02 Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel (37 page)
Caesar Demas had locked himself inside his sprawling estate off the Villa Salaria. He had spent the day on the phone, frantically trying to connect with the Russian prime minister, but he couldn’t get through. He was allowed only a minute on the phone with the deputy prime minister, Lexes Demitrov, who said simply, “Our losses have been exaggerated by the Western media. We are regrouping our coalition. No need to worry, Caesar. Our plans for global dominance are still on track.”
Despite several attempts, Demas never got through to Gallen Abdulla, the president of Turkey. Demas was beginning to wonder whether the press reports about Abdulla’s committing suicide might be true, or the other reports that hinted that he may have been assassinated.
For Demas, it was never a matter of hitting bottom. He believed in his own almost supernatural ability to keep himself aloft, to manipulate, to conquer. He was already contemplating a new global coalition that he could head up. It was already in discussion. All he had to do was to make sure that some of the international upstarts, like Alexander Coliquin and a few others, didn’t get there first. Demas hadn’t come this far to settle merely for being one of the world’s richest men. He was convinced that his destiny lay far beyond that.
He decided he needed a drink. He walked out of his library and headed toward his paneled bar.
His wife was seated in her wheelchair just outside of the library. Demas was about to brush right past her when she said something. “Caesar …”
He stopped. Momentarily he wondered why she had a blanket on her lap on such a warm day. She pulled her Allfone from beneath it. It had a photo on it. She shoved it in his direction.
Demas snatched it and looked at the photo on the little screen.
It showed Demas in a passionate embrace with Andrea Portleva, the pretty Russian ambassador.
“You take me for a fool,” his wife said.
“No,” he responded unruffled, “I take you for a crippled fool.” Then, offhandedly he added, “Why would you believe this anyway? Anyone can Photoshop this kind of trash. Who gave this to you?”
He didn’t notice that she had slipped her hand back under the blanket and had pulled out a handgun. But as soon as he saw it, she had his full attention. He knew he had to start sweet-talking her, as he had done so often before, so he could get within range, grab the gun, and slap her silly.
But there was no chance for that.
With both hands on the gun, his wife aimed for the upper-left quadrant of his chest and squeezed the trigger. The blast startled her. Caesar Demas was knocked a half step backward as he grabbed aimlessly for his heart, where the blood was now pumping out through his shirt. A half second later he was on the floor. He didn’t move.
In her wheelchair, his wife laid the gun in her lap. With a sneer, she answered the last question Caesar Demas had on his lips before he died.
“I got the photo from your own bodyguard, Caesar. I got it from Tomasso.”
On a private island near Bora Bora, Alexander Coliquin too had been working the phones. The events in the Middle East had spurned wild speculation. The whole balance of geopolitical power seemed to have been knocked off-kilter.
But Coliquin had calmly kept his course straight. He was unflustered. This most recent war and the defeat of the Russian-Islamic coalition only
looked
like a historic game changer. But Coliquin knew better. While the attention of the world was obsessing on this supposed “miracle” for Israel, he was going for a much longer-term change for the world.
His Allfone rang. It was Henry, the deputy climatologist for his global religious coalition for climate change.
“Mr. Coliquin. This business over in Israel. Still trying to figure this out.”
“What exactly are you trying to figure out?”
“Well, sir, the effect on public perception. The media is all over this business about volcanic activity along Israel’s borders. The earthquakes. A massive anomaly. Sure I admit that … but it distracts from the fact that we are on the tipping point of a global catastrophe because of climate change. People are going to forget …”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, then there’s rumors about Dr. Robert Hamilton’s findings.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s got cancer. Won’t last long. And he’s been discredited, hasn’t he?”
“Sure. Yes. He’s a crackpot. But the problem is that his theory about climate change being due more to volcanic particles than to carbon emissions — that’s technically correct. I mean it is true that when volcanic aerosols get shot straight up miles and miles they can affect the ozone by altering chlorine and nitrogen chemicals in the stratosphere.”
“So?”
Henry paused. “Well, it seems obvious doesn’t it? If global temperatures are increasing because of natural factors like volcanic eruptions, then it takes the emphasis off of what we are saying about controlling global industry and everything else so we can shut down all carbon emissions.”
“Look, Henry,” Coliquin replied slowly, “roll with this. So volcanic eruptions can cause global temperatures to rise. That’s actually good for us. Talk that up. The point is that we continue telling the world it’s heading for a cosmic environmental crisis. That’s the point we have to sell. Then after a while, the public will get tired of talking about this volcanic episode in Israel, as the public always does. And when that happens, then we return to the original argument that global warming
is caused by carbon emissions, and we go back to beating that drum. Don’t fret so much.”
