphael. I may not be able to wait," she said.
A discreet knock interrupted his reply and Vittorio glided into the room, crimson robes whispering in the silence. "I apologize for my tardiness, Holiness. The traffic from Banco was horrendous." He saw Bianca sitting in his customary chair. "Doctor Raborman! I didn't know you had arrived."
"Only just, Cardinal Morandi." She rose, sleek and fluid, and retreated to a couch against the far wall.
Vittorio brushed at the vacated chair as if matted hairs from a mongrel dog marred its surface. His nose twitched. Sitting on the edge of the chair, he leaned across his Pope's desk.
"That looks like a map of the desert."
"It is, Vittorio." Munoz swung the paper around to face the Cardinal. "When you were Minister of Land Holdings, you traveled this area extensively, did you not?" His finger tapped on a spot east of the Moroccan High Atlas Mountains.
Vittorio nodded. "From Marrakesh to Erfoud to Cairo, Holiness. I made the journey many times."
"Here, in this area—there is water?"
"Only two wells and both are Tuareg controlled. If you're thinking of traveling through that desert, you'd be better off taking this route." Vittorio moved his finger two inches North. "Springs are more easily found."
"We have land options here," Munoz said, tapping his original position. "The wells are where?"
Vittorio studied the map landmarks. "One here and one here. The water is limited, though. It takes a long time to seep and the Tuareg take full advantage of that fact. Their price is high."
Munoz placed a mark at each spot Vittorio pointed out. "If We drilled, how deep would We have to go?"
"Two, three, four thousand feet. No one knows for sure. Previous attempts always came up dry sand and the sites were abandoned. Why would you want to drill wells? The Bedouins are happy with what they have."
"We're going to build a city that will draw thousands to that desert," Munoz said, "thousands of the wealthiest, most influential people in the world."
Vittorio leaned back into the chair. "Raphael, that land is nothing but desolate, uninhabited sand dunes. It's not likely to draw a crowd of ten, even if you do provide water. Besides that, we have no ownership rights to the land."
"The crowd We will draw won't demand much water, Vittorio," Munoz said reaching for his phone. "You say it is there. That's good enough for Us." He punched in a number. His finger tapped rhythmically as he waited. The tapping ceased.
"Exercise the option. Ten million cash," Munoz said into the phone without preface. "If it's Ours by noon Friday, another ten million. I have the well locations on my map. As soon as the signatures are in place, start drilling."
He listened then nodded his head. "Yes, Deuteronomy will build the city. Did you renew that young engineer's contract—what was his name?"
His head nodded vigorously. "That's the one. Dane Wyland. He has a gift for design. I don't care what it takes, I want him to run the project."
He replaced the hand set in its cradle and smiled at his cardinal. "Sleep under desert stars in the golden sands of eternity." Munoz waved his palm in a short arc. "That has a nice ring to it don't you think, Vittorio? The Golden Sands of Eternity. That little phrase of George Kayman's has brought in truckloads of advance reservations for Our preservation centers and requests are still pouring in. This new development will be the grandest of all." His laughter filled the room at Vittorio's shock. "We are now in the freezing business, Cardinal, thanks to Doctor Raborman."
Cardinal Morandi leaned to the side of his chair and stared at Bianca sitting in the shadows. He whirled back to Munoz. "You've gone too far, Raphael. The people will never accept Church participation in such a process. There will be an uprising."
"I don't think so, Vittorio. They have accepted the Pittman Scrolls and understand the finality of death. Body preservation is the next logical step if they would have everlasting life. The concept will not be difficult to embrace."
"You're mad, Raphael."
Munoz pulled away from the glow of the desk lamp. "Now, now, Vittorio. We have a guest present. Doctor Raborman will be in Rome for at least two weeks, possibly longer. Find a suitable hotel for her and a car." He didn't wait for an answer. "Doctor Raborman, if you will accompany Cardinal Morandi. Call me when you are settled. We will complete our business discussion over dinner."
From the couch, Bianca watched the Cardinal stare down at his Pope, his face tight and unreadable. This man has drawn a line beyond which he will not step, she thought. Raphael must take care or he could lose a valuable champion.
"Vittorio," she said. "Shall we go and let our Pope return to work?"
The spell was broken. Cardinal Morandi bowed slightly to his Pope. "Your Holiness."
He whirled and left the study. Bianca trailed behind.
Chapter 40
Munoz
Once the door closed behind Bianca and Vittorio, Munoz turned his attention back to the map lying on his desk. His fingers smoothed across the dot labeled Cairo. Here, under the governing hand of the Arabic Triune, Deuteronomy International had built the plant that produced seventy percent of the world's fusion power, power that flashed through the massive global grids in never-ending particle streams. It's time I paid another papal visit to Our Triune friends to reinforce Our sympathetic position for their financial needs, he thought. Remind those farseeing businessmen just who it is that answers their daily prayers.
