The Apocalypse Codex (17 page)

The office is spartan, bare-walled and furnished with a desk, two chairs, a computer, and a telephone. The CBP manager waves me to the seat opposite the desk, then sits down and starts mousing around on her computer. I pointedly don’t glance at the door—I’m pretty sure Goon #3 is standing outside. Presently she looks up. “Mr. Howard, I believe that these documents are genuine, and I recognize your diplomatic immunity. However, you’re identified by our records as being a covert asset. I must warn you that failing to register as an agent of a foreign government is a felony, and potential grounds for denying you entry to the United States. Do you have anything to say?”

Her body language clearly adds:
Aside from oh shit?
She looks smug. It’s clearly not every day that Little Ms. Smarty-Pants here catches a spook.

“I’m not in your Big Book of Registered Spies? Is that the problem?”

She looks down her nose at me. “One of them.”

“Well.” I roll my eyes. “That’s a nice Catch-22 you’ve got there, isn’t it?
Real
shiny, that Catch-22.”

(I blame the Russians for spoiling everything. Time was when a spy could just breeze through US immigration and be about their business—but the CBP have been pissed ever since the FBI caught a battalion of barely competent FSB agents who waltzed in behind a brass band and set up shop in Manhattan. And this is, of course, a representative of the NYC local chapter of the Cantankerous Bastards Patrol that I’m dealing with, not the State Department.)

“Let me see: I think in the next five minutes you’re going to”—I notice her neck muscles and shoulders tensing—“call DC and talk to State. Who will in turn talk to an officer from one of your government’s black agencies which do not exist, and then State will tell you what you need to know, which is that they’ve heard of me and you are to let me go.
Or
we can do this the hard way. You can refuse me entry, provoke a diplomatic incident, and then an agency which does not exist will arrange for your superiors to tear you a new asshole.” I lean back, cross my arms, and try to look confident. “Your call.”

It’s only about twenty-five percent bluff. I
am
on the books: the Black Chamber know who I am, and if I’ve come up on the CBP radar there’ll be a contact number in the office directory. What happens to her if she’s stupid or insane enough to phone and attract the Black Chamber’s attention is anybody’s guess—eaten by Nazgûl, spirited away to a detention center at the bottom of Chesapeake Bay, compelled to listen to Rick Wakeman until her brain melts—but I don’t really care. The Black Chamber will ensure that I cease to be a person of interest to the CBP. The only question that interests me is whether the phrase “of interest to the CBP” belongs at the end of that sentence.

(
Aha,
I can hear you asking,
but what about the UK-USA intelligence treaty? Why didn’t Lockhart just call the Black Chamber and ask them to keep an eye on our turbulent priest?
Well, there are several reasons. Firstly, our turbulent preacher is American; it’s even possible he’s one of theirs. Secondly, we’re really not supposed to give foreign agencies blackmail-grade information about the Prime Minister. And finally: they’re the
Black Chamber
. They’re not so much our sister agency as our psycho ex-girlfriend turned bunny-boiler.)

In the event, Ms. Smarty-Pants glares at me and calls my non-existent bluff. “Okay, that’s your choice.” Then she reaches out and picks up the phone and dials.

I am jet-lagged, tired, and—I will admit—a bit scared. I wait, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to simply let them declare me PNG and stick me on the next plane home. But it’s too late for that: someone answers the phone. “Sir, I’ve just taken custody of a traveler on the DSR watch list…yes, I’ll hold…hello? Yes, I have a traveler on the DSR watch list, he’s flagged as a POI to AGATE STAR…thank you, sir, yes, his name is Howard, Robert Oscar Foxtrot Howard, record number 908…”

She stops talking and listens for a couple of minutes, nodding from time to time. Her eyebrows furrow slightly. Then whoever’s at the other end of the line hangs up on her. She stares at the handset for a few seconds, almost angrily, then puts it down. “That makes
no
sense,” she mutters, as if she’s forgotten I’m there. Then she glares at me. “What are you doing here?”

“You’ve got my passport,” I say helpfully.

