I actually found myself dozing when they came. It was quarter past midnight, and they didn’t bother to knock. They still wore hoods, but not the gray jumpsuits—regular dark gray or navy blue suits and polished shoes.
“It’s time to go.” .
I grabbed the datacase.
“You won’t need that,” said the tall man.
“Unless something goes wrong,” I snapped.
“Let him keep it.”
They let me keep the case, with the quotes and the engineering drawings, and the definite conclusion that they had absolutely no intention of seeing me walk away from my efforts.
For the first time, their weapons were obvious—all Lugers, straight Austro-Hungarian version, and all of very recent manufacture, and that confirmed that Ferdinand’s people had placed one agent, very openly.
The tall man pointed toward the corridor by which I’d entered. “Straight ahead.”
“Where’s the difference engine?” I asked.
“In the hauler. You’ll travel with it.”
I let my steps drag slightly so that I edged back toward the guards who followed, enough so that I had a chance … a faint one, but one against an untrained fanatic.
The hauler wasn’t the commercial kind that had brought me but a square city van, with double doors on the rear. All of us went into the cargo space, except for whoever was driving and one other figure.
The ride wasn’t that long, no more than ten minutes, really, before the hauler backed up to some sort of loading dock. Someone opened the double doors.
“You carry the equipment case, Eschbach.”
As requested, I picked it up, and set the datacase on top of it.
Two more slender figures carried the difference engine.
I got the faintest glimpse of white light—the Temple, I suspected—in the crack between the van doors and the loading dock doors. Even the quick breath of cold air smelled clean, compared to the way I smelled and felt and the oil and cement dust I had been breathing for days.
I followed the two men with the difference engine down a narrow staircase to a ventilation duct that had been removed. The Twelve people liked ventilation ducts, I gathered.
I didn’t like carrying anything but resolved to throw both cases or drop them strategically at the slightest provocation.
I didn’t have any.
Three more of them walked behind me, carrying the long-barreled Lugers pointed in my direction as we walked along the empty tunnel, leading presumably to the Tabernacle.
It had to be the Tabernacle, because the Temple hadn’t been consecrated until well after the death of Joseph Smith. Hard to imagine how a Virginia farm boy ended up in New Ostend, called to a mystical hill among skeptical Dutch, proclaiming a new religion that had turned into a sovereign and powerful nation in little more than a century.
The Tabernacle made sense for several other reasons. It was open to outsiders, and thus the ghost of the prophet would reinforce their claims not just in the Temple, but to all. And of course, everyone would understand his words just as they did. I almost laughed at that but instead kept lugging the equipment box and my datacase.
The tunnel smelled faintly of dust and of a sickly-sweet odor I would rather not have identified and hoped represented the remains of smaller rather than larger animal matter. The only sounds were those of eight men breathing—strange how most armed fanatic organizations are predominantly male—and the echoes of steps in the tunnel that my head almost brushed.
At the other end of the tunnel was an ancient wrought-iron gate whose lock had been previously drilled out. How many tunnels were there beneath the Temple square? Probably not so many as there would have been if Columbia had been successful in the Saint wars.
Then, there might not have been a Temple or Tabernacle at all. Who could tell what might have been?
“Up the stairs.”
The stone steps looked ancient, but they couldn’t have been. The centers were barely hollowed, and the stone walls were rough. I followed the two with the difference engine, and we exited from a closet into an arched foyer, gloomy and dark.
I waited, since the others did. The tall man eased up beside me. “How close does it have to be to where you recall the ghost?”
“Five to ten feet.”
There was a sense of a nod, and he stepped in front of the men with the difference engine. “Follow me.”
They did, and I did, too, my booted feet nearly silent where the carpet lay over the stone floor.
In the dimness, they set the difference engine on the floor in the open space between where the Choir of the Saints normally sat in the high raised seats and the lower seats occupied by worshipers or whoever came to hear speakers or the choir.
One of the younger men laid a power cord from somewhere in the back.
With a hooded figure holding a flash wand, I reconnected the difference engine cabling and then set the antennae in place. Without waiting for any sort of approval, I flicked the power switch and monitored the machine as it self-checked.
I kept checking the positions of the various schismatics, knowing that I’d have only instants once the Revelator’s ghost materialized, knowing that I wouldn’t have a chance to recheck when the time came. I’d just have to act, and hope the old training held enough to immobilize those necessary to escape.
