Reckoning (16 page)

"Tell me about Gage," Sato said in a low tone.

Milburn stared into Sato's face, opened his mouth to speak, but respect for Gage faded into nothing in comparison to what stood in front of him now. Milburn shook his head, searching for words, lost track of his thoughts.

Sato waited patiently, coal black eyes intently, steadily focused on Milburn's face.

Milburn realized dimly that he was waiting for something, some confidence that wasn't going to come. He steadied himself, decided to just say it. He looked directly into Sato's black eyes.

"Like I said," Milburn repeated. "He's the best there is."

Sato seemed to laugh, but it was more of a faint, lessening shade of his aspect than a genuine human tone of humor. Then the massive form leaned closer, and Milburn felt the heat, the depth, the savage power of something that wrapped itself chillingly around his bones.

"This Gage, he is different than before?" Sato asked quietly.

Milburn didn't know how to reply.

"He serves a god, now?" Sato whispered. "Is this not true?"

Milburn shifted uncomfortably, resisting the impulse to move away. "He's religious, I guess." He hesitated. "Or something."

Milburn stared into the dead black eyes. He had never talked about anything like this before, didn't believe himself.

Sato laughed aloud this time, but the coldness in his eyes was untouched by the savage smile. In a smooth, almost invisible effort he moved and the broad steel tanto was magically held within the brown, strong hand, poised at an angle only inches from Milburn's face.

Edged light danced before Milburn's eyes.

"This is my god," Sato whispered. "I have known many like Gage. He hopes that his god will save him. He hopes that his god will intercede for him. But Gage will die, like the rest have died. And when I have killed Gage with this blade I will show no mercy to his merciful god."

* * *

SEVENTEEN

"Tonight," Gage said, leaning on the mantel of the smoldering fireplace. "I'm going after it tonight."

"When are you leaving?" Sarah asked.

"An hour," Gage answered. "I'll be in New York by midnight. That's a good time to make a run for it. If they're watching for me, they'll be tired. Maybe careless. If I try to get to it in the daytime it won't be as easy. I'd have the advantage of a lot of people moving around, and they wouldn't be able to identify me as easily. But I wouldn't be able to mark them as easily, either. I think it's best to try it tonight, when I can find them. There won't be that many people on the streets. If something goes wrong, it's unlikely that anybody will get hit but me."

Barto looked up from the flames, stared at him intently. And Malachi rose from the straight-backed wooden chair beside the window, walked forward. He stared at Gage a moment, fists clenched in a nervous silence.

Then Barto spoke up, with his musical, singsong voice. "Maybe they've already found the letter, Gage. Maybe there's no reason to go in."

"No, they haven't found it," Gage responded. "Simon was smart. They could search forever in that cathedral and they'd never find it. But I know where to look. He's left messages for me before."

Barto considered. "Are you sure they'll be waiting for you?"

Malachi continued to stand in the middle of the room.

"They'll be waiting," he answered grimly. "It's what I'd do."

Sarah closed her eyes with a concentrated intensity and laid her head back against the couch. Her brow was hard with thought, or emotion. And in the tense stillness that followed, Barto rose and walked across the room to stare up at Gage through the thick, opaque lenses of his glasses.

"I know you're a tough-guy soldier and all that," Barto said cautiously. "But you can't do it by yourself. You're gonna need a driver."

Gage stared at the big man, felt a warm sense of affection. Barto might be overweight, nearsighted, uncoordinated, and the last person you would ever overestimate. But he had heart. And heart deserved respect.

"I might," Gage said, smiling slightly, debating the question. "I haven't come up with a plan, yet. But it's not going to be pretty. It might be a two-man job."

"What will they do?" Malachi asked, stepping closer.

"They'll let me come in," Gage said, putting his hands in his jean pockets, gaze wandering along the room with his thoughts as he constructed the probable sequence. "Some will hide outside to alert the others by radio that I'm arriving. I probably won't be able to locate the sentries. They'll be in the upper floors of surrounding buildings, watching the church through the windows. Difficult to detect. After I enter the church, the ones outside will shut off the exits, windows. Then when I get my hands on the letter they'll close the trap from inside the church. The guys outside will be for insurance, in case I make it past the ones inside." Gage shrugged, weary. "That's generally the way it's done."

Malachi walked forward, face troubled. "I will go with you," he said. "Perhaps I can be of assistance. I know the interior of Saint Thomas well."