“I—” She blinks rapidly, then looks at the offending document, sitting on the desk. “Oh.” She looks unhappy about something: probably me. She pulls open a desk drawer, withdraws a stamp, and whacks away at a blank page in the passport. “Get out.”

“Am I free to enter?” I ask.

“Yes! You’re free to enter.” She’s angry—and clearly frightened.

Interesting; things have definitely changed since I was last here. “Aren’t you required to register me as an agent of a foreign power?”

Her pupils dilate. “No! Just go! You weren’t here, I’m not here, this never happened, nobody stopped you, go away!” She stands up and yanks the door open. “Nick! Escort Mr. Howard to baggage claim and see he gets through Customs without any delays! He has a flight to catch!”

Nick—Goon #3—looks puzzled. “Isn’t he under arrest?”

“No! His papers are all in order. Just get him out of here!”

Her concern is contagious. Nick looks at me and gestures. “This way, sir.”

And so I enter the United States with a Border Patrol escort—desperate to see me on my way as fast as is humanly possible.

What strange times we live in…

7.

COMMUNION

PERSEPHONE HAZARD AND JOHNNY MCTAVISH ENTERED THE
United States on Wednesday, twenty-four hours ahead of me. Their reception was somewhat different. Flying into JFK on the pin-stripe express from London City Airport, they bypassed the Immigration queue entirely: they had their passports stamped by an obsequious immigration officer during the refueling stop at Shannon, along with a dozen bankers and discreetly ultra-rich fellow-travelers.

At the arrivals terminal, they checked their bags onto a flight bound for Denver, paused long enough to shower and freshen up after the trans-atlantic leg of their journey, then headed to the gate for their five-hour onward connection.

Uneventful. Boring. Tedious.
All good adjectives to apply to long-haul travel; much better than
exciting
,
unexpected
, and
abrupt
. With Johnny sacked out in the window seat to her right, Persephone leaned back in her chair and plowed determinedly through the bundle of documents she’d compiled before the trip.
Homework.
Everything her staff had been able to find about the Golden Promise Ministries. Everything about other organizations that members of GPM’s board of trustees held seats on. The whole intricate interlocking machinery of religious lobbying and fund-raising that wheeled around the person of Raymond Schiller.

Schiller was not an isolated phenomenon, Persephone noted. He had connections. Connections with John Rhodes III, a scion of Washingtonian blue-bloods and a pillar of The Fellowship—Abraham Vereide’s C Street prayer breakfast and power broker mission to the Gentile Kings. Rhodes had a visiting fellowship at the Institute for American Values, and sat on the board on the National Organization for Marriage. One of NOM’s board members, Chuck Parker—CEO of a Christian textbook publisher—also sat on GPM’s board. GPM was a sponsor of NOM, and Schiller had run pledge drives on his TV show, urging his flock to “stand tall and defend marriage.” Parker was a shareholder in Stone Industries, an arms manufacturer, and—

Persephone blinked.
Uneventful. Boring. Sleepy.
That was the problem with trying to cram while leaning back in a recliner with a tumbler of Wild Turkey at forty thousand feet: it was too easy to doze off. Johnny found this stuff interesting (his upbringing had, if nothing else, exposed him to some of the wilder reaches of fundamentalist Christianity) but she was making heavy weather of it, finding their feuds and arguments as arcane and recondite as Trotskyite ontogeny or cultist schismatics.
Pay attention now.
This stuff was—would be—important. Golden Promise Ministries, the Fellowship, National Organization for Marriage, True Path Publishing, Stone Industries Small Arms, Pillar of Fire International, the Purity Path Pledge League—they were all merging into a whirling tattered spiderweb of Christian Dominionist pressure groups and fund-raising organizations. Deeper connections to shadowy ultra-conservative billionaire sponsors were hinted at but coyly elided—nobody wanted to speak truth to the power to launch a million libel lawsuits.

Johnny honked, a sluggish bass. Persephone reached out and poked his shoulder.

“Yes? Duchess.”

“You were snoring.”