My mouth was dry as I set up the programs and profiles and laid the auxiliary disk and its backup out. Theoretically, what I had in mind would work. It had worked before, but not quite so much had been riding on it, and I’d be really pushing the power parameters with my modifications, not that I had any choice.
First I made sure all eight profile sections were keyed to be projected; then I loaded the auxiliary disk. Then I gave the execute command and prayed … but not for long. While the power built and the antennae almost hummed and vibrated, I eased the calculator from my jacket pocket—I’d left my overcoat behind—then waited until a ghostly shape began to appear in the darkness. Ghosts are slightly phosphorescent and far more impressive in near-total darkness than in daylight or artificial light. Glow strips, especially, tend to wash them out, but the Tabernacle was dark.
The face, and the expressive eyes, appeared first, and then the figure in antique clothes.
The difference engine began to whine, ever so slightly, and I could smell the overload, the odor of ozone and overheating plastics and circuit boards.
“Wherefore, hear my voice and follow me, and you shall be a free people, and ye shall have no laws but my laws when I come, for I am your lawgiver, and what can stay my hand?”
Even the voice was stronger than ghost-normal, except it was more like a mental voice—that was true of all ghosts. People tended to hear the kind of voice they expected, and that should help slow the reactions of those around me.
The eight stood there, stunned.
I had to admit—the ghost was pretty impressive, turning his head from side to side in midair, as if to judge them. The beard was white, patriarchal, definitely patriarchal, and the eyes seemed to burn.
I slipped the pens into the calculator and slowly stood, as silently as possible, angling to one side, so that the disassociator wouldn’t impact the ghost of the Revelator.
“That if the day cometh that the power and the gifts of God shall be done away among you, it shall be because of unbelief… . To believe in man, any man, prophet or man, rather than in the living God and his Revelations, that is idolatry, and marks the idolator as the spawn of Laman. I did not bring your forefathers to Zion to be idolators.”
I winced. That had come out more strongly than I’d expected.
Seven of the eight still looked stunned, perhaps because the ghost aura was overpowering. Number eight turned, and he had something cold and metallic in his hand.
I knew what was coming and pressed the delete key on the pseudocalculator. Bruce’s toy made no sound, but the guard, reformed apostle, whoever he was, shuddered and lowered the Luger, but only momentarily. He staggered, and that was enough.
He was fighting ghosts, a disassociator, and me. I was fighting him and fatigue. The Luger clattered on the floor, and one of the other schismatics shook his head and turned slowly.
Beyond us, that sonorous voice rolled forth into their minds, seemingly turning their reflexes into molasses.
“The Lamanites shall destroy this people, for they do not repent. All peoples who do not follow the Revelations of the living God shall be destroyed.”
I stepped inside his guard and crushed his throat with my elbow. He struggled for a time more, then slowly crumpled. People forget how deadly a well-placed elbow can be, and an elbow’s good close up, extremely good.
Staggering back as the second schismatic moved toward me in slow motion, in my own slow motion, I bent and recovered the calculator, replaced the loose pen, and touched the delete key. The schismatic jerked like a marionette with spastic strings. His face smoothed, and a phantasm of white lifted from him and vanished. Another zombie.
I replaced the batteries in the calculator and focused it in turn on each of the six remaining figures who were entranced by the ghost of the Revelator. I had to replace the batteries once more in the process, and yet no one turned. Shooting fish in a barrel would have been more of a challenge, caught as they were in the power of the ghost that continued to become ever more real- and solid-looking even as the smell of burning insulation grew stronger.
In the end, there were also seven zombies and a body. The body was that of the first man, who had to have been Ferdinand’s agent. I bent down and ripped off the wig, toupee, whatever you called it, and underneath was one of the flexible metallic-mesh helmets that Branston-Hay’s team at Vanderbraak State had worn. My guts churned. I collapsed the mesh helmet and pocketed it. That evidence
would have implicated Columbia, even if it had been planted by Ferdinand, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.
Behind me, the ghost intoned, “Cursed is he who puts his trust in man. More cursed is he that puts his trust in a man’s false interpretation of what I have said. Trust rather the Revelations of thy Father in heaven than the man who twists my words… .”
Even after all I’d done, it was hard to believe he wasn’t talking to me. Then maybe he was.
Sometimes age and treachery are enough to overcome skill. Anyway, this time they had been. But I wasn’t done. I stripped off the vest and molded the plastique in place quickly around the difference engine, then connected the wires.