Munoz traced the map symbols scattered across both sides of the Red Sea. Graphic red triangles designated where 350,000 troops—together with a complete array of ground and sea support—were deployed throughout vast stretches of sand encampments and in isolated ports up and down the waterway. Where the Triune borders met the boundaries of the Eastern Bloc, colors changed, but uniforms were still the dress of the day. The buildup had been steady, a little at a time.
If the Transnationals weren't so busy congratulating themselves on how well they are manipulating the third world nations into models of Transnational thinking, they would recognize the Triune flexing of national muscles for the danger it is, he thought.
The loose ties of cooperation between nations were unraveling; each was so sure they held the strength, so certain the day would come when they, and they alone, would step up to the podium of world governorship. He shook his head at the absurdity of it all.
The Triune nations weren't strong enough to pull off the takeover of a global energy plant by using the flimsy excuse of national safety. The Transnationals couldn't take control without declaring war and with the Church so heavily invested in the Triune lands, war was out of the question. Having once again put their nations back into debt, such a step would mean immediate withdrawal of the financial backing they currently received from the Church; that would bankrupt the
group. The Eastern Bloc, its resources drained, was too weak to risk challenging its neighbors. Munoz patted the map. He had built the box they sat in, a box strong and impregnable. They could never break it down.
In the not too distant future, they would realize that the fabric of their control had been woven on the looms of the Church of Universals and stitched into garments of belief even the strongest of minds would find impossible to refute.
When that day came, they would know there was one who already ruled the world: Pope Raphael Munoz.
For a moment, he dared to let himself feel the sense of delicious victory that would be his as the acknowledged ruler of the world: all would bow to his every command, scrape for his favors, call him God Incarnate. Those who fought against him would die with the sword of his greatness piercing their ungrateful hearts.
Before I am through, all history that has ever been, or ever will be, shall carry my name as the Supreme Ruler of Earth, he thought. Nothing can stop me, for I have all eternity to change whatever I wish to change. His fingers caressed the air as if they fondled a pearl of immense value. The memory of ancient eyes, filled with sorrow, floated before him.
"I have come, Guardian Mother," he whispered to the image. His chin lifted, his laughter vibrated across the room. "Yes, indeed. I have come."
His body shook with silent mirth as he thought of the leather bound book he had removed from the black box with the cherubim handles—the book with the name Razi-el burned into its cover. Had the first man created ever held a like volume in his hands? Had Enoch, or Noah, or Solomon? How or when it originated, he cared not, for in the depths of his being, he recognized the truth that had set him free.
A small part of that truth had become the source of the Pittman Scrolls; scrolls he had privately executed. On the occasion of his first papal tour, he had deftly concealed them within the ruins of the old temple being excavated in the Triune lands. A work of art, he thought. Silent testimony to the efficacy of his replication process.
Already, total acceptance of their message was firmly entrenched in three major population groups: the congregation of the Church of Universals; those under twenty-five; and the third world millions including the Eastern Bloc and the Arabic Triune.
Best of all, the populace relocations were progressing as planned. With his own forceful suggestions as input, his now-Secretary of State, Vittorio Cardinal Morandi, had done an admirable job in designing the program. In every nation, stalwart members from each of the three groups lifted their voices high in praise of the promised one—Pope Munoz, the new Messiah.
His mouth moved spasmodically as his mind echoed a phrase from the old leather book. He walks as a man walks and speaks with a man's tongue and none shall know his hour of coming. By the keys in his hand shall the world know his authority. By the strength of his works shall the world know his power. So it is, Munoz thought. A fitting prophecy for the new Messiah.
The intensity of his thoughts rustled through the room, seemed to dispatch a mephitic breeze through the open window and across the great piazza.
A folder of notes at the edge of his desk caught his eye. His thoughts jumped to Bianca's report on the Dakotan families she'd located so far. Without exception, all male issue had experienced the same symptoms at puberty as Ellery Jensen's nephew Patrick had exhibited. Those characteristic symptoms had been a well-kept secret all these years, and when an experience as dramatic as what those young men suffered was kept hidden, there was something going on that the Dakotans didn't want known.
He stared at the folder. Did they keep it so well concealed because of embarrassment over the number of young males ending up in institutions for the violently insane? Or was it something else? Like a trait far more valuable than projective logic, for instance.
What was it that the old man at Victoria Jensen's wedding said to Bianca? Ah, yes. Old Victor wanted computer brains, but he got more than he bargained for. The corner of his lip pulled up. "More than he bargained for, eh?" he muttered. "Well, let's see if we can uncover what that more may have been." He reached for the phone, dialed a series of numbers, listened to the clicks, and finally heard a faint ringing sound.
"Halloran residence." A crisp, modulated voice answered.
"Senator Halloran, please. Pope Raphael Munoz calling."
"The Senator is inspecting the Brazilian holdings this week, Holiness. I can forward a message to our Embassy there if it's important."
