by Fritz Galt
“Not so fast,” the stranger said. He turned with the briskly moving candidate and impeded his progress with an outstretched arm.
“Huh?” Terry stopped short and straightened up.
“It’s me,” the double said. “Your brother.” Both hands reached for Smith’s shoulders in an affectionate embrace.
Terry hesitated before reacting. “I knew I had a twin, but we’ve never met.”
“Until now,” the man said, and grasped Terry firmly around the neck.
“I didn’t know you were with the Secret Service,” Terry said.
The man laughed. It was a short, abrupt laugh, as if the irony were too great. “You’re running for president, and I’m a two-bit stand-in.”
His thumbs probed Terry’s larynx, then suddenly pressed in with violent force. Terry staggered backward under the man's choking grip. His eyes bulged in surprise. He was only able to emit an aborted, voiceless gasp.
“What in the world are you doing?” Barney cried, and ran into the room. The joke had gone too far. But in his heart, he knew that what he was witnessing was no joke. He was watching a man murder another.
A minute later, Terry Smith lay motionless, slumped against the far wall, his face blue, his throat irreparably crushed. His eyes still protruded, but had taken on a glazed expression. It had been a silent, bloodless death.
Barney’s mouth had gone completely dry. “You killed him!” he squealed.
Terry’s double put a large paw on Barney’s shoulder and turned him away from the gruesome sight. “I believe you are someone I’m supposed to know.”
Barney was momentarily disarmed by the man’s personal interest.
He heard someone enter and drag the body across the floor and out of the room. Outside, a car trunk slammed shut. He turned slowly to look at the imposter.
“What is your name?” The stranger’s voice was kind, his manner confident.
“I’m Barney Boone,” he stammered. “Terry’s campaign manager.”
“Campaign manager for whom?”
The killer reached for his back pocket.
Barney flinched. Was he going to die, too?
But instead of some implement of death, the big man produced a wallet. He licked a thumb and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills. “For whom do you work?” the man asked with a smile, the southern drawl precise.
“You are running for president?”
The man nodded.
“And you need a campaign manager?”
The smile seemed even warmer, and Barney felt the guy stuff the money in his breast pocket.
Barney looked at the blank spot on the wall where he had last seen his client. His former client. In fact, Terry Smith was gone in every respect. There was no sign of murder. There was no body, no pool of blood, and strangely no break in Terry Smith’s earthly existence. This handsome monster had taken his place.
“It’s like…”
“Nothing ever happened,” the man finished his thought.
Barney glanced back at the shut pressroom door. He could always claim that he had been out of the room when it happened.
He turned back to face the candidate, who stood so harmlessly before him. The new and improved Terry Smith was made of good material. There was no question that barney could fashion him into a great candidate.
Barney reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the money. One thousand dollars. He stuffed it in his back pocket. “I’m sure you’ll benefit from my services, sir.”
“And you will benefit from mine.” The pseudo Terry Smith offered his hand.
What a grip. It was soft and supple, not the icy grasp of a killer. The guy could certainly turn a phrase and turn on the charm. Raising money and winning endorsements would be a snap. This guy had the potential to draw in huge crowds, even more than the deceased Terry Smith. Barney recognized a political professional when he saw one, and this guy had the presidency written all over him.
Barney heard someone enter the room. He turned and saw two able-bodied men take up positions by the backstage exit. “Who are these gentlemen?”
The new Terry Smith raised an eyebrow, and Barney got the message. Don’t ask.
“Would you kindly escort me home?” the new Terry said.
“Of course.” Barney Boone swallowed hard and led the future President of the United States out the back door, down the steps, and into the waiting limousine.
Chapter 3
China’s President Qian sat in his lakeside pavilion and gazed over the ice-fringed waters at Zhong Nan Hai, the Communist Party’s natural sanctuary in central Beijing.
The wise, old man was especially fond of the gingko trees. They were the simplest and oldest trees in the world, but they unfurled their leaves like young butterflies each spring. Their brilliant yellow mingled with the blood red of smoke trees, the deep burgundy of Japanese maples, and the long, blanched strands of willows. In the finest tradition of Taoism and Confucianism, the oldest generation was necessary to compliment the youngest.
And here he was thinking of banned religions.
Fortunately, he was alone to his thoughts. Even the ubiquitous microphones that listened to every square meter of the grounds could not hear the idle, and sometimes heretical, thoughts that occasionally passed through his mind.
He reflected on how Chairman Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, had roamed around Zhong Nan Hai and the neighboring lake, Bei Hai, as if they were part of her personal fiefdom. How times had changed. Now Bei Hai was a true people’s park. Families and couples had finished pushing each other across the ice on chairs outfitted with blade runners and would soon venture across the cold waters in rowboats and electric motorboats.
How times had improved, often despite the best intentions of China’s leaders.
Party lore had it that Chairman Mao had wanted to improve agricultural yield and foster team spirit among the disparate and far-flung groups of China. He singled out the need to kill sparrows, which ate the grain that farmers sewed over their fields. He had suggested that entire villages go into the fields to beat their pots and pans when sparrows arrived. Keeping the sparrows aloft so long caused the birds to drop out of the sky from fatigue. This system was hugely successful. Birds died and farmers grew bumper crops. But what Mao failed to consider was that sparrows were necessary to keep the locust population down. The plague of locusts that ensued caused unprecedented mass starvation across northern China. So Mao undertook to cut down trees. All of them.
