The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

  Benjamin thought about that, gave a reluctant, "Too true." Then went on.

  "Harlan did finally get financing for his Prayer Town, from Henry Coddington, a wealthy merchant. Sometime around 1665 the community of the Bainbridge Plantation was established in western Massachusetts. On the very spot where the Foundation sits today."

  "And this not make Eye guys happy, right?"

  "Well, at first they didn't seem to bother about the plantation. Perhaps it was too far removed from civilization. And at first the plantation thrived. Harlan writes proudly about one of the first converts-a Native called Wounded Bear, whom they re-christened John Sassamon."

  "This name important?"

  "Well, it comes up ten years later, in King Philip's War. And though Harlan doesn't come right out and say so, it's clear he came to not completely trust this Sassamon. But by this point Harlan doesn't have time to worry overmuch about that. It seems that the Eye of Providence Puritans finally took notice of the Bainbridge Plantation, decided it posed a threat to their control of the central colonies, and set about to sabotage it."

  "How?" asked Anton.

  "Food stores burned, hunting parties ambushed, threatening symbols left carved in trees. Some of the plantation's people thought it was the Wampanoags, angry about the plantation's proximity to their burial grounds. But Harlan was convinced it was all due to the 'perfidy of the Puramists.' "

  "Pur-who?" asked Anton.

  "Puramists," Benjamin said. "It's another name Harlan uses for the Congregation of the Eye of Providence. And sometimes he just calls them 'Triangle Puritans.' "

  "Ah," said Anton, " puramis is pyramid, yes? But triangle…?"

  "From their habit of drawing a little triangle in their Bibles, with an eye at the apex."

  "The eye of God," said Anton.

  "Exactly. Just as they believed God was watching and judging their every move, they believed they had the divine authority to watch over the colonies. Here, look at this."

  Benjamin picked up one of the yellow sheets and turned it around so Anton could read it. "It's an entry from the diary. I copied it down verbatim."

  Anton leaned over the table and read what Benjamin had written: -Receiving our Guidance from the true Geneva Bible and as Bradford's example a lesson to us all-he that might have possesed himself of the entire Plymouth Plantation, as did Penn or Weldon, and withe his denial sacrificed a greater and reall worthinesse-seek a vertue to sever the serpent of Commerce from Civitas. But that the Civill selfe is the true self, "good with bad," and not the cross of usurpry as well to beare, for that is too much. -As for Mr. Childham, the new Governor, what passe for his Piety governes the designe whereof Principall is fastned to an artificiall Church, the Church of Businesse-for against this Rule the wheeles of fortune grind out a Soveraignty like dust, filling all the aire, onely to clog an honeste man's mouth and blinde an honest Puritan's eyes.

  Anton looked up. "Which means in plain English?"

  "This is Harlan's way of describing the philosophy of the Puramists. To him, they were all about treating not only their civil life but their spiritual life, too, as a business. A business they controlled. This idea was blasphemy to Harlan and most of the other traditional Puritans. And this mention of the 'serpent of Commerce'…"

  "Yes?" Anton prodded.

  "It's a curious way to use the word 'serpent.' Usually, in Puritan writings, serpent is a synonym for Satan. But here… well, it's just that there was another reference, to 'Satan's trident,' in a letter written by Harlan. And in that letter, he linked it with the Puramists. Clearly he thought they were very bad people."

  Anton thought that over for a moment.

  "Neveroyatno," said Anton. "Quite a story. But, how you get from these 'very bad people' to this… what is it… Newburgh guys?"

  "Well," Benjamin shook his head, "it sounds incredible, but I think they're one and the same group."

  Anton's considerable eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I thought Newburgh guys soldiers and politicians, not Puritans."

  "Actually," said Benjamin, "I think they were all three: soldiers, politicians, and religious fanatics. For two reasons."

  Anton leaned back, motioned for Benjamin to proceed.

  "First, Harlan writes that there were seven major Puramist leaders, a kind of Inner Council. And the name of the leader of that council was one Elias Morriss."

  "And this name, is important?" asked Anton.