“Well, then there’s this Belltether story …”
“Oh?”
“You know, Belltether, the Internet snooper, the guy who leaks all this stuff on his own website. Word has it he’s interviewed Hamilton, and even worse, he’s about to do some exposé about the federal climate agencies trying to censor him from letting his findings get out to the public, and then trying to cover that up.”
“You forget your history …”
“Like what?”
“Back in 2009. The whole
climategate
scandal. The leaked emails of climate experts, which exposed some of their scientific biases about the cause of global temperature increase and their total disdain for any alternate theories. But then a couple of well-publicized investigations were mounted in the years after that to exonerate them. And after a while, the thing went away.”
“So, you’re saying don’t worry about it?”
“What I’m saying is that when it comes to Mr. Belltether’s supposed Internet article, I would definitely not worry about it. Leave that to the conspiracy theorists. Let’s keep the ball rolling forward. So how are we coming with my meeting at the Vatican next week, and with the Greek Orthodox leaders after that?”
“I should have the dates locked in by tomorrow.”
“Excellent. And the new Dalai Lama?”
“He’s all over it. Very excited. No problem.”
When Coliquin was done with his phone call he was buzzed that he had a visitor. When his secretary identified who it was, Coliquin said he wanted to see him right away.
In a few minutes, the visitor was standing in front of Coliquin’s bamboo desk. Behind Coliquin was an open lanai leading out to swaying palm trees and the blue ocean beyond that.
“Nice place to work,” the man said with a smile.
“For the time being,” Coliquin remarked. “While the world is expounding on the Israel thing, I’m staying out of the public eye, getting
some real work done.” Then Coliquin got to the point of their meeting. “So, what about Caesar Demas?”
“Seems his wife shot him to death, after seeing pictures of his cavorting with another woman.”
“You don’t say,” Coliquin replied with mock surprise. “Well, so much for his plans to run for king of the world. It’s actually better for him this way. Divorce would have been simpler for poor Caesar, but probably more painful.”
They laughed.
“And Belltether?”
“Done.”
Then Tomasso handed the little briefcase to Coliquin and added, “Everything that Belltether was working on should be in there, including his tapes and notes of your interview with him and his stuff on the problems with your orphanages in Romania.”
“Well done.”
Tomasso smiled and said he’d like to hit the beach for a few days before leaving.
After he left, Coliquin made an international call to Baghdad, to his manager for international development. After chatting for a few moments, Coliquin asked how the project in Iraq was going, and the manager replied, “About that one hundred acres owned by the U.S. government … the State Department says it should be able to transfer the parcel to your global foundation. Then we can begin construction on your international headquarters.”
“That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.”
“Only, we need a name for the project.”
“That’s simple. I’ve always been a student of history,” Coliquin explained.
“So … the name?”
“Why, New Babylon, of course.”
One Week Later
In the courtroom of the U.S. District Court in Manhattan, federal judge Wendell Tierney was giving the government lawyers an astonished look. “If I understand you then, you’re asking this court to permit you to dismiss all the charges against all of the defendants, including Abigail Jordan? All of the defendants dismissed except one … all dismissed but her husband, Joshua Jordan?”
Assistant Attorney General Gowers had flown in from Washington to make the pitch to the judge. “Yes, your honor, exactly.”
“And these are not negotiated pleas but are outright dismissals?”
“That’s correct.”
The judge took a second to flip through the court file. Then he turned to Harry Smythe and Abigail Jordan, who were seated at counsel table. “Mr. Smythe, I assume your client, Mrs. Jordan, has no objection to having the charges dismissed against her and the other members of this political group of hers?”
Harry Smythe turned to Abigail. She clearly had something to say. “Your honor,” she began, “I believe that these charges were false and meritless from the beginning. I think these dismissals are happening because the White House is fearful of what we would be able to show at trial about the conduct of President Jessica Tulrude. I was reluctant to be dismissed from this case unless my husband got the same benefit. My husband, Joshua, however, has urged me to accept this dismissal, so I am agreeing, even though the government, for some
inexplicable reason, is still hanging on to the criminal charges against my husband. This looks like a vendetta to me.”
Harry Smythe, sensing an oration from Abigail on the subject of her husband’s prosecution was imminent, cut in at the microphone: “In other words, your honor, we have no objections to the dismissals.”