President Qian shook his head. He remembered the decades China had spent without trees, with dust sweeping unchecked across the land. It coated everything, indoors and out, with a yellow chalk. Such engineering of nature had had a devastating effect on the proletariat and elite alike. Respiratory illnesses were pervasive. The party had had to usher in new health measures to treat the onslaught of diseases.
President Qian closed his eyes in pain. Party policies were blunt tools that failed to anticipate unintended consequences. Time seemed to slip backward as the party wrongly ignored diverse views. It was a battle he would never win, even as he sat at the party’s helm.
He felt movement by his side and jumped. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the petite form of May Hua, his would-be granddaughter-in-law. She smoothed out the strands of her ebony hair that reached to the waist of her silk blouse. Then she took a seat on the bench beside him and waited for him to emerge from his reverie.
She was as beautiful as the Japanese maples. Perhaps her beauty stemmed from what the Chinese called the Eastern Capital, Tokyo. Her nearly non-existent eyelashes and her eyes veiled in tightly stretched lids, her feather-thin eyebrows, and her hard, glassy eyes that could see so much so quickly were signs of exquisite lineage. Ah, if his grandson had not been so foolish as to attempt to ruin the Chinese government to gain her admiration and her hand in marriage!
But the Three Gorges incident was a thing of the past. He had lost Liang Jiaxi, his driven grandson, but gained a young lady in his stead. She w
ould be an excellent consort for a younger president, but he was content to merely have her company, like the wondrous gifts of nature that surrounded him.
She was silent that morning, even pensive.
President Qian adjusted his glasses on the low bridge of his nose. On closer examination, May’s expression was not one of tranquility. Rather, she bore an air of apprehension.
“What is wrong, my beautiful songbird?” His voice was kind.
She glanced up at him and appreciation shone in her eyes. “You have always been good at reading my thoughts.”
“Yes, and I sense ill winds.”
“That is true. I have bad news. I have received word from my father concerning your recently lost grandson.”
Qian rose to his feet with surprise. “They have found Liang’s body?” The Royal Thai Army had been combing their northern jungle for months, and the uncertainty had left him uneasy. But he was frightened by the hopeful tone in his voice, as if he were looking forward to their confirming his death.
“They did not find him.” She handed him an envelope. “He has found us.”
With a deep sigh, the president sat back down. He slipped a long fingernail into the envelope and pulled out a missive. He unfolded it and stared at the chop at the bottom. It was that of his grandson, Liang Jiaxi.
Then he scanned the columns of characters, written with a fine-haired brush in a bamboo leaf script. The content was not nearly as agreeable.
“He’s alive,” he said under his breath. He lowered the letter and began to relive the past summer. His grandson had nearly succeeded in taking over leadership of the party. Liang had tried to poison him and drown the Central Committee in the Yangtze. And from what Qian had just read, Liang’s goals had not changed.
He returned to the letter. The characters spelled out an intention so contrary to the spirit of the party and the good of the nation that he would have dismissed it as deluded if he didn’t know his grandson so well.
“He says that he has a powerful weapon that will raise the Motherland above all others.” He examined May’s tender, yet strong face. “What is this powerful weapon?”
“I think it has something to do with my father’s work on religion.”
Ah, religion. President Qian stroked the wizened skin of his cheeks. Once again the words of Chairman Mao were echoing through the air. “Religion is the opiate of the masses,” went his disdainful declaration.
Again, the Great Helmsman had overreached.
Qian was well aware of Dr. Yu Zhaoguo’s recent work in religious anthropology. But, knowing that Dr. Yu was a scientist, Qian had allowed him to pursue his research. In fact, his theories into the primitive origins of religion in China were pointing to Sanxingdui in Sichuan Province as the cradle of religion, an incubator that influenced all later organized religions in the world. Where was the harm in that?
He had even read with excitement the latest papers that Yu and May’s boyfriend Brad West had published in anthropological journals.
“Where is your father?”
“That is part of the problem,” May said. “He recorded a message on my voice mail that has left me trembling. ‘I must visit an old foe,’ he had said. ‘I do this for your sake. Beware of Bei Shan.’”
Qian once again returned to the letter that spelled out Liang’s possession of a great weapon and his recent takeover of Bei Shan Industries, a leading biotech firm. “Liang is alive and associated with Bei Shan. Unbelievable. How could he have survived being shot down by the Thai Air Force? How could the state security apparatus not have detected him?”
“Money and influence will buy you many things these days, grandfather.”
He closed his eyes. He need not look beyond his little corner of paradise to know about the corruption that ran rampant throughout the country. It was a battle he fought within the party, the military, and across the private sector on a daily basis. For that reason, the party’s Security Branch could eavesdrop on any conversation within the confines of Zhong Nan Hai, even the courting of crickets. And they did.
