The Veritas Conflict (7 page)

Ian came around the desk as the older man rose from his chair. They slapped backs like father and son.

“Mansfield, I get you every time because you always concentrate so hard. One day that’ll get you into trouble.” Ian spread his hands as if capturing a vista in front of his eyes. “I can just see it now—you’re in a big faculty meeting, Professor Pike calls on you for your scintillating insights … and you stare blindly into space as you mentally review
the latest colonial texts unearthed in Boston.”

Professor Mansfield snorted. “No, I’d be mentally calculating the odds that Pike would call on me for
anything
. Well, welcome back! Sit down, sit down.” He gestured toward a chair then asked about Ian’s summer as he bustled around to get coffee and sugar from a sideboard.

Over the rim of his coffee cup, Ian studied his mentor, noticing as always the thick shock of silver hair, sparkling gray eyes, slim reading glasses, and the casual assurance that seemed to rest on the revered professor like a suit of clothes. Ian had met the professor five years before at a dessert party held in the older man’s home for the freshman members of the Harvard Christian Fellowship. He had told the awed young people that they might feel like aliens in a strange land and that he would be there for them if they needed someone to talk to.

Even more surprising, he had meant it. The members of HCF had quickly gotten over their reverence for the proclaimed author of more than twenty books, someone they were as apt to see on television as in their classroom. He had told them all to call him Mansfield (“only my dear wife called me William”), and they had promoted him to instant grandpa status. He had invited Ian and many other students to join him and his church family for Thanksgiving and Easter dinners, when the students couldn’t get home to their own families. And in Ian’s sophomore year the professor had driven him to the airport and sat with him in the terminal when the shattered young man learned he had lost his parents to a driver high on cocaine.

Over the next two years, Ian spent a lot of time helping the professor with administrative chores while asking him questions about everything from colonial history to dating to graduate program options. He had gradually realized he was being groomed for something but never came right out and asked Mansfield what it was. The day Ian stepped into Mansfield’s office waving an acceptance letter to Harvard Law School, the professor had offered him a graduate teaching assistantship on the spot. Such a coveted position—TA for the most popular history class at Harvard—was not lightly given, especially to a first-year graduate student.

And the following year, when Ian had stood before a packed classroom of students with blank notebooks and pens at the ready, he had glimpsed the depth of trust his mentor was placing in him. For one fleeting moment he had been terrified at the responsibility he had so cavalierly accepted. Ian smiled at the memory. It had turned out fine on the whole.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Mansfield said, leaning back in his chair. “We’re going to be really busy. A lot has changed over the summer. First, let me brief you on the class size issue.” Mansfield pressed his fingertips together. “I have met with the registrar several times about expanding the size of the Introduction to European History class, among
others. They have my formal proposal and are considering it right now. I expect to hear something within the week. If, as I hope, the class is allowed to expand, that change would take effect next fall.”

“It just seems such a shame to turn down so many students for your classes, especially when Professor Barkson’s classes are in a bigger room than yours and are always half full.”

Mansfield smiled. “Remember, Doug Barkson was the head of the department for a long time.”

“It just seems odd that they don’t switch your room assignments, that’s all.”

“Now
that
is a political hot potato I don’t intend to touch! I’ve asked for the class to be expanded and moved to a completely different venue, like Sanders Theater.”

Ian’s eyebrows rose at the mention of the famous old classroom, which seated over a thousand students. “That would be cool.”

The professor fell silent, staring away with a pensive expression. “On to the next subject. There have been a few developments that will dramatically affect our little task force project. It appears that the Master Planner has been arranging things for us behind the scenes.” He swung around to face his protégé. “In the last two weeks I’ve been asked to both be an official curator of the Harvard Library resources—” he smiled at Ian’s congratulations—“
and
to be a permanent member of the faculty’s academic steering committee.”

Ian let out a whoop and jumped to his feet. “What amazing timing! I don’t believe it!” His grin faded as he saw the professor’s pensive expression. “Mansfield! Isn’t that the committee that decides all the standards for undergrad curriculum and content, among other things?” At the professor’s slow nod Ian sat down again and looked intently across the desk. “That would seem to be excellent news. It places you firmly at the table right before the task force report is released. You can actually steer the debate and ensure that they don’t just listen politely and sweep the whole thing under the table like before. Why the concern?”

