The Regime: Evil Advances (13 page)

never met him. And there’s an assistant pastor, Bruce Barnes, whom everybody loves. All kinds of good things happening there.”

“Don’t start, Irene.”

She hadn’t meant to press; she really hadn’t. Irene knew her motives were pure. If only she could find the right approach to the man she loved and worried about.

“I’m just saying,” she said, “it might be worth a try. I sure would like to go and take the kids, especially when you’re not in town.”

He shook his head. “I’d never get you back.”

“What do you mean?”

“It sounds like a cult to me. You know the leaders’ names without even having been there? Let’s just stay where we are, and I’ll go when I can.”

“Let him go, Nicolae,” Leon Fortunato said, sitting across from Carpathia in the younger man’s home office. “I’d encourage it.”

“You would?”

“I would. You have nothing to fear from Jonathan Stonagal. Sure, he has the drop on you right now because you owe him a lot of money. But that will change. You have more potential in your little finger than he has in his whole body, and besides, he’s not a young man.”

“My strategy is not to fight him though, Leon. My plan is to endear myself to him.”

“Then let Reiche accept his invitation to represent your interest. What are you worried about? Planchette being on Stonagal’s turf?”

“Of course. You have seen the magazine spreads of Jonathan’s Manhattan office; have you not?”

“I’ve been in those offices. They do make one’s jaw drop. Planchette will be in way over his head. But I don’t think they will be in league against you. Stonagal believes he, in essence, created you at the behest of the spirit world.”

“Maybe he did.”

“Maybe. But he will serve you one day, as we all will.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Leon stood and moved to the window. “I’m glad, because it’s time for a tune-up of your image.”

“What is wrong with it?”

“In many ways, nothing. You are in the thick of this race now and favored. But I have seen candidates lose in the final days on the turn of one phrase, sometimes one word. With you, it’s all about tone.”

“I am listening, Leon.”

Fortunato returned to his chair. “Consider this question: who was the most influential person who ever lived?”

“Jesus.”

“Excellent. As you know, the world has been impacted more by Him and His teachings than by any other. Our very calendar is based on His birth. What was His one most dominating character trait?”

Nicolae liked this kind of a challenge. “He could

perform miracles. At least that was claimed. I do not believe that.”

Fortunato cocked his head. “That was something He was known for, yes. But I am talking about a quality He was seen to possess.”

“Divinity.”

Fortunato drew out a long “Hmm …”

“No?”

“Others have claimed the same.”

“I doubt them all, of course, Leon.”

“Of course, and while Jesus’ adherents believe He was the only divine human, again that is not a character trait.”

“All right, great one, I am ready for your all-knowing wisdom. What is the singular trait of Jesus you wish me to emulate?”

“In spite of everything He said and did and remains known for, two millennia after His death, Jesus’ defining quality was humility.”

Carpathia could not suppress a smile. “I will tell you the truth, Leon. I believe I am more than fairly self-aware. I know how I come across to people; I know myself. Frankly, I have nothing to be humble about and detect not a shred of humility in my personality.”

Fortunato seemed to study him. “You are self-analytical.”

“Humility is for weaklings. I know who I am and what I am capable of, and I am determined to do it.”

“That’s all well and good, but would you call Jesus a weakling? I submit that the ethereal paintings of Him as effeminate and cherubic are all wrong. This was a man

of the earth, a man of the hardscrabble first-century Middle East. He was a carpenter, a man’s man. A revolutionary. A preacher of paradoxes. An enemy of the establishment.

“You don’t believe His entire resume, fine. Neither do I. But His story is compelling. If He truly came from the throne room of heaven to be a mere mortal, it was the greatest act of humility ever. He had no reason to be humble either. His followers believe Him divine and perfect, self-sacrificial to the point of death. That is what makes His humility so attractive, so magnetic. You would do well to conjure a bit of it to round off your image.”

