The Lambert family exists today as a very wealthy family. They own a lot of property around Portland, and have a lot of money in various big companies - but it’s all very discreet, like the Barclay brothers - there just isn’t much out there on the family. You might do better than me.
Point is, Ben survived. And if we approach it right, we might get a chance to interview some reclusive billionaire and hand over the journal to him, filming his reaction, of course.
Rose nodded, happy with that, checked her laptop was still getting a decent wi-fi link and then hit ‘send’. She knew Julian would be jumping up and down with excitement over this.
She smiled, pleased with her legwork up in Portland. It would be satisfying to show Jules she could do just as well as him at trawling for facts. Maybe he might start thinking of her as more than the technology geek in their partnership.
She looked up and caught sight of the waiter, gracefully weaving his way between some tables to deliver an order to a table of truckers. He handed out several plates of food and tossed the men some false small talk before heading back to the counter. He caught her sneaking a glance and offered her a snatched, coy smile as he rounded the counter and headed into the kitchen through swing doors.
Rose felt an uninvited tingle of excitement and a momentary stab of guilt.
Just a burger and a beer, then I’m heading off . . .
CHAPTER 55
28 October, 1856
Snow cascaded down; giant feathery flakes that tumbled from the heavy sky above and settled with a whisper. The afternoon was almost as dim as night, the weak and lethargic sun hidden away from sight behind the surging grey blanket of cloud.
The gathering around the fire in the middle of the Keats party camp was well attended, the flames licking high, pushing out an undulating envelope of warmth that embraced the small gathering. The flickering light of the fire glinted in the eyes of everyone, intense and wide with anxiety, as they listened to the burning crack of damp wood and fir cones, and considered what needed to be discussed.
In silence they stared at the six Paiute who, in turn, warily stared back.
‘So, their leader, the older-lookin’ one’ - Keats gestured towards him - ‘is called somethin’ like Three Hawks. That’s if I was understandin’ him right.’
Mr Bowen regarded them unhappily. ‘See, ’ow do we know we can trust ’em? I got a wife and little ’uns to worry about. These ’ere bastards were going to do for us last time we ran into them.’
‘But they didn’t, though,’ said Ben, ‘did they?’
Bowen curled his lip uncertainly. ‘They’ll do us in our sleep. Take what we got and disappear, just you see.’
‘Fact is,’ said Keats, ‘they’re here because somethin’ out in those trees scared ’em into our camp, Bowen. Maybe they’re wonderin’ whether they can trust us, eh?’
Bowen said nothing.
Ben looked at Broken Wing. ‘Can you ask them whether they’ve actually seen what’s out there?’
Broken Wing asked the question. Three Hawks listened and then nodded and conferred quietly for a moment with the younger ones sitting either side of him.
‘Mr Keats, can you tell us what they’re saying?’ asked Weyland.
‘Dunno, they’re talkin’ too fast. Wait a minute . . . let ’em talk it out.’
After a few moments, it seemed some consensus was arrived at. Three Hawks turned to Broken Wing and Keats, speaking slowly and signing at the same time.
‘None of them have seen it clearly,’ Keats translated. ‘But one of them’ - he nodded towards one of the younger Paiute - ‘said he caught a glimpse of it in the woods. He was the one who found their elder, White Feather.’
Three Hawks spoke again with Broken Wing. Keats waited until they’d finished, then asked Broken Wing in Ute what the man had said.
‘He ssssay . . . demon, large . . .’ said Broken Wing, his hands gesturing around his head, ‘isss . . . like bone . . .’
‘A skull?’ offered Ben.
Broken Wing nodded. ‘Ya! Ssskull, large ssskull. And, bonesss . . .’ Broken Wing’s hands mimed protrusions all over his body. ‘Like ssspines.’
Keats spoke quickly with Broken Wing in the Shoshone dialect, scowling with disbelief before he repeated what he’d heard. ‘They said it is a giant, three men tall. Yet moving silently like a spirit.’
Ben shook his head. ‘I can’t believe he saw that.’