I scooped up my datacase and sprinted toward the door.
I didn’t quite make it before there were difference engine parts everywhere … some embedded in the wooden supports for the balcony. For a moment, I leaned against the outside door and gasped, before opening it and stumbling out.
Since it might have been a good idea to yell, I did: “Help!”
Nothing happened. I yelled again.
A guard in a blue uniform hurried across the lighted stones as I stepped out into the open air for the first time in what seemed forever. Behind the guard, the light-sheathed Temple towered into the dark night sky. I could even see the brighter stars, and a faint smile cracked my lips as I took a deep breath of the city’s polluted air, which seemed so clean at that moment.
“Who are you? The Tabernacle’s locked. What were you doing there?” His words were cold, brusque.
“I’m Columbian Minister Eschbach. I was kidnapped by … those people. The ones inside. You’d better contact Bishop Hansen of Saint security and the First Counselor.”
“Why?” The policeman clearly didn’t like my unshaven countenance.
At that point there was a second small explosion from within the Tabernacle, and I wondered what one of the zombied schismatics had been carrying. “Go see for yourself.”
He didn’t but waited until two compatriots arrived, and they started in on me while he eased into the Tabernacle through the smoke. I hoped some of the zombied Revealed Twelve had survived the explosion. I had no doubts that the ghost of the Revelator had.
“Can you prove you’re Minister Eschbach?”
“The real Minister Eschbach is at the Columbian embassy.”
I dug out my passport. “You will note, gentlemen, that I possess this passport. You will also note that it contains my picture.”
Sometime around that point, Bishop Hansen trotted up. “Eschbach! Are you all right?”
The two police officers drew back and exchanged glances.
“I’m tired, and it’s been a long week. I’ve got a few bruises, I think, but I’m in far better shape than I expected.”
“Minister Eschbach was detained by the schismatics,” Hansen said crisply. “Not another word.”
They nodded.
I turned to him and lowered my voice. “There’s some exploded equipment in there, and some very stunned schismatics. They’re not going anywhere. I’d strongly suggest you get the pieces of the equipment out of there immediately and swear everyone to secrecy.”
“Why?”
“There’s also the ghost of the Revelator—the first prophet. You’d better see for yourself. I’ll explain later. Just take care of it.”
He took my arm, and we walked back through the dust into the Tabernacle. I still hung onto my datacase. Better that no one saw that, or its contents, now.
“Holy God … ,” he murmured.
The ghost image that resembled Joseph Smith turned in midair. “Oh, the vainness, and the frailties, and the foolishness of men! When they are learned they think they are wise, and they harken not unto the counsel of God, for they set it aside, supposing they know of themselves, wherefore, their wisdom is foolishness and it profiteth them not.”
The first police guard stood transfixed before us. Five of the seven zombies were still standing there as well.
Hansen swallowed and turned to me. “I knew you were trouble.”
“No trouble. The Revelator—any ghost—can only say what he once said.” I shrugged. “It may even convince a few people. It certainly won’t help the schismatics.”
“I don’t know,” murmured the bishop for security.
The ghost turned toward Hansen. “Unto each generation cometh the Revelations of God; harken unto them, for the Lord will provide, both counsel and providence for those who listen… .”
I nodded. Those words came out right, and even Counselor Cannon would like them. He’d better, the double-dealing weasel.
“I’m not sure I want to know.” Hansen tapped the policeman on the arm. “Christensen! Seal the Tabernacle until we can check for damage! We don’t want anyone hurt. We’ll need a detail for the injured.”
The ghost image winked out, then reappeared on the far side of the open space. “… thou shalt not write by way of commandment, but by wisdom; and thou shalt not command him who is at thy head, and the head of the church.”
I stood and listened to Hansen organize the local forces, then followed him outside and listened some more while the building was cordoned off. I almost smiled. I’d done a hell of a good job.
Before long, another entourage arrived—that of First Counselor Cannon. He almost frowned when he saw me, but I smiled tiredly.
He drew me aside, away from Hansen. “What happened?”
“I’m afraid that the prophet was too much for them.” I nodded toward the Tabernacle.
“You did what they wanted?”
“I’m afraid they got what they wanted. They asked me to recall the ghost of the Revelator. I didn’t have much choice, as you must know. They didn’t realize that they’d get the Revelator as he was, not as they thought he should be.” I had to cough. My throat was raspy, my mouth dry.
Cannon’s mouth opened. Behind his shoulder, Hansen smiled tightly.
