“Let’s face it. Right now my life is tied up in a complicated struggle. I’m on a mission. Everything I am and all that I have, everything is going to be devoted to that task. My business interests, my energy. Everything. I appreciate what you’re saying. But I’m on a different road right now. And I’m not stopping till I’ve accomplished the mission.”
Campbell nodded and said. “You mentioned Patrick Henry. Wasn’t he the one who said that God directs the destinies of nations?”
“Sure. But then he rose up, shook his fist at Great Britain, and fought for freedom. I can’t wait for divine intervention, Pastor. I need to act.”
“Just one thought. Something I didn’t get a chance to share last night.”
“What’s that?”
“God’s the keeper of the timetable. He’s the only one who knows the exact timing of the end. I’ve made the Scriptures my lifelong study. You want to know where the United States is mentioned?”
“Sure.”
“So would I. And I’m still looking. Why no clear, specific mention of America? Maybe He simply doesn’t want us to know the fate of our nation in advance. So we can rise to the challenge. Seek His face while there’s still time.”
There was a penetrating power in Pastor Campbell’s gaze. He was looking into Joshua’s eyes with a strange kind of tranquility.
Finally, Joshua stood up from the table, saying he had to get to the office. He smiled and shook Paul Campbell’s hand.
But before turning to leave the clubhouse, he had to give some credit where credit was due.
“Great game, by the way. You gave me a run for my money. Let’s do it again sometime.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Vice President Jessica Tulrude’s feet were killing her. She wished she hadn’t worn heels, particularly for the tour down the ancient Roman stone streets of Pompeii. She pretended to listen intently to the tour guide and worked equally hard to keep her smile in place for the small contingent of international photo press.
Tulrude was part of a small entourage that included several officials from the European Union and the deputy assistant to the president of the EU. Tulrude had come to Italy for a joint conference between the EU and the United States on matters of common interest, including global finance.
Before the trip she had had a heated argument with Secretary of State Danburg over who ought to attend the conference. Ever the political survivor, Vice President Tulrude was able to muscle him out of the picture. She knew the public-relations value of the event. After all, her political advisors had told her she needed to increase her international prestige in foreign affairs if she wanted to give her future campaign a bump. This would be just the thing.
The luminaries in the tour group also included a handful of influential international entrepreneurs.
Caesar Demas was one of them. He was strolling in his short sleeves and smiling from behind his custom-designed Georgio Armani sunglasses.
Demas strode up next to Tulrude while he pretended to be surveying the Roman arched doorways and first-century stone houses on each side of the white cobblestone street.
Tulrude was careful not to face him but addressed him in a side glance. “Tell me again, Caesar, who cooked up this ridiculous idea to spend a half day walking through a dead Roman city?”
“I believe, Jessica, it was his eminence, the president of the European Union. This is part of his global media push for an international effort among the nations to jointly prepare for mass disasters.”
Demas couldn’t see it, but Tulrude was rolling her eyes at that one. When she responded, her voice was dripping with the kind of whiney, cynical tone that her advisors had warned her against.
“So he picks a city…from the first century…that was buried by a volcanic eruption, as the photo-op for his pet project on global disasters? Oh pleeease…”
“Look at it this way. At least it gives the two of us an opportunity to chat for a few minutes in a way that doesn’t raise suspicions,” Demas said. “I have been meaning to connect with you anyway. Tell you how sad I was that I couldn’t work with the White House as an unofficial envoy to negotiate an arrangement for sharing the RTS weapons technology with other nations…”
“Yes, well all the polls went south on that issue for us. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but in the end we couldn’t have survived the political fallout.”
“Understood. But you and I now have other things to talk about.” Demas patted her on the arm. “Like your political future.”
Before Tulrude could respond, she spotted her chief of staff, Lana Orvilla, and a secret service agent walking at a fast clip toward her.
Orvilla handed her an encrypted satellite Allfone.
“Sorry, Madam Vice President,” she said, “but we have an urgent call from the Department of Justice. Attorney General Hamburg needs to speak to you.”
Tulrude excused herself from Caesar Demas and then stepped away from the group to take the call.
“Madam Vice President,” Attorney General Cory Hamburg started out. “Sorry to break into your travels, but we have an important security issue that we need to verify. Both the FBI and our own terrorism people here at the Department of Justice need to double-check on something.”
“Certainly. National security always comes first. What can I do for you?”
“There was a directive given from Homeland Security relating to a prime terror target. A known terrorist and assassin by the name of Mr. Atta Zimler.”
“How does this concern me?”
“Well, Zimler has been high on our terror list for a number of years. But Homeland Security has asked us to stand down temporarily on any domestic investigations concerning Zimler. When we questioned them about it, they said we should talk to your office.”