Keats waved a hand dismissively. ‘Hell, you’re right not to. Damned Indian folk have a habit of exaggeratin’ everythin’.’
Ben remembered reading the journals of an explorer in Africa. He had made the same observation of tribes he’d encountered. It was not that these savages were deliberately exaggerating their tales, it was simply that they didn’t have an agreed metric for measuring and comparing. Big basically meant anything bigger than the storyteller. Big could mean any size. And stories that passed from one teller to another had a habit of inflating.
Keats was listening to Broken Wing again. Then, when the man had finished, he relayed what had been said.
‘They believe it’s a white man’s devil. A devil that came into the woods with us.’ He looked across the clearing at the shifting silhouetted figures on the far side of the camp. ‘He believes it came from amongst the others.’
Ben nodded and muttered. ‘That, I can believe.’
Keats pulled on his pipe, sending up an acrid puff of tobacco smoke. ‘Fact of the matter is, I don’t think it’s no demon. One of them people’s gone bad in the head. That’s what it is, I reckon.’
‘Not bad,’ said Ben, ‘but mad. Quite insane.’
Keats wiped his gnarled nose. ‘Reckon you’re talkin’ ’bout Preston?’
Ben nodded. ‘Yes, maybe.’
Keats shrugged. ‘Same difference. Could be him, could be any other. It’s one of ’em Mormon folk.’
‘What worries me most,’ said Ben, ‘is what Preston’s telling his people. Their devotion to him is fanatical.’
Weyland nodded gravely and tossed a branch on the fire. ‘They sure looked ready to use their guns today. If he’d told them to, they would have fired. Of that I’m sure.’
‘Not necessarily just on these Indians,’ added Ben. Everyone around the fire looked at him. ‘I think if there’d been shooting, those guns would have been turned on us just as soon as these Paiute had been dealt with.’
‘Yup,’ muttered McIntyre, ‘that’s how it looked to me, too.’
It was quiet for a moment, the crackle, pop and hiss of burning twigs and cones filling the silence.
‘Something’s changed in Preston,’ said Ben. He wondered if it would be wise to tell them that the minister had most probably been pushed over the edge by the laudanum he’d helped himself to. That it was his fault for allowing him enough doses to become addicted to it. ‘He’s become unstable. His mind is playing tricks on him. The bear attack, the fever he’s been through, the burden of leading his people; I believe these things have combined to send him quite mad.’
‘These Indians,’ said Bowen. ‘He said they was evil demons.’
Keats shook his head. ‘Preston been lookin’ at us different since them people was killed. We’re all outsiders to ’em, all evil to ’em - including these Paiute.’
‘It’s not just about survival, fear of what they think’s out there,’ said Ben. ‘It’s about manifest destiny. Preston and his people are out here for a reason.’
‘What reason?’
‘They weren’t just travelling west for a new life. They’re on a mission. Preston’s led them on what he believes is a divine mission.’
‘I have to admit, I’ve never come across religious folk as peculiar as these,’ uttered Weyland.
‘They’re Mormons,’ said McIntyre with distaste, ‘what else do you expect? That’s no form of Christianity I recognise.’
‘They’re not Mormons,’ said Ben. ‘They’re something else. Something of Preston’s creation.’
The others looked at him.
‘That’s what’s happening. He’s led them away to write a new faith, a new book of God.’
Mr Hussein shook his head and spoke quietly in Farsi to his family.
‘What’re you saying there, Mr Hussein?’ asked Bowen.
He stopped and turned to the others around the fire. ‘I say . . . man cannot rewrite words of Allah.’
The words hung on a silence, broken only by the spit and hiss of a log in the fire.
‘I’m not sure I’m happy with the idea of some madman so close to us,’ said Weyland, glancing at the distant glow on the far side, ‘conjuring up his own religion from nothing.’