I smiled more tightly. “Seven are zombies. One’s dead, maybe more. I suggest you check the dead man’s background very closely. That’s the one with the crushed throat. I’d suspect a certain Austrian connection. They all had very new Austrian Lugers.”
Cannon stepped closer. “The Tabernacle?” His voice was more curious than upset, and that, unfortunately, didn’t surprise me in the slightest.
“I’m afraid the ghost of the Revelator has returned to set straight the record. Of course, I’m an outsider, but it sounds a great deal like what was recorded in the Doctrine and Covenants.”
“What will happen?” snapped Hansen.
I shrugged. “I’d guess what usually happens. Most ghosts fade in time.”
“You believe this is the ghost of the prophet?” asked Counselor Cannon.
“I’m not equipped to judge that, Counselor,” I pointed out. “All I can say is that I’d be very surprised if the ghost says anything new or radical. Ghosts don’t, as a rule.”
Cannon offered a warm smile, the one I really mistrusted. “Then the people will hear and believe, as they should. And I thank you.”
“As they should,” I reinforced. Of course, I’d chosen what words had been taken from the Doctrine and Covenants, and I’d been pretty careful. Cannon wouldn’t like all of them. No, he wouldn’t, but … none of us likes everything in our chosen faiths. That’s what makes life interesting for a believer. “I have a small favor to ask in return, Counselor. A very small favor.”
“Even the powers of a counselor are limited, as you know, Minister Eschbach.”
“This is within your power. You’ve already offered it, and I was unable to take advantage of it. I would like you to confirm it in writing, and by immediate message to Speaker Hartpence and President Armstrong.” I forced a smile. “An invitation to bring a technical team, headed by me, to study your advances in wastewater tertiary treatment and, if you will, a strong hint that the team would not be welcome without me. I think that’s only fair, after all that’s happened.”
It was more than fair, and it was another form of insurance. Minister Reilly wanted that information, and I wanted the Speaker and the president to get the
impression that not only was Llysette’s survival important for Columbia’s future and ability to obtain resources from Deseret, but mine was also. I needed every little angle I could find, especially since it was clear Jerome had betrayed me.
Cannon touched his beard, then nodded with a slow smile. “Yes, Minister Eschbach, that is something within my powers, and in all of our interests. I might also suggest it be coupled with the next performance of your wife. She might be a tremendous draw to open the summer season at the St. George opera house.”
I returned the smile. “I think we would both be delighted with that offer.”
“They will have the message in the morning—or later this morning. Have a good trip, Minister Eschbach, and give my best to your lovely wife.”
Hansen glanced from Cannon to me, and the shock in Hansen’s eyes was palpable. I couldn’t say I blamed him. He was a true believer who’d just discovered that his leader not only had feet of clay but also had trafficked with the schismatics.
I touched Hansen’s arm before he could speak. “I’d like to go to the Columbian embassy. I presume that’s where Llysette still is.”
Hansen nodded. “Unless your people moved her.” His eyes went to the First Counselor.
“Will you take me, Bishop Hansen?”
Cannon cleared his throat. “Go ahead, Brother Hansen. And thank you, Minister Eschbach. Minister Jerome had said you were a man of your word, and your actions have confirmed that.”
Good of them, both. I, unlike Hansen, managed to keep from swallowing as his words confirmed both his and Jerome’s role. Jerome had supplied the information about psychic proliferation technologies, just enough that it couldn’t be used without me, and Cannon had had it funneled to the Revealed Twelve. Very neat, even if I didn’t know exactly how.
That also confirmed that Jensen had definitely been Cannon’s agent in ensuring that Llysette and I had gotten into the hands of the Revealed Twelve. Not that I had a shred of real proof, which was why it would have been a mistake to say anything, but I knew … and Cannon knew I knew, and neither of us needed to say a word. Sometimes, that’s for the best.
Hansen and I finally walked toward the south side of the Temple, where the shining Browning was waiting, amid several police steamers and two red fire steamers.
“I’ll drive, Heber.” Hansen motioned for the driver to get out of the Browning. “You wait here for me. I won’t be too long.”
Hansen said nothing until the steamer was clear of the square. “Why did you insist I escort you? My job isn’t done there.”