Judge Tierney closed the file on the bench in front of him. “Fine. Dismissals granted. What is the position of the Department of Justice on Mr. Jordan’s case?”
Gowers stepped back to the microphone. “Mr. Jordan is currently in Israel. We will be asking Israel to cooperate with us so he can be extradited to the United States for trial.”
Judge Tierney knew the tough reputation of Israel in opposing controversial extradition cases. “Good luck with that,” he noted with a tinge of cynicism.
After the hearing, Harry and Abigail walked out a side entrance with the help of a friendly court clerk, so they could avoid the cameras and reporters.
Harry said, “You know they can now subpoena you because you’re not a defendant and force you to testify against Josh?”
“Sure … assuming it ever comes to trial.”
But Harry Smythe was thinking about another legal wrinkle. “… And realizing that Josh will not have to face a trial unless he’s returned to the United States. You and I know full well that Israel will protect him and block his extradition to the U.S.” Then he paused, realizing what he was saying. “This is going to be rough on you, Abby. His best chance is to stay where he is. If he comes back here, he could spend the rest of his life in prison. At the same time, the United States has a material witness order against you, preventing you from leaving the country while your husband’s case is pending. So it seems that the government has successfully kept the two of you separated at the opposite ends of the world. Wow, talk about cruel and unusual punishment …”
As Abigail walked out into the sunlight, she looked between the buildings to the sky, which was blue and cloudless, but her vision was
obscured by tears. In an impassioned voice she whispered, “Josh, dear, when? When are we going to be together?”
Stepping to the curb, Harry began looking for a cab. After a few minutes a taxi pulled up. Harry opened the car door and waited for Abigail to climb in. By that time Abigail had a sly, confident smile on her face as she wiped the tears with a manicured finger. She stepped confidently to the cab.
Harry Smythe, exasperated, said, “Okay, Abby. I know that look. You’ve got something else up your sleeve that you’re not going to share with your lawyer …”
Deborah and Ethan were hanging on the railing of the military ship, looking out over the water. Ethan was listening intently. Then Deborah stopped talking and pointed to something far off. It was the skyline of New York City looking faint and miniature in the misty distance.
“America,” she sighed. “Home.”
She turned to look at two other people standing at the railing, out of listening range. Deborah wondered aloud, “What’s going to happen to them?” And she nodded toward the man and the woman with their heads leaning against each other.
Ethan looked at the couple, then turned back to the sea. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them. If there was ever a couple that could get themselves out of this mess, it would be your parents.”
At the other end of the railing, Joshua leaned on a crutch, a reminder of his helicopter crash in Israel. Abigail had his arm tightly tucked in hers.
“Gotta hand it to you,” Joshua beamed. “I’ve got a pretty smart wife.” He looked up to the blue and white flag of Israel that was snapping in the breeze over the deck of the Israeli military ship. “So we’re here at the border of international waters, just within United States jurisdiction, so you haven’t violated your material witness order. And I’m on an Israeli ship with one of their ambassadors on board, so I’m outside of the reach of the United States and technically still within the sovereign state of Israel. Yeah, you’re smart …”
“No, not smart enough,” she said. “When our rendezvous ends in an hour or so, I get on a boat with Deborah, Cal, and Ethan and head into New York harbor. But you sail back to Israel. Josh, how do I stop that from happening?”
“Easy. I enter the United States with you, turn myself in, and take on the White House and the Department of Justice.”
“Easy? Courageous but foolish. They’ll detain you without bail. You’ll be stuck in jail for at least a year waiting for trial. Meanwhile the Tulrude administration will kick into overtime with the full force of the federal government trying to destroy you. The truth won’t matter to Tulrude. And if you’re convicted, you’ll die in prison.”
Joshua smiled, “So let’s forget about all the legal stuff. Let’s talk about something pleasant. And carefree … like that envelope you said that Phil Rankowitz received in the mail.”
Abigail had to smile at her husband’s smart-aleck sense of humor. She pulled the package out of her purse. “Here it is. Your copy of Mr. Belltether’s article, and all his background research on Alexander Coliquin and his global initiative to unite the world’s religions around a global-warming agenda. He must have mailed it just before he was murdered. The way that Belltether put it, Alexander Coliquin could be poised to execute a plan for global control. Phil’s going to post the whole thing on AmeriNews.”
“And you think he’s the one? Coliquin, I mean?”
“I shudder just thinking about it, but if he is …”
“I know what you’re thinking … evil personified.”