Keats grunted in agreement. ‘Well, whatever crazy hokum that Preston’s come up with, reckon we gotta now consider them folks as somethin’ of a problem for us.’ He tapped the embers of his pipe out into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. ‘Them oxen lyin’ between us and them will be gone long before spring, long before any one of us can think of makin’ our way out of here.’ He locked his gaze on them all. ‘There’ll be fightin’ long before then, I can assure you.’
He looked towards Three Hawks and the five other young men sat with him, watching the discussion dispassionately. ‘Hell, that’s why we need these Paiute folks with us ’cause if . . . when . . . the fightin’ comes, we’ll need every able-bodied man we got.’
Mrs McIntyre grasped her husband’s hand tightly. ‘Mr Keats, will it really come to that? A fight between us and them?’
The old man’s wrinkled face softened with pity. He could see the woman, and the children whose arms were wrapped around her, were trembling. ‘Fear makes people do some terrible things, ma’am. It’s what folk like Preston use to make the rest of us do exactly what they want.’
Ben turned and looked towards the distant flames of the other campfire, and the indistinct silhouettes of people moving around it.
‘You frighten a bunch o’ people enough,’ Keats continued, ‘I mean really, really put the fear of God into them . . . reckon they’ll do just about anythin’ for you.’
‘If you’re right, Mr Keats,’ said Weyland, ‘then we should be asking ourselves what it is Preston might ask them to do.’
CHAPTER 56
Thursday
Over Utah
Shafts of autumn sunlight shone across the Oval Office, dappling the thick rug with light and shade. He could see it was a glorious afternoon out there on the White House lawn.
‘Mr President?’
He stirred, drawing his eyes away from the explosion of rust-coloured leaves on the elms and maple trees to the dim interior of the office, and matters at hand.
‘Mr President?’ his aide-de-camp pressed him. ‘We need a decision.’
Shepherd looked up at him. ‘I’m afraid I really can’t let this slide any longer, can I?’
‘The people need to know where we go from here, Mr President.’
He nodded. Yes, these uncertain times required a strong leader and a clear message to those who would stand in the way of God’s will.
‘You’ve already threatened the use of the ultimate deterrent, sir. Perhaps it’s time to—’
Shepherd cut in, smiling. ‘To use the words of the Washington Post, time to shit or get off the potty.’
His aide made a face. ‘That’s putting it in unnecessarily blunt terms, sir. There is still room for negotiation with these people.’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘No, I don’t believe there is. What we’re looking at, Duncan, is a clash of faiths. These people will not listen to God’s message.’
He stood up, flexing his tired and aching back. ‘And what can you do to those who continue to refuse to sit at God’s table? Beyond the light of His love, it is cold and dark and barbaric. These people, these . . . non-believers . . . burn in torment there, Duncan, and they know no better.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve extended the hand of friendship and love, opened the doors of our church for them to enter. What more can I do?’
‘Yes, Mr President. But you understand, escalating this situation now would be very dangerous. There’s a delicate geopolitical balance around the middle—’
‘Duncan.’ He turned to him. ‘This is where faith in God comes into the equation. We will have a world under His new dominion. By hook or by crook, mark my words, He will unite us all under one faith . . . or He will leave ashes.’
He looked out at the carefully manicured lawn and beyond that at the gathered protestors bearing placards, held at bay by a cordon of marines. Above, the pure blue sky was dotted with helicopters and the smudge of smoke columns rising from the distant city riots.
‘Now is not the time to walk away from destiny.’ He turned round. ‘If they won’t open their eyes to His love, then let them feel His wrath.’
‘Sir?’
‘We’ll send the missiles.’
‘Mr President? We can’t do that!’
‘Send the missiles, Duncan.’
‘Mr President!’
Shepherd felt the warmth of the sun through the bay windows on his cheeks and closed his eyes, and imagined he could hear the roar of a thousand propulsion systems stirring to life in their silos.
‘Mr President!’
‘Mr Shepherd?’
Eyes still closed, he heard the rumble of the jet, a steady monotonous whine, and in the background the trill of somebody’s cell phone several rows of seats further back - one of his entourage of campaign workers.
