NEISEN LOOKED AT HIS watch: one forty-five. In less than an hour, they should be landing in Caracas. Hugh Brumble said it was just a short walk beyond customs to the gate where they were to catch the four o’clock flight to Bolivar. There was no way they could reach the Yanoako village before nightfall, so they would have to wait until the following morning.
He felt in his inside coat pocket for the pouch containing the stone. Every moment of delay lessened their chances of getting there before…In his mind’s eye, he saw the face of a clock, its hour hand spinning around. Time was running out to undo the Creator’s mistakes, he thought, as he clutched the pouch tightly.
Pilot Missionary Fellowship had told Brumble the most convenient time for them to fly to the Yanoako village would be toward the end of the week. Neisen’s doubling of their requested donation, however, had apparently made the weather much less of an issue. Brumble and PMF signed on to their earlier travel schedule without protest.
Jerry had said almost nothing since they boarded the plane in Dallas. Like most other passengers, he was listening intently on his headset to the international news.
Unlike earlier in the terminal, Neisen now ignored the constant updates. What difference did the news make anyway? If the assessment of The Brotherhood’s man in the White House is true, things will only get worse until the “restoration.”
Restoration. That word, like a pebble in a stream, had tumbled around inside his mind since he first read Stiediger’s translation of the scroll.
“The word is hard to translate,” the German said, “and it lends itself to several shades of meaning including balancing, realigning, or mending. It can even denote a reunion.”
Taken in context, it seemed the writer envisioned a point in time when the distant past and the present would somehow overlap, and as the scroll described, the time would roll round again.
“I believe what the scroll is telling us,” Stiediger said, “is that when this overlapping of past and present occurs, the stone will play a part in somehow bridging the gap between the present world and the perfect one that existed in the beginning.”
For want of a better term, the scroll had turned out to be a To Whom It May Concern kind of document. According to Stiediger’s translation, it predicted that throughout the ages the stone would only fall into the hands of those ordained to carry it toward this restoration.
Neisen fingered the hard edge of the stone in his pocket and silently quoted another passage from the scroll:
Know, child of dust, that for your allotted time, you are the stone’s hands and feet to carry it toward the moment when the time rolls round again. It is your Urim and Thummin, the light that will guide you to the perfection you seek.
Neisen quickly dismissed as an absurdity the possibility these words might refer to the very mission he was on, yet the scroll’s last words haunted him.
Fret not about the stone’s purpose. It is enough you are its hands and feet. Those chosen to use it are unknown by earth’s mighty. It will be they who will open the door. Follow them.
Follow whom? Where? He jumped as Jerry nudged him out of his reflection.
“Dr. Neisen, you’ve got to hear this,” he said, as cries erupted in the cabin.
Neisen jerked a pair of earphones from the seat pocket and turned on his radio.
“Awful! Oh, dear God…” The newswoman’s voice became incoherent, and for several moments, there was nothing but dead air. Then Neisen heard someone in the background say, “Get Fred on the mike! Quick!”
Again, more dead air, followed in a few moments by someone nervously saying, “We are experiencing technical difficulties. One moment please.”
Finally, a male voice, obviously struggling to sound calm, announced, “This is John Keller in Atlanta. International News Service is reporting that a tremendous explosion has just rocked the city of Albuquerque, New Mexico. News is sketchy, but our affiliate KCOK in Santa Fe reports the blast produced shocks there and that a giant plume of smoke is visible in the direction of Albuquerque. We’ll give you more news as soon as it becomes available.”
There was another pause, long enough for Neisen, Spencer, and everyone else on the plane to envision the lovely city of Albuquerque reduced to a rubble-filled, nuclear wasteland.
“Has all been arranged?” Shadows hovered about the old man on the bed, as he spoke.
“The drug did its work as expected.” Eric Stiediger walked over to Abelard’s bedside. “The US President is now comatose; and, as prescribed by their Constitution, our man holds the reins of power. At mid-morning our time, he will issue an Executive Order bringing the United States into alignment with our plans.
“Oh yes,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “the accidental detonation of a nuclear missile in southern Israel has forced the Muslim fundamentalists and their Chinese patrons to make good on their threats.”
“Where?” Abelard asked.
“Albuquerque, New Mexico has ceased to exist,” Stiediger replied dryly.
Abelard gave no hint of surprise. “Are we on schedule in Israel?” he asked.
“Our operatives in the Jewish Department of Antiquities have completed their mission. High-tech explosives planted in passages under the Al-Aqsa mosque detonated about five hours ago. Nothing remains but a crater.”
“Good, good,” Abelard chuckled. “The Jews will be blamed. The Palestinians will launch another wave of suicide missions; Israel will attack in force to crush them once and for all, and—”
“And that will be all the provocation China needs to come to the Palestinians’ defense and their excuse to take over the Middle East oil fields,” Stiediger interjected.
“And our nuclear device? What about it?”
“It’s on its way,” Stiediger reported. “Two of our men have it and should be trying to cross the Russian/Chinese border in less than two hours.”
“Unsuccessfully, I’m sure.” Abelard looked at the German and flashed a twisted smile. Since his stroke had paralyzed the right side of his face, his lower lip sagged, exposing even more prominently his pointed yellowed teeth.
“Absolutely unsuccessful,” Stiediger replied stiffly. “The men’s descriptions and the danger they pose have been leaked to Chinese security. They will be stopped at the border, and the bomb will be found.”
“And they will confess?” Abelard reached for a tissue and wiped away the drool oozing from his half-open mouth.
“Quickly, I am sure. The Chinese have ways of making death a pleasant prospect. The plan for a Russian/American nuclear stealth attack on China will be fully exposed,” Stiediger said.
“I presume the Chinese will respond indirectly?”
“Through their fundamentalist friends,” Stiediger replied. “A dirty bomb will explode in central Moscow sometime tomorrow.”
“Good. You have lived up to your reputation,” Abelard said. “Our cast of characters is on stage, and soon the curtain will rise on the last act. China, the Western nations, Israel, and the Muslims should be at one another’s throats in a matter of days.”
“Then it will be time for us to step forward.” Stiediger’s stiffness melted, and for the first time he sounded excited.
“With the stone,” Abelard said, as he turned and looked through the window. The wind was whipping a late snow into miniature tornadoes that danced and bobbed among the lights ringing the manor.
“Neisen expects to arrive with his assistant at the Yanoako village later today,” Stiediger volunteered. “He’s nearing the end of his search.”
“And ours,” Abelard replied softly, again flashing a twisted smile.
The old man looked through the window again and let his eyes sweep the blackness bordering the lights outside.
“There is a word,” Abelard said dreamily, more to himself than to Stiediger.
“What word is that?” Stiediger cocked his head as he looked at Abelard.
“One translated from the scroll. The one you said you used when you spoke to Neisen about the stone’s purpose.”
“Restoration?”
“Yes, that’s it. Restoration.” Abelard inspected his distorted reflection in the window. Inky pits where eyes should be stared back at him from a sallow, bloodless, face. “It must come in time for me,” he said.