“Yes, now I recall the situation,” Tulrude said. “The White House and Homeland Security have been discussing the problem of mistaken identities in our antiterrorism programs. You know, arresting the wrong people because of a glitch in the system. Similar names. That kind of thing. We simply can’t tolerate those kinds of mistakes…”
The attorney general was quick to interject, “Yes, that’s what they told us too. There was some unnamed diplomat who thinks he may be at risk, you know, to be mistaken for Atta Zimler. This diplomat is supposedly coming to the United States, and Homeland Security is concerned about international embarrassment if he is wrongly taken into custody. Truthfully, I’m a little uneasy about this one. We have no name for the diplomat. Frankly don’t even know whether he exists…”
“Of course he exists,” Tulrude said but refrained at adding anything else. She pursed her lips and started tapping her finger on the cover of the phone. After a few seconds of silence she said, “I’m not sure where you’re going with this. How this involves me…”
“Just so you know,” the attorney general continued, “Madam Vice President, this directive is highly irregular. It came from Homeland Security to the Department of Justice. Regarding a potential terrorism investigation…as you know, protocol is that it should work the other way around. They also told us that Zimler was taken into custody in Europe…maybe Paris. If Zimler is in custody, okay, fine, no problem…but we can’t get verification of that. Nothing through the normal channels…zero information from the Paris police…nothing from INTERPOL—”
Tulrude’s reply was curt. “What do you want from me, General Hamburg? Spell it out.”
“While you are there in Italy, if you could talk to the EU folks, have their contacts in France put a rush on this intelligence issue. Confirm that Zimler has been caught. We need this information ASAP. Obviously, in the interim we will pull back on any investigation here in the U.S. regarding persons that might be mistaken for this Atta Zimler—”
“Yes, of course. When the timing is right…” Tulrude assured him. “And General Hamburg? I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you at the EU conference.”
“Thank you, Madam Vice President.”
&nb
sp; Tulrude handed the phone back to her chief of staff. The secret service agent was standing right behind her. The rest of the group had wandered farther down the ancient street, all except Caesar Demas, who was lagging behind.
The vice president ordered Lana Orvilla and the secret service man to walk up ahead and said that she would be there shortly. The secret service agent protested politely. He reminded the vice president that her safety was his responsibility. But Tulrude cut him off.
“Agent, would you like to be relieved of your assignment?”
He got the message. His face tightened.
“I’ll be waiting for you right up the street, Madam Vice President.”
When Orvilla and the agent were at least fifty feet ahead on the old Roman street, Tulrude strolled up next to Demas. When she did, she nodded toward the arched entrance of a stone building where they could talk. The two of them stepped up to the portico, looked both ways for photographers, and then stepped just inside the doorway and out of sight.
“You’ll never guess, Caesar, who that phone call was from.”
Before Demas could respond, Tulrude plunged ahead. “It was the attorney general,” she said. “Calling about this Atta Zimler matter. Now I’ve gone out on a limb for you. We’re delaying any domestic investigation into Zimler for the time being. Just like you asked. So you can tell your diplomatic friend…whoever he is…that he doesn’t have to be worried about being harassed inside the U.S. by mistake. But I need you to ask your contacts inside the Paris intelligence office to verify with the DOJ that they’ve actually got this Zimler in custody, as you told me they did. I mean, really, Caesar, I am taking a serious risk here for you. Just think of the damage to me if you’re wrong, and this Zimler actually ends up inside America somehow…”
“Not to worry. I’ll have my friends inside French security give the necessary assurances to your Department of Justice people.”
“Good.”
Caesar Demas moved in closer for just a moment to grasp the vice president’s hand.
“My foundation has deposited ten million euros in an offshore account for your election campaign. It will then be dispersed through a variety of American organizations and charities into your campaign. Very clean. We will deposit another twenty million—assuming you can pass the primaries in good shape.”
“Oh, I’ll get through the primaries, Caesar. Have no doubt about that.”
“I’m just reminding both of us of the rules.”
Just then something caught Jessica Tulrude’s attention. She craned her neck to look closer at the faded paintings on the wall of the ancient building where they were standing.
“Caesar, what kind of building was this? I mean, in Roman times…”
He laughed.
“It was a brothel.”
Tulrude broke out into a loud cackle.
Both of them enjoyed the unspoken humor. Picking that kind of a place to discuss Jessica Tulrude’s intentions to run for president.
THIRTY-NINE
At Liberty University
“Mr. Jordan, perhaps you could answer that question?”
Cal Jordan had been busy sketching a picture on his notepad. He looked up with embarrassment to find the entire class staring at him.
“Sorry, professor. I didn’t hear it.”
There were muffled laughs from a few students ten rows back that echoed through the large college lecture hall.
At the front of the class the professor frowned and tried again. “The question, Mr. Jordan, from one of your fellow classmates, was, Why should Congress have the power to force a private citizen to testify in a congressional hearing?”
For a moment, Cal’s brain froze.
The professor studied Cal and then expanded his question. “We are studying the powers of the Congress. Mr. Hitchney asked a salient question about the subpoena power of the Congress.”