‘Mr Shepherd, sir? I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need to review the figures ahead of the meeting this afternoon.’
He opened his tired eyes, blinking back the glare coming in through the round window on his right. Duncan was leaning forward in the seat opposite. ‘I’m sorry, but we do need to go over the projected spending again for the next six months before the meeting.’
‘Duncan?’ said Shepherd.
‘Yes?’
‘You do believe in God, don’t you?’
He looked confused. ‘Of course.’ He gestured towards the other workers dotted around the seats of the commercial airliner, most of them industriously tapping away on laptops or speaking animatedly on their phones. ‘Everyone on this plane believes in God, Mr Shepherd. Everyone’s behind you. And, if the polls really are giving us a true picture, millions more every day,’ he added with a reassuring smile.
Shepherd nodded and smiled. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’
‘You helped me see His light, brought me across to your ministry.’
Shepherd smiled. He could see the words were coming from Duncan’s heart. ‘I’ve never once looked back, sir. I’d follow you anywhere, Mr Shepherd.’
He smiled. ‘You’re a good man, Duncan.’
‘But, uh . . . if I can press on. We’re looking’ - Duncan consulted his PDA, tapping the small screen lightly with the tip of his pen - ‘at about two hundred million dollars media spend on campaigning for the next six months. That’s if we want to stay in the game with the big two parties.’
Shepherd gazed wearily out of the window as his campaign manager began a tedious breakdown of fund allocations, and what additional funding support they would need to secure to stay the distance. But Shepherd’s focus drifted off piste.
‘. . . We’re getting a lot of support pledged from churches outside ours, a broad spectrum of Christian right. I think both the Republicans and Democrats really damaged themselves through the primaries with all that back-biting and bitching between candidates . . .’ Duncan’s voice droned on.
I’ve been waiting so long for this. Waiting so long to find them.
The recorded cell phone conversation between Cooke and his female associate, Whitely, indicated they were both heading out once more into the wilds very soon. Shepherd needed to ensure he could find a way to locate the site. Nothing short of exact GPS co-ordinates would do. He knew what it was like up there. In those thick woods he could be fifty yards away from those mouldering remains and quite eas
ily never find them. Cooke and Whitely were going to lead him straight there, but only if he played his cards right.
‘. . . We’re poaching a lot of support from both of them right now. But that’s theoretical support, protest support. The trick will be turning that into genuine card-carrying support for your campaign, and sustaining that loyalty through the next eighteen months . . .’
Shepherd realised he was going to have to find an opportunity to slip away for a few days.
Prayer time.
That’s what he’d call it. A little sojourn away from the seedy world of politics to find communion with God, to seek guidance. That would play well with his audience. He decided he’d announce that tomorrow on his next Faith TV broadcast.
This needs to be handled so carefully.
His special man sent over to the United Kingdom, Carl, was doing a very thorough job, as always. Julian Cooke’s first business contact, the BBC editor, had already been dealt with effectively. According to Carl, the bumbling British police were baffled by the motiveless stabbing and were already investigating a local suspect with a previous conviction for a similar offence and a history of violent mental illness.
The other contact Cooke had made, however, might be a bit more of a problem. He had more of a public profile. He trusted Carl to handle this intelligently.
‘. . . in total, though, we’re going to need to chase down at least another six or seven hundred million dollars in campaign funds to take us through to the finishing line next year. I’ve lined up several meetings this afternoon in Austin, Mr Shepherd. They’re all interested in getting behind your campaign, but you’ll need to assure them that yours is not exclusively a Mormon message, but a Christian message. That means you’re going to have to equivocate a little on the abortion issue . . .’
Shepherd nodded absent-mindedly and settled back in his chair. He looked out at the patchwork of farmland, a chequerboard of olive and yellow squares, passing below. Iowa, Utah, Ohio . . . all those bioethanol-corn states were lining up nicely. He could sense that momentum was building already, carrying him forward to an inevitable appointment with destiny. He smiled and turned to his financial co-ordinator.