“It’s more a concern about who’s controlling the table. They’ve just promoted Professor Anton Pike to chairman.” Mansfield glanced across the desk at Ian. Total understanding had flooded his face. “So, my young friend … 
you
have a lot of work to do.”

Claire sat on the couch in the sitting room of her dorm suite sorting out all the stuff she had collected from the expo. Floral curtains, which her mother had insisted on hanging before she left, fluttered at the window. Matching ones hung in the bedroom she and her roommate shared, but not in the second bedroom that completed the small three-person suite.

The late afternoon breeze stirred the pile of flyers beside her, but she made no move to shut the window. Might as well enjoy the few warm days left before the fabled Boston cold arrived.

The door to her suite was slightly ajar, giving her a partial view of the hallway. Someone stopped at her door and rapped lightly.

“Come in!”

A curly brown head—a very handsome curly brown head—popped around the door. “Hi! Is Sherry here?”

“No. I really haven’t seen her today.” Claire tried not to stare. “She might be stuck at the Coop getting textbooks.”

He pushed the door open a bit more, and Claire found herself looking down, blushing slightly at his smile.

“What’s
your
name?”

“Claire.”

“That’s a pretty name. I’m Stefan. I live in Dunster House, down by the river.” He moved as if to depart and then snapped his fingers, remembering something. “Actually, wait a second.” He checked the front of the suite door, where their names were written on bright orange construction-paper balloons, courtesy of their resident assistant. “That’s right, Mercedes lives here, doesn’t she? I need to ask her a question. Is she around?”

“You know, honestly, I have no idea. Hold on.”

Claire uncurled herself from the couch and knocked on Mercedes’s bedroom door. No answer. She looked toward Stefan and shrugged.

“Well, thanks for trying. Good to meet you. And if you see Sherry, would you tell her I stopped by?”

“Sure thing.”

Claire turned back to her stack of flyers, trying not to feel envious. Why was it that some girls just attracted guys like static electricity, while others—like her!—were more likely to be considered a pal?

Sighing, she turned her attention to her calendar. Okay. There were three singing groups she was interested in, an a cappella group and two choirs. She was leaning toward the choirs since she could get academic credit for those and would probably get an A. She noted the audition times, which were coming up quick.

Next she pulled out the flyers related to special study classes and professional clubs. Most had history department labels. The Friday brown bag luncheons featuring well-known guest speakers looked especially interesting. One special-study class involved field trips to early colonial sites, and another—offered in connection with the divinity school—studied the “Origins of World Religion,” taking field trips to
“religious centers” around Boston. What did that mean?

Claire looked at the final flyer in her stack. What were the chances that her parents could afford another three thousand dollars this semester so she could go on the joint history/anthropology/business department Machu Picchu trip over Christmas break? Claire laughed to herself. What were the chances that her parents would let her be gone over Christmas,
period?

She shuffled the flyers into a file and pulled a few others out of her backpack. The top flyer advertised the first meeting of the Harvard Christian Fellowship next Friday night at six. She had been delighted to see a booth with the word
Christian
on it.

Other dates were noted in her calendar: a service club that worked in Boston on Saturday mornings, an intramural volleyball league, and a dinner for all students from Michigan.
Maybe meeting some Midwesterners will make this place feel more like home
.

The dorm room door creaked open. A stack of books walked in, eclipsing the trim form of Claire’s roommate. The pile was leaning ominously.

“Sherry, what are you doing?” Claire laughed and hurried to help.

Sherry glided faster and faster toward the couch, barely making it before the stack collapsed. Heavy textbooks thudded onto the cushions. Claire’s bulletins went flying in all directions.

“Whew, am I glad you were here! If the door was locked, I never would’ve made it.” Sherry grinned and swept up her straight brown hair, fanning her neck.

