Munoz
Once the door closed behind Bianca and Vittorio, Munoz turned his attention back to the map lying on his desk. His fingers smoothed across the dot labeled Cairo. Here, under the governing hand of the Arabic Triune, Deuteronomy International had built the plant that produced seventy percent of the world's fusion power, power that flashed through the massive global grids in never-ending particle streams. It's time I paid another papal visit to Our Triune friends to reinforce Our sympathetic position for their financial needs, he thought. Remind those farseeing businessmen just who it is that answers their daily prayers.
Munoz traced the map symbols scattered across both sides of the Red Sea. Graphic red triangles designated where 350,000 troops—together with a complete array of ground and sea support—were deployed throughout vast stretches of sand encampments and in isolated ports up and down the waterway. Where the Triune borders met the boundaries of the Eastern Bloc, colors changed, but uniforms were still the dress of the day. The buildup had been steady, a little at a time.
If the Transnationals weren't so busy congratulating themselves on how well they are manipulating the third world nations into models of Transnational thinking, they would recognize the Triune flexing of national muscles for the danger it is, he thought.
The loose ties of cooperation between nations were unraveling; each was so sure they held the strength, so certain the day would come when they, and they alone, would step up to the podium of world governorship. He shook his head at the absurdity of it all.
The Triune nations weren't strong enough to pull off the takeover of a global energy plant by using the flimsy excuse of national safety. The Transnationals couldn't take control without declaring war and with the Church so heavily invested in the Triune lands, war was out of the question. Having once again put their nations back into debt, such a step would mean immediate withdrawal of the financial backing they currently received from the Church; that would bankrupt the group. The Eastern Bloc, its resources drained, was too weak to risk challenging its neighbors. Munoz patted the map. He had built the box they sat in, a box strong and impregnable. They could never break it down.
In the not too distant future, they would realize that the fabric of their control had been woven on the looms of the Church of Universals and stitched into garments of belief even the strongest of minds would find impossible to refute.
When that day came, they would know there was one who already ruled the world: Pope Raphael Munoz.
For a moment, he dared to let himself feel the sense of delicious victory that would be his as the acknowledged ruler of the world: all would bow to his every command, scrape for his favors, call him God Incarnate. Those who fought against him would die with the sword of his greatness piercing their ungrateful hearts.
Before I am through, all history that has ever been, or ever will be, shall carry my name as the Supreme Ruler of Earth, he thought. Nothing can stop me, for I have all eternity to change whatever I wish to change. His fingers caressed the air as if they fondled a pearl of immense value. The memory of ancient eyes, filled with sorrow, floated before him.
"I have come, Guardian Mother," he whispered to the image. His chin lifted, his laughter vibrated across the room. "Yes, indeed. I have come."
His body shook with silent mirth as he thought of the leather bound book he had removed from the black box with the cherubim handles—the book with the name Razi-el burned into its cover. Had the first man created ever held a like volume in his hands? Had Enoch, or Noah, or Solomon? How or when it originated, he cared not, for in the depths of his being, he recognized the truth that had set him free.
A small part of that truth had become the source of the Pittman Scrolls; scrolls he had privately executed. On the occasion of his first papal tour, he had deftly concealed them within the ruins of the old temple being excavated in the Triune lands. A work of art, he thought. Silent testimony to the efficacy of his replication process.
Already, total acceptance of their message was firmly entrenched in three major population groups: the congregation of the Church of Universals; those under twenty-five; and the third world millions including the Eastern Bloc and the Arabic Triune.
Best of all, the populace relocations were progressing as planned. With his own forceful suggestions as input, his now-Secretary of State, Vittorio Cardinal Morandi, had done an admirable job in designing the program. In every nation, stalwart members from each of the three groups lifted their voices high in praise of the promised one—Pope Munoz, the new Messiah.
His mouth moved spasmodically as his mind echoed a phrase from the old leather book. He walks as a man walks and speaks with a man's tongue and none shall know his hour of coming. By the keys in his hand shall the world know his authority. By the strength of his works shall the world know his power. So it is, Munoz thought. A fitting prophecy for the new Messiah.
The intensity of his thoughts rustled through the room, seemed to dispatch a mephitic breeze through the open window and across the great piazza.
A folder of notes at the edge of his desk caught his eye. His thoughts jumped to Bianca's report on the Dakotan families she'd located so far. Without exception, all male issue had experienced the same symptoms at puberty as Ellery Jensen's nephew Patrick had exhibited. Those characteristic symptoms had been a well-kept secret all these years, and when an experience as dramatic as what those young men suffered was kept hidden, there was something going on that the Dakotans didn't want known.
He stared at the folder. Did they keep it so well concealed because of embarrassment over the number of young males ending up in institutions for the violently insane? Or was it something else? Like a trait far more valuable than projective logic, for instance.
What was it that the old man at Victoria Jensen's wedding said to Bianca? Ah, yes. Old Victor wanted computer brains, but he got more than he bargained for. The corner of his lip pulled up. "More than he bargained for, eh?" he muttered. "Well, let's see if we can uncover what that more may have been." He reached for the phone, dialed a series of numbers, listened to the clicks, and finally heard a faint ringing sound.
"Halloran residence." A crisp, modulated voice answered.
"Senator Halloran, please. Pope Raphael Munoz calling."
"The Senator is inspecting the Brazilian holdings this week, Holiness. I can forward a message to our Embassy there if it's important."
"No. It can wait. When he returns, just tell him I called to chat. I'll be back in touch. Thank you."
Munoz gently clicked off the speaker phone. Leave a message at the Embassy, indeed, he thought. I might as well take out a full page ad and tell the world what I want to know. Or better yet, use the telescreen. That would be even faster.
The discreet bell of the wall screen broke his reverie. He looked at his watch and smiled. On the fifth chime, he answered.