"No, professor," Gage said. "You need to stay here. Watch over Sarah."

The old man received the comment carefully, then turned away, gazing at Sarah. "As you request," he said, with a touch of sadness. "You know this world far better than I."

"I know these people are obsessed enough to do anything. So we can't put ourselves into a position where they can get to us too easily." He leaned against the fireplace, grimaced angrily.

"I want you all to know," he began, "that this is going to get a lot worse. These things always do. People are going to die. A lot of them. And it might be us. There's no guarantee that I can deal with this. These people are good. I might not even make it to New York. They might have a federal warrant of arrest out on me."

"Do you think that is the case?" Malachi offered.

"No," said Gage grimly. "I don't think they want me stopped before I get to the church. They sure don't want me in the hands of somebody they don't own. And, despite how powerful they are, they don't own everybody. No, they want me to reach the letter. I think I can get it first and, if things work right, even get out with it."

"And when you get the letter?" asked Barto.

"Then I'll get the manuscript."

Malachi nodded, catching the direction. "Yes," he said gravely. "And they will harm none of us because we will use the manuscript for barter."

"If we can," said Gage. "Maybe we can negotiate some kind of dead man's switch."

Sarah looked up. "Dead man's switch?"

Malachi glanced towards her. "It is a term coined from the early American railroad engineers," he said, smiling slightly. "In the early train engines, the engineer would hold a certain switch closed with his hand. As long as the switch was closed, the train ran at speed. But if he released the switch for any reason, the brakes would be applied and the train would stop. It was a safety
mechanism. As long as the engineer was alive the switch would remain closed and the train would run safely. But if anything happened to the engineer, the engine would cease to operate."

"They can also be used in bombs," Barto piped up.

Malachi gazed down at the translator, a bit astonished. Gage also turned his head, a curious glare. Barto looked cautiously at one, the other.

"I learned it from a newspaper," he said.

"Of course," said Malachi, after a moment. "In any case, it is powerful influence for barter. We shall destroy the manuscript, anyway. But they will not know it. They will never be sure. And it might buy several years for our lives."

"First I have to get the letter," said Gage. "I wouldn't doubt that everyone appointed to work at the cathedral is involved in this. These people have resources. It will be tough. Maybe impossible. But I really don't have much choice." He smiled somberly. "If it gets bad, I'll try and keep the violence away from all of you."

With solemnity, Malachi focused on him. "Violence is an ugly thing. I deplore it." His gaze was steady. "But not as you might believe."

Gage shifted his eyes to the old man. Something in the tone attracted his attention.

Malachi smiled. "Does an old man surprise you?"

"I guess," Gage said, smiling slightly, wondering where it would go.

"Then I will say it again," Malachi repeated resolutely, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, I believe that violence is a terrible thing, a tragic thing. But not like you might expect. You see, I have lived a long time, Gage, and I have seen the evil done by men, and I have learned that not all violence is unjust." He hesitated a moment, glancing around, smiling obscurely. "I only speak from what I know, and hope that it is sufficient to communicate what I believe, and assure you of my confidence in your actions. Did you know, Gage, that the Greek word, diakonoi, used to designate ministers who teach God's Scriptures in church is the same Greek word used in the Bible to designate those who wield the sword to establish justice on the Earth?"

Gage's face was impassive, mouth grim.

"Strange, is it not," said Malachi, "that the Bible would use the same word, diakonoi, to designate those who teach the Word of God and those of a government who wield the sword, establishing by physical force God's code for moral justice? And for this, among other reasons, is why I believe we must confront these people, even to the point of using physical force, if necessary, to defend both ourselves and others."

Gage gazed into the professor's face, saw the dancing light of the flames illuminating the aged and august countenance. It seemed that the professor was fully at home with his beliefs. His words did not seem manufactured to suit the occasion, but had been considered, pondered, and calculated through a long period of study and critical reasoning.

"Many Christians feel that any type of violence is wrong," Gage offered.