"No. It can wait. When he returns, just tell him I called to chat. I'll be back in touch. Thank you."
Munoz gently clicked off the speaker phone. Leave a message at the Embassy, indeed, he thought. I might as well take out a full page ad and tell the world what I want to know. Or better yet, use the telescreen. That would be even faster.
The discreet bell of the wall screen broke his reverie. He looked at his watch and smiled. On the fifth chime, he answered.
Chapter 41
Ellery
Ellery was aware of every nuance of life as she and her son walked among the wharf vendors: the faint hiss of crabs dropped into boiling water, elbows jostling as tourists strolled, sidewalk hawkers holding out tidbits of fish on white paper, the peculiar salt-fish smell of the vast ocean rolling lazily against the pier. Even the discordant squawks of sea birds were music to her ears. She paused, tugging at Matthew's arm.
"Look at his cheek, Matthew. It looks like tiger stripes." Her head nodded slightly in the direction of a fish monger who tossed cleaning scraps to the birds.
"It is. Or as close to tiger skin as your favorite geneticist could make it."
"That's some of Bianca's work? I had no idea her cosmetic additions would be so large."
"That's a small patch, Mom. Some of those beauty marks cover the entire face. Wait till you see a set of coruscating eye-lights. Now that's a sight. I don't know how anyone can concentrate on what they're saying with the colors spinning like a daisywheel. We should have walked around downtown. There's where you'll see the latest fads."
Shaking her head with amazement, Ellery continued walking. After a moment of silence, she said, "Tell me about the rings, Matthew."
"What rings?" He studied the sidewalk.
"You know what I'm talking about."
He stared into her face a long time before answering. "I'm not sure. Eternity, I think. I don't know how I got there. One minute, I was listening to you read the verses from the Pittman and the next, I was riding the rings—vast circles of gold, whirling, linking, breaking apart. Living things. Being things. The instant they came together, a world in time shimmered, only to be replaced by another as a circle came or went. I fought to keep my balance and felt a clarity of such magnitude I can find no words to express it. I knew all, was all." He paused and gazed into space, his hand moved absently to the base of his skull. "I didn't want to come back, Mom. I belong there. On the rings."
"You belong here," she said fiercely. "Eternity they may be, but right now, in this time, we have a problem and you're going to help solve it. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said like a little boy being sent to sit in the corner.
The words Matthew had whispered in the library rang in her ears. What if it's true, she thought. What if our bodies really are nothing more than pottery clay shaped by souls who march through the ages learning imperfection? Molds discarded in never-ending succession? Shuddering at her next thought, she turned to her son. "What frightens me the most are the verses you whispered in the library. In my laboratory, I have seen the smallest shapes of life evolving and changing with such continuous beauty and complexity that it's difficult for me to accept the idea of death at all, yet I know objectively that all life forms eventually cease to exist. I don't know what happens then. Maybe we die forever and return to dust or maybe—"
"The mists have never held a lie, Mother. That is one thing I know with certainty."
"Perhaps you weren't in the mists. You said yourself it was a sudden transition. But, just for the sake of argument,
let's say that every word you spoke is absolute truth and each soul does create many bodies to use on its journey to perfection. This time for example, that body is mine and I believe the Pittman translation. Now, along comes Pope Munoz and he says I don't have to return to the dustbin, as you so colorfully described it. I can have eternal life if I want it. Guaranteed. No . . . no penalty to pay if my deeds have been less than exemplary. Sooo, thinking human, I buy a freezing vault. My God, Matthew, do you realize the implications?"
His answer was immediate. "You could never experience a new phase of evolution because you could never leave your current station, never take a new body. The tempter who enticed you into the vaults would hold the future of body and soul right here." The index finger of his right hand jabbed into the opposite palm.
Voice trembling, she said, "Abject bondage. A puppet on a string, dancing in the breeze of each breath flowing from his nostrils. You would be a slave to his every whim. For all eternity."
A wry smile creased his cheeks. "Can you think of a more fitting term for such a condition than perpetual Hell?"
Ellery's brows drew together as she concentrated. "I don't know, Matthew. If Bianca hadn't solved the cell icing problem, there would have been no body preservation to promote and that's key."
"Did he know she was working on a solution?"
"Yes, of course. It was no secret." She hesitated, remembering. Her eyes widened as it came back to her. "Oh my God. That was his first question at the Transnational Meeting!" That far back, she thought. Was he planning this even then?
"Which answers your question about body preservation."
"It would take a powerful drive for a man in his position to come up with such a scheme, Matthew."
"How about taking over as Lord of the Universe—is that powerful enough?"
She ignored the sharpness in his voice and said, "Even assuming Pope Munoz fell under the temptation to play God—and from what you've said and what I've experienced, I think he's come dangerously close—he is still mortal. Sooner or later, he would have to go into the vaults, would have to rely on strangers to revive him, century after century. Otherwise, this grand scheme would come to naught. That's a dangerous gamble, Matthew."
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