“To keep you from cutting your throat, Brother Hansen. Just think about things for a while.” I meant it. Hansen was honest, and I respected that honesty. He’d been chosen as head of security because he was honest. Cannon couldn’t afford a dishonest security chief; no head of government can. But that meant Hansen
had been really shocked to discover the extent to which the First Counselor had manipulated the situation and had used me and the schismatics to reinforce the current Saint regime and its efforts to reduce the conflicts with Columbia.
Hansen’s eyes narrowed, but the Browning kept heading east, uphill, at least in the general direction of the Columbian embassy.
After he pulled up into the “No Standing” area reserved for official vehicles, he turned in the seat. “Why do you care about me?”
“Because you’re honest and, while we’ll never agree on many things, I won’t be party to seeing an honest man take the blame for something. So don’t. Just accept it as it appears—the schismatics were overcome by the reappearance of the ghost of the Revelator.”
He frowned again. I would have, in his position, but there wasn’t much else I could do except give him a chance to cool off.
We walked up the stone walk and steps to the main entrance to the embassy. The guard post in the front archway was an oasis of light in a dark structure. The marine guard looked sleepily at me, frowning at my disheveled condition.
“I’m Minister Eschbach.”
To my surprise, he straightened. “Sir? You’re back!”
“I’m here. Probably Second Secretary Trumbull-Hull wants to know that, and I’m certain my wife does.”
“Yes, sir. She’s in the guest wing suite. Ah … and … just a moment.” He fiddled with the wireset at his post. “Madame Eschbach … your husband, he’s here—he appears safe… . Yes, madame… .” He shook his head. “She’ll be right here.” Then he looked at the list and punched out another number.
Hansen looked from the marine to me. “I think a number of people underestimated you, Eschbach.”
“If so, for that I’m quite grateful.”
“Sir, Minister Eschbach has just returned.” The guard looked at Hansen, then at me.
“With Bishop Hansen of Saint security,” I supplied, adding in a lower voice to Hansen, “You need some credit in this.”
“Kind of you,” he said dryly.
“With Bishop Hansen of Saint security,” the marine parroted. “Yes, sir. I’ll get them right in.” He hung up the wireset receiver and used a key to open the front door. “Please step in, sir. Secretary Trumbull-Hull will be right down. He’s been sleeping in the duty quarters.”
Hansen followed me in gingerly, then eased closer. “You had the connections figured out before you left.”
“No. I only knew there had to be connections. When I saw the counselor’s face and when I realized you didn’t know, it was obvious.” I didn’t mention Minister Jerome. That was my problem.
He shook his head. “This … is going to take some getting used to.”
I felt sorry for him, but all I could say was, “This sort of thing does.” Then I added, “I left my overcoat in their blockhouse. I’d guess it’s a concrete building in the northeast warehouse district. Where exactly, I don’t know.”
“Did you leave anything else there? Anything explosive, for example?” His voice was bitter, and I didn’t blame him.
“No. I doubt there’s much trace of anything anywhere, now.”
“Convenient.”
Expedient, but I didn’t voice that, and didn’t have to.
Llysette, with another guard leading the way, charged past him and down the side corridor, launching herself into my arms. She had thrown a robe over a nightgown, and she looked and felt like diva, beauty, and queen, all in one.
I could feel the dampness on my cheeks, but my own eyes were wet as well, and I realized that I really hadn’t been sure I’d ever see her again. I held her for a long, long time.
When I let go, Trumbull-Hull stood there, just in his shirt and trousers, barefoot, and I’d never seen a Columbian diplomat unshod.
“It’s over,” I said, turning but not letting go of Llysette. “Here in Great Salt Lake City, anyway. Saint security has most of the key schismatics, and I’m sure that they’ll find most of the others.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“The schismatics had this idea that the ghost of their prophet would lead them, and that I’d be a useful hostage. The only problem was that when he appeared, he didn’t have quite the same ideas as they did, and in their confusion, I managed to put several out of commision and escape. That allowed Saint security”—I nodded to Hansen—“to collar a bunch of the others, and I imagine they’ll have everything pretty well in hand in the next few days.”
“We believe so,” Hansen said on cue.
“It sounds rather traumatic,” observed Trumbull-Hull. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me that some food, a hot shower, and several nights’ sleep won’t go a long way toward remedying,” I lied—because there was still one enormous loose end to tie up before I got hung by it. I was somewhat relieved, because the loose end didn’t threaten Llysette, not directly, anyway. “But we’d still like to leave tomorrow.”
Both Trumbull-Hull and Hansen nodded. It was clear they’d both like the Eschbachs on the way back to Columbia.
That was fine with us.