  "Elias Morriss was one of the top aides to Joshia Winslow, and Winslow was one of the most zealous advocates for eliminating the Natives through any means necessary. And they both later became commanders in King Philip's War."

  "Okay," nodded Anton, "they don't like Indians. But how this connect to an almost-coup one hundred years later?"

  "That's my second reason. Their symbol, this triangle with an eye at the apex? It's almost identical to a symbol I saw today in the Library of Congress, in an engraving of Major General Horatio Gates. Gates was Washington's rival during the Revolution, and probably one of the ringleaders in the Newburgh conspiracy."

  Anton shook his head. "Little triangle maybe too tiny to balance big conspiracy."

  Benjamin smiled. " And, another of those ringleaders was probably a Gouverneur Morris. Now, granted, that was Morris with one S, and the Puramist was a Morriss with two-but in those days variant spellings of the same last name were commonplace. I haven't done the genealogy, but there's a good chance they're related. So, as you would say, maybe…?"

  "Ah," said Anton. And now he looked interested. "So you think these Puritan Bolsheviks, these, what you called them… Puramists? You think maybe these 'very bad guys' still around one hundred years later?"

  Benjamin was about to tell Anton about his discovery in the mural at the manse and his suspicion they may have been around much longer than that; but once again, he hesitated. His only evidence was an indistinct little doodad in that immense painting. And once again, he decided it was simply too fantastic to get into now, and that he should stay focused on what he'd learned from the diary.

  "At the very least," Benjamin continued, "it explains why the Morris family had this fake diary created and saw to it the real one was hidden. In 1929, the Morris family and the other benefactors were establishing the Heritage Institute for Good Government, something they hoped would help restore the world's shining hope for democracy. And this was at a time when that democracy was struggling to survive. There were demagogues like Father Coughlin on the right and radicals like the Wobblies on the left…" Benjamin thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I can see how they would have considered it embarrassing to have it revealed that their ancestors had been fanatical racists and antidemocratic conspirators. How they might have even considered murder justified in keeping such a secret. And finally, isn't that symbol just a little too much of a… coincidence?"

  Anton pursed his lips. "Coincidence just low probability," he said. "Not proof."

  Benjamin saw the skepticism in Anton's eyes and began to doubt his own conclusions. Now not just the mural but the whole story began to sound like a paranoid fantasy.

  "I don't know," said Benjamin, rubbing his eyes. "Perhaps you're right. How could they have kept it secret for so long, among so many people?"

  "Don't give up so fast. Maybe, like in Party, most didn't know what Eye guys up to. Best conspiracy one you don't tell anyone they're part of."

  Benjamin looked up. "Odd you should put it that way," he said.

  "What?"

  "It's just, that sounds very much like something Samuel said… the last time we talked."

  "Sam smart guy," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "Maybe smartest thing he do, keep you at Foundation."

  "At least all this," he waved at Benjamin's notes on the table, "fill one big hole in TEACUP. If these Eye guys did sabotage plantation, maybe even get Indians to destroy it, then explains 'wobble' number one, yes?"

  "You mean, they manipulated King Philip's War into happening? That's what the TEACUP pr
ogram revealed to Jeremy?"

  "Or would have," Anton nodded, "if he'd had Bainbridge diary. But still leaves other big hole. Which is Stzenariy 55. "

  "Damn!" Benjamin said, standing up. He looked around for a clock. "What time is it?"

  "Oh yes," said Anton, "your date." He looked Benjamin over. "You can't go meet Bolshoi like that," he said.

  "Oh, god," said Benjamin, looking at himself in a mirror. What he saw was a very rumpled suit, a wrinkled shirt, uncombed hair, and a dark five o'clock shadow.

  He turned to Anton. "Unfortunately, I didn't pack black tie for the Foundation. I'll have to go by my apartment, clean up, and at least put on a fresh suit."

  "Not such good idea," Anton said. "Apartment probably last place you want to go."

  "Then what the hell am I supposed to do?" Benjamin said angrily. He ran a hand through his hair, rubbed his neck. "Sorry, I'm just tired and cranky."