"That is foolishness." Malachi shook his head as he spoke, seemingly unable to contain his feeling to words alone. "It is God who established man's moral code of conduct to be a reflection of His own holy character." His old voice became edged with
impatience. "In truth, Gage, it is a simple thing. But there is an aversion to responsibility in the world, and men may conjure reasons to the horizon to explain away their laziness and lack of courage. But in essence I will say that God has given man a moral code, and that moral code requires man to enforce justice, to deliver punishment, and to protect the needy. So in order to accomplish these tasks, God long ago bestowed upon man the solemn right to use force, even physical violence. You see, God values justice on the Earth very highly, Gage. Even the death penalty was ordained by God as just punishment for certain crimes committed by man. So this argument that all violence is wrong is not only unbiblical, it is immoral."

"What about, 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord'?" asked Barto.

"True," Malachi said turning to him. "And there will surely be vengeance in the world to come. And God does forbid vengeance for personal satisfaction. But that does not mean God is reserving all dispensation of justice for the hereafter. That manner of logic is foolishness. God intended that just and moral men would reflect His holy nature by inflicting justice upon those who would oppress the Earth. Anything less than this would lead to monstrous cruelty, anarchy, and unbridled chaos. As Christian men we should not stand to the side, arms folded, praying and watching passively while cruel beings stride arrogantly and mercilessly past, grinding the broken bodies of the weak, of children and those who cannot defend themselves into the dust! No! We must reach out with strong hands." Malachi's hands clutched the air, grappling. "And with strong minds to lay hold of these murderers, yes, even shed their blood if necessary, to bring an end to their cruelty. It was God Himself who placed such an inestimable value on human life, Gage. And we must also place such a value. We cannot allow men to terrorize with death and violence and oppression. And if it is necessary to use force to stop them, then we must use whatever force is required. All men have a moral obligation to defend the weak, to protect the poor. Anything less than this is cowardice. To say we must not use violence because violence is immoral is only a cowardly excuse for escaping the responsibility that man has been so solemnly granted by an omnipotent God, a god who, since the beginning, has used His servants to strike down those who would so oppressively shed the blood of man."

Malachi's voice rose in volume, his face flushed.

"If this argument for pacifism were taken to the logical conclusion, Gage, no one would be able to serve as president, as a mayor, senator, police officer, or in the military. Because all of those offices endorse the use of force, even physical violence to the point of terminating human life." He hesitated, regret and duty striking a conflict within his tone. "Force is sometimes necessary to protect us from evil men. It is, sadly and often, a necessity of life, and I have not been a stranger to it. I have not flinched in my years to raise my hand against man when I saw it as my moral duty to protect myself, or the weak. It is a solemn responsibility that I have sorrowfully accepted, and I will not use my own cowardice or any complacent, isolationist perversity to separate myself from the hard truth that man must sometimes shed blood to serve and honor God."

"As I've done in the last week, professor?" Gage asked quietly, without looking up.

"Yes, son," Malachi intoned, turning fully to Gage. "And as you might well do again." He waited. "As we might all do before this darkness has passed."

Gage stared at Malachi a moment, looked to Sarah, who seemed to begin to rise without moving at all. Her gaze was centered on him. Barto, also, was looking at him.

"All of you need to have a plan, in case I don't make it back," Gage said. "I'm not trying to be dramatic. I might make it, I might not. But I'm going to leave you access to all the money you'll need, just in case. None of you can count on me. You can't count on anyone. These people are serious. Those guys at the seminary were amateurs compared to the talent that real money can buy. If this organization operates like the rest, and I'm betting that it does, it's probably brought in some heavy hitters to try and stop me quietly."

Barto looked up, "Why do you say that?"

"Standard operating procedure for these covert affairs," Gage said, shaking his head dismally. "Escalation of force, but in a different way. Not like the army does it. They don't just get there first with the most men. This kind of escalation in force is usually done with quality, not quantity. If the people they've been using aren't good enough, they'll find themselves better fighters, better firepower. People who can do the job without attracting any attention. Attention is always bad."

"Why won't they just get more men like the ones they had?" Barto pressed.

Gage grunted, face grim. "Too many people. Too many mouths that can talk. They like secrecy. Everyone in this work is obsessed with it." He waited, scheming. "Contrary to what a lot of people think, these covert societies don't use big armies. They use very small, very capable teams who can be absolutely trusted. They want to keep things quiet, real quiet, letting in as few people as possible. That's essential for them. Too many heads, too much talk, no matter how much you pay people. But they'll want the job done right next time. My best guess is that they'll bring in some kind of very elite squad. A group of high-priced, very skilled fighters. The kind of guys I used to work with."