Carpathia laughed, and the more he laughed the funnier the whole idea sounded to him, so he laughed all the more. “Think of it, Leon! What could be more egregious than false humility? I believe I may be unique among mankind. I have a combination of gifts and talents and knowledge and confidence that sets me far above perhaps anyone who has ever lived—including Jesus. And I should compound that with humility? What should I be humble about?”

Cameron Williams nursed his ancient Volvo north along the East Coast toward Boston through a light rain that turned to sleet and then a beautiful snowfall.

“Care to drive at all, Dirk?” he asked the Welshman.

“Not on your life. I would be on the wrong side of the

road within a minute. You just keep steering and I’ll keep pedaling. Sure you have enough tread on these tires?”

“It’s not the tires I worry about, Dirk. It’s the heat gauge and the oil gauge. One is high, the other low.”

“Seems a simple solution then, Cameron.”

They stopped for oil. And antifreeze. And windshield-washer fluid. And a brush/scraper. A hundred miles later they stopped for more of the same, including the scraper, which had broken after two uses. Cameron was tense from peeling his eyes through the growing flakes and trying to sense whether his speed was right for the increasingly slippery roads.

He tried again to talk Dirk into driving, at least for a stretch. But Dirk was busy forming a snowball and hurling it, cricket style, with a long, looping left-hand delivery. Cameron barely evaded the missile, then dived into the car, laughing.

This was just another of the kinds of storms he loved. And while he had no interest in getting stuck or being late, this was an adventure, one he would long remember.

Cameron was relieved when they finally pulled into the covered parking garage of the hotel and banquet center. Once settled into their room with a couple of hours before they needed to be dressed for the bash, Cameron called his mother.

She wanted every detail, but she sounded terrible.

“You doing all right, Ma?”

“A little tired today. I’ll be okay. Looking forward to seeing you in a few days.”

“Two to be exact. Me too. Dirk just got back from

sneaking a peek at the banquet hall, and it appears they have pulled out all the stops. Lots of color and lights and sound. I couldn’t afford to rent a tux, so I’ve borrowed Dirk’s. It’s a little snug and a little long, but I doubt anyone will notice or care.”

“What about him?” Mrs. Williams said. “Doesn’t he need his tux?”

“Nah. He’s all tweedy like a Welshman should be, and anyway, he’s just my date.”

“Oh, Cameron!”

“That’s what they think.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The powers that be at the
Globe
. They actually asked if we were lovers.”

“Oh, they did not! Don’t think you can pull one over on your naive mom just because you’re an Ivy Leaguer now. I know better than that.”

“You’re right, Ma. I was just teasing.”

The banquet turned out to be even more than Cameron had hoped for. Copies of the honorees’ articles were reproduced and circulated in a colorful brochure, and professional actors read some of each aloud. He may have been dreaming or just hoping, but it seemed to Cameron that his drew the loudest applause. Dirk agreed. The recipients were lauded individually and presented plaques commemorating the occasion.

The guest speaker was a horror novelist who had gotten his start in newspapers and never lost his affection for journalism. He regaled the crowd with stories everyone

could identify with, and by the end of the evening Cameron was wondering if a newsweekly should really be his career target. Newspapering was still the stepchild of the publishing biz, but if you could land on the staff of a big metro daily, well, that would be exciting too.

The aide to the executive editor of the
Globe
made a beeline to Cameron at the end of the evening. “I know it’s late and that you want to get going,” she said, “but Mr. Rowland would still like a word with you. And you might want to consider staying the night and outlasting this storm.”

A walk up the street confirmed her wisdom. Several inches covered everything. But Cameron didn’t have the luxury of time if he wanted to get back to New Jersey in time for his flight the next morning.

He gave his keys to Dirk and asked if he could manage getting the car onto the street and parked in front of the
Globe
building. “Have it warm, defrosted, and ready to go, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You will, eh?” Dirk said, accepting a single dollar from Cameron. “Never saw a tip like this on the London Exchange.”

Rayford did not see himself as a womanizer. Except for his Christmas party indiscretion a few years before, he had never been unfaithful to Irene, though he had to admit that if she had had a necking session like the one he’d had, only technicalities would keep him from calling it adultery.