“Was I? Oh bugger.” He stabbed at the power button on his seat, then waited until it tilted up to Persephone’s level. “Something come up?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She closed the folder. Quietly, she added: “I make a sky marshal two rows ahead, over to the left, aisle seat. Dead-heading pilot to his right. Four businessmen, a retired couple, one woman and child. Am I missing anyone?”

By way of reply, Johnny stood up clumsily and stepped across her legs, then walked aft towards the toilets. A couple of minutes later he returned. “I match your count. We’re green.”

Over the years, Persephone and Johnny had frequently needed to discuss confidential matters in public, so they’d long since worked out a protocol to improvised security. A first-class airliner cabin was pretty good—lots of background white noise, little opportunity for adversaries to plant bugging devices (especially after they’d arranged last-minute seat changes with the cabin crew), an easy environment to monitor for eavesdroppers. By color-coding it green Johnny was agreeing that it was—conditionally—safe to talk.

Persephone relaxed infinitesimally. “Do we know any forensic accountants on this side of the pond?”

“Accountants?” Johnny frowned. “We’re going to
Denver
. If you wanted to pick up an accountant, couldn’t we have stopped on Wall Street?”

“I didn’t know we’d need one until…” She gestured irritably at the folder. “It’s a real mess. As bad as mafia money laundering, all barter and back-scratching.”

“You’re assuming this is about cash, Duchess.”

“It usually is.” She looked pensive. “Except when it’s about power.”

“What about religion?”

“Religion
is
power, to these people. And power is religion, of course. If you’re a humble believer set on doing your deity’s will, then what are you doing spending the take on Lamborghinis and single malt? The real believers are running soup kitchens and emptying bedpans, trying to do good while the televangelists preaching the prosperity gospel are doing it to keep up the payments on the McMansion and the Roller.”

She spoke with quiet vehemence, fingers whitening on the spine of the folder. “Power and money. It’s about all of those things, otherwise why is Schiller trying to gain access to the highest levels of government? He’s a fraud and a dabbler, and Mr. Lockhart shall have his evidence.”

Johnny thought for a while. Then he shook his head slowly. “You’re wrong this time, Duchess. Snark or Boojum. What if he
is
a true believer, have you thought about that?”

“A true believer in
what
? The prosperity gospel? New Republican Jesus who rewards his faithful flock for their faith with the ability to make money fast? That’s self-serving cant, and you know it. Wish-fulfillment as religion.” A twitch of the cheek: Persephone unamused. “Don’t get me started on the gap between the Vatican and their flock.”

“I know the church I grew up in.” McTavish is silent for a few seconds. “I could smell it on him. He’s one of the unconditionally elect, Duchess, and it’s
quite probable
that he holds to the old rites.”

“If it’s a shell, what’s going on under cover of the church?”

“Well.” Johnny shuffles uncomfortably. “
You
know about the five points of Calvinism, yes? Total depravity, unconditional election, limited atonement, irresistible grace, and the perseverance of the saints. Up in the western isles they take it all too damn seriously. That, and the, uh, cousins under the sea. They hold that they’re unconditionally elect; and that the bloodline of the elect are going to usher in the new age and summon Jesus back to earth—but only when he’s good and ready, you understand. Pay no attention to the gill slits and fins, they’re signs of grace. It’s come to a pretty pass when the bastard spawn of the Deep Ones turn into Presbyterian fundamentalists, hasn’t it? But anyway, that’s what we could be looking at, worst case.”

“So you think they’re a cover for a cell of cultists who are planning on raising something?”

“If you pray to Jesus on the cosmic party line and something at the other end picks up the receiver, because you happen to have an affinity for the uncanny and your prayers attract attention, what are you going to assume?” Johnny shuffles again. “But they’re not cultists in the regular sense, Duchess. Quite possibly they’re just your regular prosperity gospel preaching televangelists. There’s a certain point beyond which any sufficiently extreme Calvinist sect becomes semiotically indistinguishable from the Brotherhood of the Black Pharaoh. But even though their eschatology is insane, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they’re trying to summon up the elder gods.”