by Fritz Galt
“Okay, I can do that. I can boil my curds.” Whatever that meant. He took the familiar impatience in her voice as a good sign. He had regained his normal standing.
However, it wasn’t normal for May to take off so abruptly. Up to that point in their nascent but promising relationship, they had spent vacation time together. “Are you being tapped for a space mission?” he said, suddenly suspicious.
“No, silly pig.”
“Ah. When will I see you next?” He saw Earl shake his head knowingly. His buddy had always been a big stickler on precise communication and because of that had never thought their relationship stood much chance of success.
“I do not know when I will see you.” Her voice dropped. Suddenly she was choked up with emotion. “I cannot talk about it.”
Brad’s back stiffened involuntarily, which was unfortunate. “Oooh. Where are you going?” It sounded like she was being dragged off to Inner Mongolia, which, come to think of it, was only several kilometers to the north of him.
He heard nothing but choked sobs on the other end.
Perhaps she was being coerced. “Just tell me where they’re taking you,” he whispered, and expected the worst. He hung on every word.
“I am going to…America.” And she began to sob inconsolably.
If Professor Richter, now living the life of his dead brother, Terry Smith, were ever to impersonate his twin successfully, he needed to master the details of Terry’s highly profitable religious enterprise.
Richter had left the frugal life of academia and was entering the glamorous life of a business magnate, founder of a successful religious franchise. The fringe benefits of sudden wealth were so seductive that Richter almost regretted that in order to achieve the presidency, he first had to destroy the nation’s economy.
That first night after strangling his brother, he had been impressed by the size of his dead brother’s mansion. Terry had lived in an edifice with three living rooms and had employed a domestic staff. Trying to fit into that social scene would be awkward, and Richter would fire them all the next day. He had feigned a headache that evening, which had allowed him to go straight to his new, luxurious bedroom suite without seeing the staff in person.
The next morning, he came to visit Terry’s place of business. Located half an hour north of Atlanta, Terry’s office was not a simple room with four walls and a telephone. It was far more than a corporate suite. It was more than an entire building. Terry Smith owned an empire, and his office building sat in the middle of what looked like a modern college campus.
Gospel University was a self-contained city made up of more than professors and students of religion, but businessmen, fire crews and a police force. It came complete with a cathedral, library, residence halls, recreation facilities, private swimming pools, and full-service villas.
And the glass building that loomed before Richter was the jewel in the crown of his former brother’s real estate holdings. He rode the elevator to the top floor alongside a matter-of-fact elevator girl in a blue uniform. He liked how her blonde hair splayed out so innocently across her shoulders.
“Executive suite. Have a nice day, Reverend Smith,” she said with a meaningful smile.
He pulled himself together. He was no longer Professor Richter. He had a new name, a new title and a new status. He was the Reverend Terry Smith.
He looked into the young woman’s soulful eyes, and all he could think of to say was, “Bless you, my child.”
The door closed behind him, leaving her with a disappointed frown. Perhaps he should have set up a rendezvous for later.
But he had little time to reclaim that lost opportunity. His staff stood waiting to receive Terry Smith’s instructions. What did all those people do behind that enormous semicircular desk? It looked like no church office he’d ever seen.
His gaze traveled down the length of the two corridors that radiated out behind them. Office signs read, Accounting, Investments, Real Estate, Political Relations, Public Relations, International Division, and Marketing. It felt more like a multinational corporate headquarters. It made the Ministry sign stand out as unusual.
With such a support system in place, his presidential campaign was going to be easier than he had expected.
He took a few awkward steps toward the host of receptionists. On the wall behind them was a bas-relief of his face framed by red, white and blue bunting. Below that was the slogan, “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.”
He had to chuckle at the reference to the movie, and the room erupted in boisterous clapping.
“I see you like our new campaign slogan, Mr. Smith,” came a familiar voice.
He looked for its source. A man approached from the left corridor. It was the campaign manager he’d met the night before and with whom he had come to a certain financial understanding. Richter would recall his name in a moment.
“Quite catchy,” Richter said, referring to the slogan. “Let’s use it. With our apologies to Jimmy Stewart, of course.”
“Would you like to step this way?” The campaign manager showed the way leading to Public Relations.
Along the airy hallway, Richter slowed down before the portraits of famous figures of history. The oil paintings were reproductions of the masters. Knox and Calvin were grouped together. Then came Washington and Lee. Next he passed Einstein and Richter. All famous men, giants in their fields.
Richter?
He nearly tripped over his wingtip shoes.
He paused to examine the not-unpleasant face of his former self, the esteemed Professor Richter, author of the theory of Homo americanus, an anthropologist with a worldwide following and a nationalist appeal for Americans. How touching that his own brother had idolized him.
It was too bad that Dr. Yu’s theories of the origins of Homo sapiens had trumped Professor Richter’s “Reverse Land-Bridge Theory” to enter classroom textbooks around the world. That little Chinese squirt was so smug in his seemingly mystical detachment.
