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"We're dealing with here-and-now reality. Please be clearer."
"That's why it's so real," replied Wahlburg enigmatically.
"It goes back to time immemorial.. .. Heaven knows your Jesus had no money, no wealth to spread around to convince people, but within decades after his death by crucifixion, before a half century, the Christian movement began spreading across the then-civilized world. And those converts held the wealth of that world."
"And?" pressed Nichols.
"His ideas, his prophecies-his dreams were accepted by those who believed in him. No money was exchanged."
"And?" roared a frustrated, impatient Fowler.
"Suppose one of the disciples, or even Jesus himself in a death confession, claimed that it was all a hoax? That the whole thing was an ego trip to divide the Jews. What would have happened?"
"Damned if I know!" replied an angry Whitehead.
"The Christian movement would have been at sea, the multitudes of converts lost, their collective commitment all for nothing-" "For God's sake, Ben!" interrupted Fowler, furious and frozen in his chair.
"What's all that shit got to do with us?"
"Al's partially right, Jim, you do limit your thinking."
"Just clarify, don't preach, you son of a bitch!"
"Exercise your imaginations, gentlemen," said Wahlburg, getting out of his chair and, like the banker he was, lecturing as if to a group of new MBA recruits. He spoke slowly, clearly.
"It's both a confluence and a conflict between immediate financial resources and the channels of influence through which those resources must flow. Whereas the Dutchman, the grandson, operates in a vacuum of darkness, distant and unreachable, Julian Guiderone, the son of the anointed Shepherd Boy, travels throughout the world, checking and supporting the troops of the Matarese. Logically, one cannot operate without the other, but realistically, the troops, the converts, trust the one they see and know.
Ultimately, influence wins over immediate finance, for no other reason than familiarity with the vision. The stock markets across the globe prove my point, both positively and negatively."
"What you're saying, then," said a pensive Albert Whitehead, "is that Guiderone can either keep everything together, saving our asses, or blow everything apart, and we lose the whole fucking enchilada."
"That's exactly what I'm saying. And don't for an instant think he doesn't know it."
"Find him!" yelled Jamieson Fowler.
"Find this damn son of the Shepherd Boy!"
Fearing Bahrain to be dangerous, Julian Guiderone flew to Paris, letting Amsterdam know where he was and how long he expected to stay. As anticipated, Matareisen was cool, his message obvious: The fossil known as the son of the Shepherd Boy was no longer a man to be revered. So be it. The reverence would return later, when the young Turk realized that Amsterdam could not act alone.
It was late afternoon and the fashionable avenue Montaigne was crowded with traffic, in the main, taxies and limousines dropping off their business-executive fares at their elegant, canopied residences.
Guiderone stood by a window, staring down at the street. These next few weeks, he mused, would be a preamble to chaos and a prelude to near-global control. Many scurrying out of automobiles in the avenue of wealth below would soon be facing the shocking loss of financial security. High positions would be terminated, boards of directors nullifying extravagant retirements and pensions, preferring to face the courts rather than plunge their corporations into further economic disaster.
Jan van der Meer Matareisen notwithstanding, everything remained on schedule. Van der Meer did not understand how profound was Shakespeare's line, "Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream."
That phantasma, or hideous dream, had to be factored in, calculated, and ultimately rejected. For the "dreadful thing" had to remain constant, neither premature action nor procrastination acceptable.
Instant and total coordination was paramount; it was the shock wave that would paralyze the industrial nations. It was that paralysis, however temporary-a few weeks or even a month-that was vital. It was sufficient for the legions of the Matarese to break out and fill the vacuums.
Matareisen had to learn that emotional doubts, however provocative, were intolerable. They were merely potholes in the great boulevard that led to the greater victory of the Matarese. Why couldn't the insolent bastard see that?
The telephone rang, startling Julian. No one but Amsterdam knew his number in Paris. No one except several extremely beautiful women who exchanged sexual favors for money or fine jewelry, and none of those knew he was here now. He walked to the table and picked up the phone.
"Yes?"
"It's Eagle, Mr. Guiderone."
"How the hell did you get this number? You're to contact only Amsterdam!"
"I got it through Amsterdam, sir."
"And what is so extraordinary that Amsterdam gave you this number?"
"I didn't fully explain, I think to your benefit."
""What? Not explain to the Keizersgracht?"
"Hear me out, sir. I told them-him-that I had to reach you on a matter that did not involve the enterprise. I am a loyal participant and he accepted my word."
"Readily, I suspect. I'm apparently no longer on his list of highest priorities."
"That would be stupid on Amsterdam's part, Mr. Guiderone," broke in Eagle in Washington.
"You're the son of the Shepherd-" "Yes, yes!" interrupted Julian.
"Why did you contact me? What is so extraordinary?"
"There's a blanket inquiry throughout the intelligence community as to your whereabouts."
"That's absurd! Official Washington declared me dead years ago!"
"Someone thinks you're still alive."
"The pig of the world!" shouted Guiderone.
"Beowulf Agate!"
"That would be Brandon Scofield, am I correct?"
"You're goddamned right. Where is he?"
"In London, sir."
"What happened to our man in London? He was under orders! