The god machine, p.20
The God Machine, page 20
“Thieves! Are you kidding me? Since when do people dress up like nuns so they can mug you for a laptop?” He rubbed at his neck. “This happened to me once before, you know.”
“What? Being mugged by a nun?”
“Being strangled,” he said. “Back in Amiens, France.” Without warning, he started to laugh. Perhaps it was all the excitement. Perhaps it was just the adrenaline coursing madly through his veins. But despite the searing pain in his neck, Koster couldn't stop laughing. “Did you see the way she jumped up and kicked me? Jesus Christ! If you can't even trust a nun in this world… Thank God I didn't go to Catholic school, or I'd really be traumatized. And you! What was that all about?” He started to wiggle his hands in the air. “That Jackie Chan shit.”
“I used to take martial arts classes. For years, as a girl. My father thought a woman should always know how to defend herself.”
Koster shook his head, grimacing. “Well, you saved my ass. Did you see that fucking knife in her crucifix? What kind of nut job hides a knife in a crucifix? No, don't tell me—editors at a rival publishing company.” He laughed. Then the euphoria left him. He stood there, rubbing his neck.
Finally, after the silence had become unbearable, Sajan sighed. “Knights of Malta. The same people who were after Franklin's map in his day. After the Gospel of Judas, Joseph. Just like us.”
Koster looked over at the colonial garden, at the blossoming iris and fruit trees. “Not me,” he replied. “I was doing this as a favor, for Nick. Just like you, right? But now this has happened… I mean, you're not going to continue, right?”
“Continue?”
“To look for the Gospel of Judas.”
“Why did you keep searching for the Gospel of Thomas, even after you were attacked in Amiens?”
Koster started to answer. Then he stopped, shook his head. “I don't know,” he replied. “To solve the puzzle, I guess. To unravel the labyrinth. But that's different. I didn't know what I was up against then. Not really.” He paused, trying to come up with a reason. “Plus, I had a cop at my side. Nigel Lyman.”
“You should look him up, then,” she said. “Once we touch down in England. We need to find the second piece of the map, Joseph.”
“You're out of your mind,” Koster said. “Let me tell you something. The last time something like this happened to me, it didn't end well. I saw the woman I loved with a hole in her head.”
“What are you saying, Joseph?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. And I'm flattered you're worried about me. But I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. As you saw.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Sajan was silent, staring off at the gardens.
“Answer me, Savita. What if we actually find the gospel, what then? What if it actually undermines the Bible and the Church? If it undermines Christianity? I don't particularly care, mind you, but I know that you do.”
“If the Gospel of Judas reveals Christ's true words, Gnostic or not, they need to come out. They need to be heard. And…” She faltered. After a moment, she added, “Look, if you want to come, come. If not… then give me the camera.” She held out her hand.
Koster stayed where he was.
“The camera, Joseph.”
After a moment, Koster reached into his pocket. He gave it to her.
“Thank you,” she said, softly.
“You say that now, of course. But later,” he grumbled, “when your throat's been slashed by some deranged Catholic nun, you may feel somewhat differently.”
Sajan started back down the path toward the gate leading out onto Chestnut Street.
“I'm not going with you,” cried Koster. “You're on your own, do you hear me? If you want to kill yourself, that's your business.”
Sajan kept walking.
“I'm on vacation,” Koster called. “Don't look to me to come rescue you. I'm not going to England. I'm done. I've had it. I'm through.” He sighed. He rubbed at his neck. “I'm not going to England,” he repeated, as he followed her.
Sajan never even looked back.
Chapter 33
Present Day
Washington, D.C.
MICHAEL ROSE SAT AT THE HEAD OF THE CONFERENCE ROOM table at the offices of the Heart of the Family Research Council, clicking the top of his pen. Beside him, staring out the window at the National Museum of American Art across the street, squirmed Archbishop Lacey. The Catholic prelate had just been reprising the continuing failure of his Knights at Carpenters' Hall. The whole thing had been an unmitigated disaster. Rose clicked his pen. And now Michael was being forced to bring in the cavalry. He clicked and he clicked; he picked at a dead piece of skin by his ear.
“What time did Linkletter say he was coming?” the Archbishop asked.
Michael glanced at his Rolex. The Vice President was late. As usual. “Any minute now, Your Excellency.” Somehow he had found the exact amount of irony to stuff into that one appellation. It was as if he were really saying, “You incompetent fool. You Papist anachronism.”
In actuality, the Vice President had invited them to rendezvous at his office in the West Wing, but Michael had politely declined. These days, the White House was the last place to gather, what with the unpopularity of the war in Iraq, plus the party's various scandals: Justice's firing of those U.S. attorneys; that promotion at the World Bank; Mark Foley; Tom DeLay; Larry Craig. The list seemed endless. With the primaries looming, the last thing the Republicans needed was to lose the Christian Right vote, Michael thought, but they were doing a pretty good job of it.
Michael had met Robert Linkletter on several occasions. They had gone shooting a few times in South Texas, played poker together in Nevada. That night in Nevada… Michael smiled. Before Linkletter had become the Vice President.
He liked the VP's no-nonsense approach to getting things done. Linkletter was a real man of action, though tactless and not much of a churchgoer. He was not, in the end, a believer. But the President was, and that's all that mattered.
Just then, the door to the conference room opened and Vice President Linkletter stepped inside. He was a large man, with hatchetlike features. He wore a dark pin-striped business suit, gold wire-rimmed glasses and a bright crimson tie. It was sprinkled with game birds stitched in silk, Michael noticed. The Vice President turned to his associate and told him to wait in the hallway. Then he closed the door and headed straight for the head of the table. “Pastor Rose,” he began in a sonorous voice. Michael got up to greet him. They shook hands. “How's your father?” the Vice President asked. “I was hoping to see—”
“He's still on retreat,” Michael cut in. “A spiritual journey.”
Linkletter turned toward the archbishop. “Your Excellency.” He nodded, but he did not shake the prelate's hand. Instead, he headed over to the side table and helped himself to a large glass of water. He squeezed in a lemon before turning and saying, “So, what can I do for you, Michael?” He plopped himself down in a chair.
It did not take long for Michael to bring the VP up to speed. Linkletter already knew most of the background. When he had finished, the Vice President turned to Archbishop Lacey. “And these were your people, in Philadelphia?”
“They came highly recommended, Mr. Vice President.”
“By whom?”
“Your own Senator Fernandez. Of Florida.”
“Santiago Fernandez is a fool. Useful to get the Cuban vote out on election day, but an idiot.”
“I beg to differ—” Lacey began.
“You can beg all you want,” the Vice President said icily. He turned toward Rose, giving the archbishop his shoulder.
Linkletter was being particularly churlish this morning, Michael thought. The VP obviously hadn't forgotten the Catholic Church's spaghetti-soft stance during the last presidential election. They had been urged to excommunicate the Democratic contender for his stand on abortion, but after the press had turned up the heat, they had suddenly wilted.
“What do you want me to do, Michael, arrest them? For what? They haven't done anything.”
“They're a threat to national security, Bob.”
“How is that?”
“Think what will happen if they find what they're looking for and this gospel is published. If the Bible is called into question, what will become of the Church? You know the polls. Eighty-three percent of Evangelicals think the Bible is literally accurate. Sixty percent of all Christians believe the events described in the Book of Revelations will transpire. Perhaps soon. That climbs to seventy-seven percent for born-again, Fundamentalist,and Evangelical Christians. Seventy-one percent of all Evangelicals think the world will end at the battle of Armageddon, and somewhere between forty-two and forty-six percent of all Americans claim, like President Alder, to be ‘born again.’ We can't afford the chaos that the discovery of a historically accurate Gospel of Judas would provoke in the West. It would be like pulling the moral rug out from under our feet. Already too many are godless and drifting, and prey to the latest new world religion.”
“Thanks to the ongoing war in Iraq,” the archbishop cut in, “Abu Ghraib and Haditha, in the eyes of most nations, the United States has already lost the moral high ground. And now with all of these ethical scandals in Washington…”
Linkletter swiveled about in his chair. He stared at Lacey with lizardlike eyes, like a gecko ready to pounce. “And this from a man whose entire organization has come to symbolize buggering boys. Don't lecture me about moral authority, Excellency. Take care of the plank in your own eye.”
Michael smiled. One of the largest scandals plaguing Washington concerned the billions of dollars unaccounted for in the reconstruction of Iraq, managed in large part by the company of which Linkletter had been chairman before coming to Washington. It was no wonder he was touchy. “Gentlemen, let's not bicker,” he said. “The very existence of Christianity is at stake here. I'm talking about the collapse of Christ's Church. And with it, the commensurate elevation of Islam. Of Islamist fundamentalism. Of Jihadism. For what else will fill the spiritual vacuum? Or something far worse, some new Mystery Babylon based on Gnostic Freemasonry. Think how this will embolden our Islamist adversaries when they see the heart of our religion implode. Is that what you want? Is that what the President wants?” And now,the coup de grâce, Michael thought. “Not to mention what it would do to world markets and oil prices.”
Linkletter pouted.
“Remember Ohio, Bob. What would have happened if my father and I hadn't delivered? Alder would never have taken the White House. You know it, and I know it. And soon there'll be another election.” Rose paused to let his words have their desired effect. “The End-Times are upon us, Bob. The prophesies. The Apocalypse. For get, for a minute, what a Democratic victory will do to the President's legacy. Forget about what will happen to our nation's international reputation if we just crawl home, licking our wounds, waiting for the next terrorist onslaught. Set all that aside. I tell you Iraq is the staging ground of something far bigger. Something far more important, Bob.”
“The President is aware of what you're doing,” the Vice President said, “and while he can't be seen to be supporting you, he is. He believes in the… prophesies.” He licked his lips.
It was his tell, Michael realized. He had seen it before around the poker table.
“He, too, feels we're on the brink of the End-Times,” the Vice President added.
While you don't, Michael thought. You arrogant fool.
“And he wants to ensure that nothing destabilizes the Christian community before the next presidential election. The war in Iraq means far more than anyone realizes.”
“Precisely,” said Michael, smiling.
“But what do you want me to do, Michael? I can have the FBI pick them up, but Sajan is a well-known executive. The press will go nuts. Not to mention what it could do to our relations with India. Still, with what's going on in Pakistan these days, we could probably sell it on the six o'clock news. She's a woman of color, after all.A FISA court could tie them up for a while. In a pinch, we could extraordinary rendition.”
Michael leaned forward, resting the tips of his elbows on the table. “At this point we could use some support in surveillance,” he said. “Nothing more. I think we should see where they lead us. After all, why should we do the digging when they'll do it for us? Then, when they've found what they're looking for, we'll simply take it away. His Excellency has assured me that his people will not fail again. Of course, if they do …”
Chapter 34
Present Day
Washington, D.C.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, ROSE AND LACEY HEADED OUT onto G Street. The Vice President's entourage had long since departed. Michael was pleased with the meeting's outcome. He had gone into the bathroom right after to celebrate and now felt particularly buoyant. Philadelphia had just been a setback, a bump in the road. It would all soon be settled. And then he would present his victory to his father. And Thaddeus would finally have to acknowledge that it was time for him to step down, time for him to take on a more circumspect role. An advisor, perhaps. He'd have to finally say something—and not simply respond with that cool glassy stare.
Michael stopped in his tracks.
“Ah, there she is,” Lacey said. The archbishop waved his right hand. “Sister Maria. Over here.”
The young nun looked at him from under her veil and Michael Rose felt her eyes bore into the depths of his soul. It was like being spiritually violated. Like an extrasensory rape. As she approached, she looked down, in the guise of a supplicant. She paused at his side. Then she lifted her head again and she smiled, and Michael felt a bolt of pure pleasure creep through his groin.
Oh, my God, Michael thought. She's exquisite. But it was not her cocoa brown skin. Or the delectable curve of her lips that compelled him. He felt as if he were being sucked into the well of her eyes. He drowned in their emptiness.
“Be careful, Michael,” the archbishop warned. “She stings.”
Sister Maria looked down at her feet. “I have news,” she began.
“What is it, my child?” Lacey answered.
“Koster and Sajan left the country this morning. I'm booked on the next flight to London.”
Chapter 35
Present Day
West Wycombe, England
THE BLACK JAGUAR XK COUPE PURRED UP THE WINDING country road, racing round corners toward West Wycombe, Buckinghamshire. Inside, Koster checked his seat belt again. He was uncomfortable sitting on the wrong side of the car. It just didn't seem natural. And his neck hurt every time the Jag took a turn.
“You might want to slow down just a tad,” Koster said. His hands were clenched round his knees. “I can't believe you talked me into coming with you.”
Sajan smiled. She was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and an Hermès scarf decorated with blue and white scallop shells. “Oh, please,” she said. “I couldn't have kept you away if I tried.” Then she laughed. She picked up the map in her lap and started to scan it, glancing back at the road every few seconds.
“Let me do that,” said Koster. He snatched at the map. “We should be coming up on Medmenham Abbey soon.” They were traveling between Henley and Marlow, parallel to a beautiful stretch of the Thames. Then, suddenly, they were upon it. “There's the abbey, just after that sign. Up there, on the left.” Koster pointed.
Sajan swung the car onto the side of the road. Koster got out for a moment but try as he might, he couldn't get a decent view of the building. The abbey was on the same side of the river, and the walls were too high. He walked back to the car.
“We could cross the river and hike back for a view,” said Sajan, as he slid in beside her, slamming the door.
“Why bother? It's the caves that we're after.”
“Are you sure?”
Koster powered down the window. The river was teeming with wildlife. He could see grebes in the water, paddling about by the rushes, and kites flying high overhead. “According to what I've been reading, although the abbey was founded back in 1145, it wasn't until the mid-eighteenth century that Sir Francis Dashwood purchased the property and started to use it as a private club for his friends. Of course, they never actually called themselves the Hell-Fire Club. They referred to themselves as ‘The Order’ or ‘The Brotherhood of the Friars of Saint Francis of Wycombe.’ They have no documented history. It's been patchworked together using mostly hostile accounts from the period, one of them clearly fictional, and from clues left in poems and correspondence. Like that poem by Whitehead I Googled, quoted on the first piece of the map—'Twas twenty-two in Dashwood's time. Whitehead was the club's secretary-treasurer. There were many decadent societies of the period, but the Hell-Fire Club was unique. Its rituals included elements of a peculiar pagan revival, combining priapic decadence with the Eleusinian mysteries.”
“Priapic decadence?”
“Fertility rites. Orgies. More important, the club's members were plucked from the ruling elite. Dashwood was very rich. But unlike many of his peers—as the son of a middle-class businessman, who had married into nobility—he supported the values of an upwardly mobile bourgeois.”
“No wonder he and Franklin became friends,” mused Sajan. “They were cut from the same cloth.”
“And Dashwood, as postmaster general, was Franklin's boss in Great Britain.”
Sajan looked out the window at the tall walls of the abbey. “Are you sure you don't want to go in?”
Koster shook his head. “There are conflicting reports,” he replied. “Some say that the Hell-Fire Club was originally based at Dashwood's home in West Wycombe, in a special room decorated as a Masonic temple, and then later in the caves that he dug in his gardens. According to some accounts, it was not until either 1751 or 1752 that he purchased Medmenham Abbey and converted the monastery into the club's base of operations. Others say it was the other way around—that the club started at the abbey and was then moved, following a fire, to the caves. It's unclear. But wherever they started, according to legend, the club held Black Masses and hired prostitutes dressed up as nuns.”