Richter studied his reflection in the glass that protected the portrait. Professor Richter had had a brown toupee and a noble nose. His new incarnation was fleshier, with a silver pompadour and a less pronounced nose. He didn’t mind his new face, a triumph considering the challenge of rebuilding his damaged bones and cartilage. He was still virile and looked more distinguished than ever. It was time to fully embrace his new identity. From now on, he was Terry Smith.
The little campaign manager was an energetic man, and the new Terry Smith had to keep up if he was going to meet his political goals. The guy sat him down at a round conference table and began to slide posters toward him. He already had several TV spots ready to run.
“Nice work, Chester.”
“Barney.”
“Sorry. Barney. I trust you implicitly to handle all of this. But I’ve got other things to attend to. Would you kindly point out my office?”
Barney adjusted his glasses, puzzled by the request. Then, as his magnified eyes pivoted up to meet Terry’s, Barney suddenly recovered himself. Richter was a newcomer there, and Barney was the only one who knew it. It was up to him to show the new Terry the ropes. “Of course, Mr. Smith.”
Barney led his boss to the end of the hall and opened the door. Sunlight flooded in through floor-to-ceiling windows and illuminated an enormous executive suite. Curiously, it had no religious artifacts.
“Barney, just one simple request.” He circled the oval desk. “Can you get me a list of all my VIP contacts?”
“Oh, that would number into the thousands, sir. How about we start with the VVIP contacts?”
“Okay. Show me them.”
Barney indicated the keyboard below the glass surface of the desk. “Just punch the ‘Contacts’ button.”
It was no standard keyboard. Instead of having alphanumeric keys, the embossed leather keypad seemed expressly designed for a chief executive who was a moron. It contained only a grouping of four buttons, each with a large label, namely: Reception, Food, Religion a
nd Contacts. Below these buttons was a simple diamond of four buttons, each a different primary color.
He pressed the Contacts button. The tint of the windows began to darken. Then, the wall opposite the desk glowed with a menu of further choices, among them VIP, VVIP, VVVIP and Heads of State.
By manipulating the color keys, he was able to quickly whittle his selection down to a single contact. He chose Herman Stokes, Governor of Colorado. His options read: Call, Arrange Meeting and Last Meeting.
He selected Last Meeting. That brought up a wealth of information detailing their previous encounter. The governor and Terry Smith had shared drinks in Naples, Florida, at the National Governors’ Conference and they had discussed a whole host of subjects, none of which appeared to be religion. Real estate holdings dominated the conversation. A move to buy a theme park in Denver seemed uppermost on the previous Reverend Smith’s mind, and the good governor appeared receptive to granting tax breaks in the deal.
Next he chose the Arrange Meeting button, and the face of a young receptionist flashed onto the wall. “Good morning. Where would you like to meet Governor Stokes?”
“Denver.”
“Thank you.” The woman’s image disappeared.
Boy, that was easy.
He glanced around the lifeless office. He was used to a little more flesh and blood around him. “Aren’t there real people in this place?”
Barney coughed with slight embarrassment. “If you’d prefer to change your work environment…”
“Yes. I have a presidential race to run. How can I do that by talking to the wall? I want you to pool all my political advisors together immediately and send them to my office.”
“Got it.” Barney backed out the door and shut it softly behind him.
Terry punched the Receptionist button on the computer. A different, but equally beautiful face appeared on the wall. “I want you to paint this office blue and add a deep blue carpet, like the Oval Office.”
“Would that be just your office, Mr. Smith?”
“No. The whole floor.”
“Right away, Mr. Smith. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Remind me what your name is.”
She leaned closer to the screen and whispered, “Mr. Smith!”
Oh, one of those intimate relationships again. He had to avoid making such social blunders in the future.
“Just kidding,” he tried to cover up. “I just like hearing the sound of your voice.”
“Later, Mr. Smith,” she said in a proper Southern accent, and the image faded.
Terry was just about to punch the Food button when the door swung open and Barney and twelve men in black business suits stepped in.
“What is this?” Terry said. “A funeral?”
The men looked at each other.
“Okay, everybody out of this room,” Terry said. What did they know about schmoozing voters? “You’re fired. You may collect your paychecks on the way out.”
Barney herded the speechless men out of the room.
“Except for you, Barney.”
Barney remained there, clearly unnerved by the incident.
“Sit down.”
Barney took the only seat available, a plush white sofa on the wall opposite the desk.
Terry leaned back in his chair and swiveled from side to side. “I don’t want a campaign run by undertakers. I want the fresh policies of Generation Y. Even Generation Z. I want youthful ideals that will resonate with baby boomers as they enter retirement. I want a political staff in surfing shorts, tank tops, baseball caps and those little strings that hold your sunglasses around your neck. Do I make myself clear?”
Barney nodded, although he was clearly confused by the request.
“I want zest. I want vitality. I want sex appeal.”
“But you’re a minister of the Lord.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“What about America = God = Football?”
Terry stood up and turned to face his reflection in the window. He hiked up his tan trousers and sucked in what he could of his belly. “Let’s try a new formula: President = Sex.”