“I’m very impressed with that balancing act.” Claire bent to pick up several of the flyers that were now scattered around the room. “Those things are heavy. Why didn’t you get some help?”

Sherry’s gentle Southern accent grew exaggerated as she placed a delicate hand against her breastbone. “Oh, I found a sweet young man to help me out.” She knelt to gather more flyers into a ragged pile and grinned up at Claire. “He carried the books over here from the Coop, but he had somewhere he had to be, so I figured I could handle getting them up the stairs and into the room.” She glanced at the jumble on the couch. “Barely.” She handed over the stack. “Sorry about the flyers.”

“Oh, that’s okay.”

“Hey, what’s this?” Sherry plucked back the top sheet. “Machu Picchu! The ruins in Peru? Cool! You going?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s over Christmas, and my parents would probably flip—”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“—and it’s really expensive.”

Sherry looked down at the flyer. “Three thousand dollars. Actually, for a flight to Peru, classes, and two weeks of touring, that’s pretty good.” She gathered up a few books
and walked into the bedroom, speaking over her shoulder. “I’d say it’s worth it if you’re interested.”

Claire picked up a few more books and followed her roommate. Of course it would be
worth it
, but who had three thousand dollars lying around?

As she entered their joint bedroom, her eyes flickered to Sherry’s loft, noticing for the first time the quality of the structure. It wasn’t a bunch of cobbled-together planks like so many other students put up to maximize floor space—it was a handsome, custom-built system complete with drawers and shelves for clothes and books.

Claire helped Sherry slot the textbooks into the beautiful blond wood shelves built into the loft. Claire’s books were already organized in brightly colored plastic crates across the room.

Claire eyed the Bible sitting on Sherry’s bookcase next to her textbooks. In one e-mail, Sherry had said she went to church in her Georgia hometown. Claire hoped that meant she was a committed Christian.

“Sherry, in one of your e-mails over the summer you said you didn’t know your major yet. Which way are you leaning?”

“History, maybe.”

“Hey, I’m thinking about history too! Well, either history or biology if I go premed, but I kinda doubt that. I might do biology as a minor.” She stepped back from Sherry’s bookcase for a moment, staring at the load on the shelves. “How many classes do you
have?
”

Her roommate made a face. “Too many.”

“You seem to have a lot more reading than I do.”

“I have two advanced classes this semester. I placed out of the introductory prerequisites.”

Claire paused, a heavy book in her hands. “Hey, isn’t this the Intro to European History text?”

“Yes.” Sherry dug a schedule out of her pocket. “I’m in Professor Mansfield’s class at … eleven o’clock, Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“No kidding! We’re in the same class.”

Sherry smiled and dusted her hands off on her jeans. She glanced at the clock. “Want to go get dinner?”

FIVE

S
URROUNDED BY DARKNESS
, K
ROLECH WAITED
for a report. The demon’s masters were pressing for the latest information on his progress, and he wanted to have good news to relay before he went anywhere near them—especially since he had heard through the ranks that Leviathan himself was due for a briefing on this, one of his prize initiatives.

An aide got Krolech’s attention, and he settled before a large map of his territory as several underlings arrived. He carefully allowed his pleasure to show as they spoke in turn about the initiatives underway in each of the different cities. They were clever, these troop commanders—some of the best. Their hold on the area was so tight and their mechanisms so well established that it had become a simple thing to take whatever strategic steps were decided upon. This marriage needed to be destroyed—easy to increase temptations or stress. That family needed to be embittered—easy to ensure that a beloved son or daughter contracted a fatal illness. This business should be undermined—so easy to appeal to greed when integrity was long gone and then, of course, alert the authorities.

They loved doing that. Loved using and destroying those created in the image of the Enemy, the One who had cast them from heaven, who had forever removed them from glory. His human children might be wayward, but they were still His children and He loved them. He reached out to them every day, yearning to draw them to Himself before it was too late. That was all the reason the dark forces needed to hate them; they wanted it to be “too late” for as many of these people as possible. They reveled in turning laughter into mourning and drew strength from the tears of broken men. They particularly loved it when they could use these double-minded children of God against one another—and against Him.