“What do you need from me?” he said at last, his voice a mere whisper. “I will give you whatever it takes.”
“I need troops to move in on Bei Shan,” she said in a low voice.
“Consider them at your disposal.”
She stood and began to bow. From his seated position, he caught her face in both hands and drew his lips to her delicate cheek. That close, it would be safe. He whispered in her ear. “You may loose his moorings in the storm.”
She rose to her full height over him and nodded in acknowledgement. “I will do what I must.”
She turned to leave. Her footsteps padded away on the flagstones and gradually faded among the trees.
He looked back over the lake. Alas, his meditation had been broken.
“A powerful weapon will raise the Motherland above all others,” he recited Liang’s words bitterly to himself.
The world was harmed most by those who wished to help it. He had listened to the spirits of the past. He had learned from them not to emulate the masters, but to avoid their mistakes. He would rule with a nuanced and even hand. And he would use everything at his disposal to fend off those who sought to remove him from power.
Chapter 4
The air sang in the cables of a newly installed chairlift that ran directly over Brad West’s head. Empty chairs glided past to test the system. Soon it would carry tourists, who would swarm over the sacred Xuanweng Mountain and destroy all the historical artifacts that remained. The young anthropologist was desperate to complete his excavation before market forces ruined the site forever.
He reached down and grabbed the hardwood handle of a Marshalltown trowel with accustomed ease and sensitivity. Using the point of the seven-inch-long instrument, he carefully scraped at the compressed soil and compacted sediment. He was excavating one of his newest discoveries, a stone tablet from one of Shanxi Province’s cultural and religious landmarks.
Disregarding the chairlift that creaked overhead, he felt like every shovelful of dirt was taking him further into the past.
For centuries, the Jin Temple had been a holy place for visiting rulers and artists. There were interesting mountains, a pair of three-thousand-year-old cypress trees, and a world-class wonder: a spring of water that had never failed.
His best friend, Earl Skitowsky, climbed up the mountain from below. Earl stopped beside Brad, his large, flabby chest gasping for air, and adjusted his tape-repaired glasses. Breathing heavily, Earl studied the cluster of religious buildings down the slope. “So which one’s the Sage Mother Temple?”
“The big one.” Brad didn’t look up from his work. “The whole reason we’re here. It’s living proof of the theory that May’s father proposed. The Sage Mother is Jin, the water spirit.”
“But it’s only a well.”
Brad welcomed the chance to talk about his Chinese girlfriend May, who was back in Beijing, and her noted father, an anthropoligist just like Brad.
“That is a well that has replenished itself for thousands of years,” Brad reminded him. He paused to wipe the sweat from the light brown hair that matted his brow. “And people have been communicating with her for the past two millennia through spirit writings and meditation. Dr. Yu has managed to tap into the metaphysical world in the same way.”
“So we aren’t talking about ancestor worship here,” Earl said. “Spirits are something other than dead people?”
“That's right. They can be forces of nature, what some would call gods.”
“Man.” Earl squeezed his nostrils together and sucked in, then released his nose with a loud intake of air. “Either you’re onto something, or this is one big New Age crock.”
“You have to admit that we’ve turned the scientific community on its ear.”
Earl shook his head. “Shameful. May’s dad Dr. Yu talks with gods and his peers let him get away with it.”
“My only problem is that it will attract tourists.” B
rad looked at the row of chairlift towers advancing up the slope toward him, then jabbed back into the soil.
“Easy on the digging,” Earl told him over his shoulder. “You might chip a Ming vase.”
“There’s no time to waste. All this history might be erased before we can make this a World Heritage site.”
“What’s wrong with people coming here? It’s their shrine.”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong.” Brad turned and shook his trowel at his friend. “Dr. Yu’s theory of primitive religion is at stake—that the ancient Chinese communicated with spirits long before we sold them as tchotchskies to swing from rearview mirrors.”
“But for you, this is all about May, not her dad.”
“May? You keep her out of this.” He stabbed into the deepest part of the hole. “Her father is the Einstein of our age. He’s out to shake up the religious and scientific establishments. All he needs is a little support from the field.”
Earl squatted beside him. “You miss the gal, don’t you.”
Brad could no longer suppress the feelings that informed his every action. When he was away from Yu’s daughter on such extended expeditions, he needed little excuse to talk about her. He dropped the trowel, stood up, and hitched up his bib overalls. “If I could only get her head out of the stars and into the soil.”
“Gee, that’s a romantic image,” Earl mused. “…if she were an ostrich. Wake up, bud. She’s an astronaut, a born flier, a woman of the future. You’ve got your feet firmly planted six feet under. You’re gonna have to reconcile yourself with that slight discrepancy.”
“I do get the feeling that forces beyond our control are pulling us apart,” Brad had to admit. “And I’m not talking about rocket fuel and gravity. You’re well aware that old Dr. Yu has already survived several assassination attempts.”
“So he’s rocked the boat for the political, scientific and religious communities. That goes with the territory.”
“It just lends more urgency to the job at hand.” He stooped over and scraped pebbles out of the engraved Chinese characters on the stele. “What does this say?” His friend could read ancient Chinese as well as Brad could read English.