But Abigail studied her husband. “That’s putting it mildly. The Bible describes that ‘lawless one’ as a genius in multiple areas: a demonic polymath, good communications skills, political savvy, a master of economics, military strategy, and administration. He’s got it all. And even the ability to appeal to the religious yearnings of the human race. Josh, we have to let God handle this,” she added with a somber kind of resolve. “This is way above our pay grade. I mean it, Josh. We leave this one alone. Okay?”
“I agree. God’s going to handle it. Since I prayed in that Iranian jail I’ve been reading my Bible every chance I have. I get what you’re saying
about the sovereignty of God, but shouldn’t we at least make ourselves available … to join Him in the effort if He calls us?”
“I’m not sure exactly what God would call us to do, Josh.”
Joshua ventured a thought about that. “It just goes against every fiber of my training …”
“What does?”
“To sit by and watch the enemy gain a foothold, to give the devil the high ground.”
She shook her head and giggled. “My husband has been a follower of Jesus for just a few weeks, and already he’s talking like a country preacher!” Then Abigail moved in closer to her husband. “Kiss me.”
He smiled and pulled her to him with one arm. It was a long kiss and said more than they could have explained. Then Joshua pulled his head back and asked, “Where’s Cal? I need to talk to him.”
“He’s up on the bridge with the captain. They’re giving him a personal tour of the ship — VIP treatment. You forget, your son has a father who’s a national hero over in Israel.”
Abigail said she’d spare him the clumsy trip up the stairway with his crutch and would fetch Cal herself. A few minutes later, Cal was next to Joshua at the ship’s railing. Abigail gave them time together and sauntered over to Deborah and Ethan.
Joshua turned to face his son, with the rolling waves at his back. “I’ll be in Israel for a while, trying to figure out which way to go with my situation.”
“How about I go to Israel with you? I’ll just stay on board the ship. I’ve brought my passport.”
“I wish you could. Cal, I’ve missed you something fierce. But things being as they are, you need to finish up at Liberty University first. And I need you by your mother’s side. She’s going to need your support and advice. Frankly, you’re the only person I can trust to do that while I’m away.”
Cal was going to question that. After all, Deborah was practically a military clone of her father, or at least Cal had always thought so. But now he was starting to understand something about his father.
“Besides,” Joshua added with a grin, “now that you’re talking about
going to law school, I can’t think of a better mentor for you than Abigail Jordan — America’s smartest lawyer.”
Cal smiled and nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Joshua turned back to the sea and put his arm around his son’s shoulder. He could hear his wife laughing with Deborah and Ethan farther down the deck.
He felt good that at least right now his family was all together — and safe. With Joshua’s feeling that history was rushing to a conclusion and his sensation that time was vanishing between his fingers like loose sand, he would never take that for granted. Not ever.
The private room at Walter Reed Hospital had Secret Service agents posted outside. Inside, there was a nurse on each side of the bed. The patient, Virgil Corland, the former president of the United States, whose executive powers had since been transferred to Jessica Tulrude, had been in a coma for months. His attending physicians were now calling it a “persistent vegetative state.”
Suddenly the two nurses snapped to attention, flagpole straight. The distraught former first lady, Winnie Corland, entered the room, escorted by the attending physician. She had just come from a private meeting at the White House with President Tulrude.
“I know how hard this will be for you,” Tulrude had remarked as they strolled in the Rose Garden, “but soon your suffering — and Virgil’s — will be over.”
Winnie gave Tulrude a quick, restrained hug when she was about to leave. But in the back of her mind she thought how bizarre the illogic of Tulrude’s last statement was.
If Virgil is suffering, then that must mean that he’s not in a persistent vegetative state. Which means we shouldn’t pull the plug.
Yet one fact was undeniable. Three years before, Corland had signed an irrevocable medical directive, ordering that all life-support systems be removed if he ever fell into that kind of state.
Winnie also thought back to Virgil’s complaints about Tulrude. How many times, around two or three in the morning, would he slip
into bed in the private quarters of the White House and whisper to her about his mistrust of Jessica Tulrude? His favorite tag for her was “that scheming wife of Macbeth.”
The attending physician reached out and squeezed Winnie’s arm. “I believe we are ready, Mrs. Corland. Would you prefer to leave the room?”
She shook her head no. Then she had to fight back the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her. Winnie Corland wasn’t thinking about the implications for America or the impact on the world for that matter, though there would clearly be ramifications. Now she was facing only her own private pain.