“Well, I suppose we could accommodate more cheerleaders into the football portion of the equation.”
“Barn, old buddy. I’m not getting through to you. Nothing = Nothing = Nothing. Scrap the old game plan. Any second-rate team can run on that and play it safe. I want to win. And in order to win, I have to seduce the public. I’m gonna turn this campaign into a massive American orgy, where people come for their daily fix. Do you catch my drift?”
Barney’s eyes were only beginning to register signs of comprehension. “I think I’m with you, sir.”
“Now, I want to see my new political staff at once.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir.” Barney turned and fled out the door.
The Food button worked to Terry’s satisfaction. Fifteen minutes later, he was just licking the oil of hushpuppies off his fingertips when he heard a knock.
“Come in.”
The door opened a crack, and Barney stuck his head in. “Sir, I have your new political team.”
“Let ’em in!”
The door swung open and the same twelve men filed in. Their long pants were replaced by Bermuda shorts. Tank tops flapped against their hairy white chests. Their black socks were shoved into flip-flops. And their bifocals dangled from sunglass croakies.
Terry buried his face in his hands. “Barney, Barney, Barney.”
When he looked up, Barney was just shoving the last of them out the door.
“I don’t want wonks. How could those guys possibly connect with the general public? I want vigorous, healthy youngsters, and I’m not talking Debby Boone. I’m talking Jennifer Lopez.”
“Jennifer Lopez. Got it.” Barney quickly exited the office.
Maybe running for president wouldn’t be so easy after all.
Chapter 6
The commercial jetliner bearing Dr. Yu banked sharply over the California coast on its final approach to San Francisco International Airport. Yu braced for the inevitable. Liang had brought him there to play havoc with the American mind.
Yu yearned to get back to his work using spirit communication to tackle global warming. He was at ease in the musty halls of academia where he could accomplish great things together with other scientists. International travel always put him on edge, especially now that he was accompanied by a lunatic.
A copy of the International Herald Tribune slid across the sloping floor and he reached out with a toe to catch it. Beside him, Liang stopped the paper with the tip of his patent leather shoe. Early morning sunshine fell on the front page.
A large photo showed a political candidate in a vigorous fist-shaking pose. Yu picked up the paper and read the caption aloud. “‘Religious leader throws his hat in the ring.’ Why would someone throw his hat anywhere?”
“Huh?” Liang’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
“Why is this man throwing his hat? He seems very angry.”
Liang glanced at the front page. “You’re looking at the next President of the United States. That’s Terry Smith.”
“Then why is he so mad?”
“I have no idea,” Liang said with a sigh.
Yu squirmed in his seat and studied the young man beside him. “Why do you make eyes like a water buffalo?”
“Oh, I wish we could have drugged May,” Liang said dreamily.
The plane dropped several meters toward the bay. Yu double-checked that his seatbelt was securely fastened and turned to look out the window. He felt like Liang was injecting him into the United States of America. What form of destruction did Liang ultimately have in mind for the country?
“I’m glad you didn’t drug my daughter. You can’t use drugs to get someone to love you.”
“If love is like a drug, then why can’t a drug be like love?” Liang laughed at his joke.
“This is funny to you, isn’t it,” Yu said. “You don’t realize this, but
your mindset is entirely beholden to the party. Your mind has been cleansed more thoroughly than you realize.”
Liang didn’t seem to take offense. Instead, it seemed to bolster his pride and he sat up even straighter.
Liang didn’t get it. As the airplane rushed closer to the waves of San Francisco Bay, Yu tried again to get through to him. “Don’t you realize that no one can love on command? Love comes only with free will.”
The plane’s wheels touched down with an abrupt jolt, and the ground spoilers came up with a rush of air.
Yu wondered how much longer he could take Liang. Certainly no spirits bound them together and no microchip had been implanted in his brain. So far, Liang’s requests had not been too egregious and soon Yu would return to his breakthrough research. And as long as Liang was up to his little mischief, he was not directly pursuing May. But how long would that last?
Minutes later, they were snaking their way through a cordoned line toward the non-American citizen counters at immigration. While he waited, Yu reflected on how much trouble he and Liang might have in entering the United States. If only America were as vigilant as China, Liang would be detained and Yu would be free of him forever.
Yu’s multiple-entry visa was still valid for another year, whereas Liang had had to forge a new identity in order to slip past the screening at that rundown American Embassy in Beijing.
Finally, they reached the immigration booth. Liang urged him forward, and Yu stepped over the yellow line to face the Department of Homeland Security agent.
The burly young American smiled at him. Being such an innocuous-looking traveler, Yu was sure to pass inspection. It was difficult, but he smiled back.
For some reason, the man scrutinized his passport with as much care as he did the Malaysians and Pakistanis before him. Surely Chinese weren’t high-risk terror suspects. In a brief burst of optimism, he wondered if the Yanks would send him back home. It took a full minute before the man finally handed the passport back.
“Are you here to see family?”