His conscience had bothered him so much since that time that he had sincerely gotten his act together. Rayford wasn’t blind. He could tell when women found him attractive. But the bad taste had lingered for so long after that holiday dalliance that he had been able to play dumb and deflect flirtatious advances.

Now he wasn’t so sure. Hattie Durham had been a teenager when she became a Pan-Con flight attendant, and any heterosexual man with eyes agreed she was the

total package. Head to toe, side to side, hair, face, and personality, she quickly became every passenger’s favorite attendant and every crew member’s dream.

She could be ditzy, but Rayford was convinced that was an act designed to manipulate. Interestingly, unless she was being reprimanded—which was rare, as she seemed to love her job enough to be conscientious—she never played that game with him. She plainly looked up to Rayford, and maybe he was being naive, but it seemed genuine, not as if she was just flattering him because he was the captain.

Rayford was able to talk himself out of any less-than-honorable intentions by reminding himself how young she was. She had senior flight attendant written all over her, though it would be a few years before she reached that status. Other attendants, particularly women, acted less than impressed with her at first—jealousy, Rayford decided—but she soon won over even them. Her superiors seemed to look for minor offenses, but she was so good that they had trouble finding fault.

Rayford simply liked thinking about her, and he was always pleased when he saw her name on the crew list.

He was heading for the parking garage at O’Hare one evening when he heard heels approaching quickly from behind. “You live in Mt. Prospect, don’t you, Captain?”

He turned, still moving. “I do, Hattie. Why?”

“You know I’m not far away. In Des Plaines. Just got a call that my roommate can’t pick me up, and I hate to take public transportation at night. Would you mind—?”

“Of course not.”

Hattie seemed to chatter nervously as they headed toward Des Plaines. It was all Rayford could do to keep his eyes on the road. He was certain he had never had as beautiful a woman in such close proximity.

He called Irene. “I’m going to be a few minutes, hon. Running a stranded teammate to her place in Des Plaines.”

When he pulled up in front of Hattie’s condo, Rayford started to get out.

“No need,” Hattie said. “If you’ll just wait to be sure I get inside before the boogeyman gets me, that will be fine.” She took his hand in both of hers. “I really appreciate this, Captain. You’re a doll.”

At home a few minutes later Irene said, “So who was the stranded flight attendant?”

“That teenager with the funny name. I’ve told you about her.”

“Hattie, the ditz?” Irene said.

“That’s the one.”

“Lock her keys in the car?”

“Wouldn’t put it past her.”

Rayford foresaw nothing untoward with Hattie Durham in the future. But he sure liked remembering her perched in the passenger seat, right beside him.

Dizzy Rowland, executive editor of the
Boston Globe
, welcomed Cameron into his spacious office

and introduced him to three of his top people, two men and a woman. Their names flew past Cameron and he would have failed a quiz, but they all certainly looked the part. In banquet finery and at ease in the presence of the big boss, they exuded confidence and friendliness. All had nice things to say about Cameron’s work.

Rowland pointed to a chair at a conference table away from his desk, and the five of them sat, four staring at Cameron. He finally felt conspicuous in his ill-fitting tux, and he was tempted to explain it.

“I just wanted a few minutes,” Mr. Rowland said. “First, congratulations on your Pulitzer nomination and this award, not to mention your classwork. My spies at Princeton tell me you’re a dean’s-list student.”

“Far from straight A’s,” Cameron said. “But I do feel obligated to give it all I’ve got.”

“Admirable. Laudable. May I ask your career goal?”

”
Global Weekly
,” Cameron said.

“Wow,” Rowland said. “You didn’t even have to think about that.”

Cameron cocked his head. “It’s been my dream for years.”

Rowland sat back and seemed to study him, smiling.

Cameron’s gaze darted at the others, who appeared bemused. Was admitting that lofty goal exposing himself as a rube, a dreamer? Well, the man had asked.

“You’re sitting in the company of four career newspaper people,” Rowland said. “Journalists, curious people. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of them had a question.”

They all seemed to speak at once, but the woman