Cal turned around and looked ten rows back until he located the face of Jeff Hitchney, another student in the class. Hitchney, a tall blond sophomore had a twisted half-smile on his face. Cal now realized that the student had planted the question on purpose to embarrass him. Hitchney was the star pitcher on the college baseball team and was the leader of the school debate team. But there was one more thing. He had a keen interest in Cal’s girlfriend, Karen Hester. And Hitchney seemed intent on harassing Cal. After all, how could Karen have preferred Cal over him?
“Mr. Jordan,” the professor said, pressing in gently, “I thought you might have some thoughts on the subject considering the fact that your father, Joshua Jordan, is in the news on that exact issue.”
Cal cringed. There it is again. Colonel Joshua Jordan. The man who single-handedly rescued New York City from the perils of incoming nuclear missiles. Wherever I go, I can’t escape my father.
Now Cal struggled to focus and form an intelligent answer. He gave it his best shot. “The power of Congress to conduct hearings sort of assumes, I guess, the power to conduct hearings for the good of the country. And that would assume, I suppose, the power to force people to testify.”
The professor gave a quick nod. Then he saw Hitchney’s hand up again and called on him.
“Professor, it seems to me that Jordan is admitting then that his father is wrong and that Congress is right. Because he plainly suggested in his answer that the subpoena power is an appropriate exercise of the authority of congressional committees.”
Hitchney capped it off with a smug grin.
A few more chuckles from Hitchney’s row.
Cal’s hand shot up. The professor recognized him. “Yes, Mr. Jordan.”
“Mr. Hitchney is correct that I am admitting the power of Congress to subpoena witnesses. But that’s not what my father’s case is about. What that case is about is the fact that Congress can’t force someone to give away trade secrets and business intelligence. Which is what they are trying to do. Plus…there’s something else involved too…”
The professor asked, “And what is that?”
“Sometimes people refuse to give information to Congress…or a court too…for good reasons. Last week we studied the situation about media reporters who refused to testify in court about who their confidential sources were. They said they had a greater right to protect their news sources.”
“And what is the greater right in your father’s case?”
Cal paused. He now was in the interesting dilemma of having to defend his father’s case. He wasn’t hot on that idea. Plus the things that his mom and his sister, Deborah, had shared with him about his father’s legal situation were strictly interfamily matters. Very private. But Cal had another overriding thought. On the other hand, there’s no way I’m letting Hitchney off the hook.
“Okay. Here’s the deal,” Cal replied. “My father invented this laser weapon…the RTS. Return-to-Sender thing. He never gave the government full ownership of the design. It was still in, like, an experimental phase. Then the North Koreans launched missiles at us. The government used my dad’s weapon to stop the missiles—”
Another student blurted out, “Yeah, and melted the North Koreans who may not have even been the attackers…”
With that a few students gave out a subdued boo.
But the rest of the class started their own spontaneous cheer for Joshua Jordan.
As the issue erupted all over the lecture hall around him, Cal was quietly staring at his hands in front of him. Man, I can’t believe this. Why did the professor go into this stuff anyway?
After the instructor brought the class back to order, he asked Cal to finish his thought.
“The point I was making is just this,” Cal explained. “If the government doesn’t own the weapon, then shouldn’t the businessman who invented it be able to protect his design?”
Hitchney shot his hand up, and the professor nodded for him to speak again.
“Weapons involve national security. That issue doesn’t belong to some multimillionaire businessman; it belongs to the government.”
&
nbsp; Cal didn’t wait to be called on.
“Uh, we are the government,” he said, turning back toward Hitchney. “We studied that during the first week of this class…”
Hitchney didn’t wait for the nod from the professor this time. “One private citizen can’t decide those kinds of things. That would be chaos. The government is supposed to decide those issues—”
“And what if some of the politicians in Congress aren’t trustworthy? What if they let that weapon information slip into the wrong hands—”
“Wow, talk about paranoid,” Hitchney muttered to his friends sitting next to him, but loud enough for most of the class to hear.
That is when the professor stepped back into the discussion. “Okay, okay. Good discussion. By the way, I love it when you students decide to exercise your gray matter. I think that’s great.”
Then the professor turned to Cal again. “Just wondering Mr. Jordan, what’s your major?”
“Art.”
“Well, if you ever get tired of art, you may want to think about pre-law. You raised some good points today. And you might give some thought to joining the debate team too.”
When he said that, the professor smiled and threw a smile up toward Jeff Hitchney, who was trying hard not to look threatened by that last comment.
As the professor continued his lecture, Cal felt his Allfone vibrate. He had set the vibrate mode on Morse code. Home was coded to vibrate dots and dashes for the word family. But calls from his father’s office were set to vibrate out the code for SOS—the international distress signal. That was his own private joke.
This time it was the SOS. He wasn’t going to take it. At least not right now, when the eyes of half the class were still glued on him.
Back in his high-rise office in New York, Joshua Jordan was letting his call go through to his son on his speakerphone while he continued to scan a weapons design memo from his engineering team.
The phone kept ringing. Joshua put the paper down. He’s not going to pick up. So, he knows it’s me calling, and he’s not picking up. Of course, he could still be in class. Take it easy, Joshua. Give the kid a break.