  "Is okay," said Anton. "My son leave some clothes here. Big businessman. I think tuxedo in his closet." He looked at Benjamin. "Older and bigger than you, but fit okay." He smiled. "Maybe."

  CHAPTER 31

  The taxi dropped Benjamin off in front of the Russian Cultural Center on Phelps Place. He climbed the steps, then stood at the back of a line of several people, all of them in elegant evening dress. He felt like something of a clown in Anton's son's tuxedo: the sleeves were too long, the jacket too big, and the pants had been hurriedly hemmed by Anton with pins and tape; Benjamin expected the hem to drop down over his too-large shiny black dress shoes at any moment.

  After the guard checked his name on the invitation list, he walked into the building and its lavishly decorated foyer.

  There was a large round table with a huge bouquet of red roses in the foyer's center, and red-and-gold banners were draped around its ceiling. On his right in a large dining room, each table had its own centerpiece of red roses and white baby's breath; to his left was an equally large reception hall, dotted everywhere with more bouquets of roses. Dozens of elegantly dressed people stood in groups while around them circulated waiters dressed in red-and-white uniforms and carrying golden trays of champagne.

  My, thought Benjamin, the times of Soviet drabness certainly are over.

  The reception hall had a polished parquet floor and stark white walls adorned with rectangular panels and fronted by grooved pillars. Panels and pillars alike were edged with gold gilt filigree. The overall effect was impressively imperial. At one end of the room hung an enormous red banner, with writing in huge gold letters: Большой amp; Aмерика-1776-Bolshoi amp; America

  At the other end of the room was an equally large banner, but this one was white, with green edging to form a continual border of ivy, in the center of which was embroidered, in blue letters: Let Our Two Nations Never Again Polarize

  Benjamin noted that this second banner was in English only.

  Light from several large brass chandeliers reflected in a mirror that ran along almost the entire length of one wall; opposite the mirror was a large, white-veined marble fireplace, complete with crackling fire. With all the people in the room, Benjamin felt a trifle overheated and began looking for something to drink.

  He walked to a nearby group, where he saw a waiter with a tray of champagne, and took a glass from the tray. Then he realized the group was something of an informal reception line and, before he could move, the first person in the line was extending his hand for Benjamin to shake.

  "Ambassador Vasily I. Schastny," the man said. He was tall, with a broad Slavic face and expertly clipped hair. "How do you do."

  "Benjamin Wainwright," he said, shaking the man's hand. He noticed his grip was quite solid, and a little threatening. He felt the need to add something to his identification. "Scholar of American history," he said.

  "Ah," Vasily replied. He looked a trifle surprised, but said with a bright smile, "An academician." He turned to the woman next to him. "And this is Irina Sedova, director of our little cultural outpost."

  The woman turned to greet Benjamin, extending her hand. She, in turn, introduced him to a woman wearing a dramatically low-cut black evening gown and too much eye makeup. "Prima ballerina Leonora Zenova." Madame Zenova held her hand out to be kissed, and Benjamin immediately if a little awkwardly bent slightly and bussed her fingers with his lips.

  "Charmed," was the only thing he could think of to say.

  And so it went, on down the line. Benjamin couldn't really keep track of the names, though he noticed there were as many Americans as Russians. The last couple was quite old, the man sporting a very well-trimmed mustache and pointed goatee, and the woman wearing a small silver tiara. They were introduced as "Prince Obolensky and Princess Gagarin." Benjamin wasn't sure whether or not to bow, but he decided that would be a bit too nineteenth century.

  When he exited the receiving line, Benjamin felt a bit dizzy from names and titles. And he still needed to locate Ms. Orlova.

  Looking about, he saw no one that seemed the sort he could simply walk up to and ask for directions. He finally decided to try a waiter. From the waiter he got another glass of champagne and a suggestion he try one of the security men standing at intervals along the wall. He found one of them-apparently a clone of the man at the door, complete with earpiece but absent clipboard. When he asked after Natalya Orlova, he got an inquisitive look. For a moment he wasn't sure the man understood English.

  "A friend of Natalya's?" he asked.

  Benjamin didn't know what to say. "No, not exactly. I just… she invited me, and I wanted to thank her."

  The man smiled. "Look for a beautiful blonde in a red dress," he said, and smiled. "You cannot miss her."

  With that advice, Benjamin began circulating. Everywhere he looked, he saw women in elegant evening dresses and men in tuxedos, some of the men with colorful sashes draped across their chests, and one or two of those with some sort of medals. But nowhere did he see a "beautiful blonde in a red dress." He decided to try the dining room.

  He walked across the foyer to the dining room, glanced around at people standing about between the tables. He saw that an area at the front of the room had been cleared as a sort of stage. Natalya had told him the reception was for the Bolshoi Ballet, and that after the dinner there would be a brief performance by members of the company. And he'd noticed in the reception hall there had been large photographs of various Bolshoi productions: Swan Lake, of course, and others, as no great fan of ballet, he couldn't name. He'd recognized a couple of the ballerinas from the photographs among the guests: very thin, very beautiful women who were the centers of little circles of attention, surrounded by men smiling and nodding and offering to get them more champagne.

  At the end of the dining room, serving as a backdrop to the stage area, was an enormous mural painted on polished wood. He walked to the end of the room so he could see the mural more closely.

  It was painted in the style of a medieval icon, with much gold trim and flattened perspectives and many bright colors, and divided into panels separated from one another by decorative arches. Within each panel was a representation of what appeared to be cities, their names painted in gold Cyrillic letters. A panel at the center contained the largest city, Moc? B a. At least Benjamin could recognize that one: Moscow.

  "Beautiful, isn't it," said a voice next to him.

  He turned. Standing on his left was a woman in a strapless, floor-length, red satin evening gown and wearing a glittering gold necklace that emphasized her pale skin. She had very bright blond hair, done up in a French twist. Benjamin saw that her eyes were a curious blue-green mixture; eyes that seemed to shine with a light of their own. Her high cheekbones and small nose made Benjamin think she was Scandinavian, but he'd detected the trace of a Russian accent in her comment. She was, indeed, very beautiful.

  "Ms. Orlova?" he said.

  "Mr. Wainwright?" she said by way of an answer.

  She was smiling at Benjamin, but with a slightly disappointed look. It took him a moment to
realize her hand was extended. He shifted his champagne glass to his other hand, took her hand in his, which she shook only briefly.

  "How…," he began. His throat felt tight. "How did you know it was me?"

  Natalya laughed. "For one thing, you were not talking to anyone. People mostly come to such affairs to talk to someone more important than they are. And for another thing, you do not seem quite," she surveyed his ill-fitting tuxedo, "comfortable here."

  "You were expecting someone," he shrugged, "taller?"

  She smiled. "Someone older," she said.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't even own a tuxedo. I had to borrow this one." He smiled. "And as far as I'm concerned, I'm talking to the most important person here right now."

  Natalya tilted her head, her smile faded a little. "Mr. Wainwright," she said. "I thought you were a serious academician, not a fawning diplomat."

  Her displeasure made Benjamin very uncomfortable. He turned and looked at the mural. "It is, indeed," he said. "Beautiful, that is."

  Natalya turned and looked at the mural. "It represents what is called the Golden Ring. The most important cities around Moscow." She pointed to several of the panels as she translated the names of the cities. "There's Novgorod, Suzdal, Vladimir, Pskov…" She stopped and turned back to him. "But then, you are not really here for the Russian culture, are you."

  Her comment reminded Benjamin of why he was there. He patted the breast of his jacket.

  "I brought a CD, Ms. Orlova, of the program I mentioned. Dr. Jeremy Fletcher's program. Perhaps there's somewhere I could show you-" He started to take out the CD.

  Natalya reached out and stopped his hand, touching it lightly. "Not now," she said. "I am 'on duty,' at least until the dinner is finished. Afterward there will be a performance, by the ballet. Perhaps that would be the best time to talk further. Until then, I found a place at table number twelve for you. With some diplomats, so be prepared for some very… charming conversation. But enjoy the dinner. We will talk later."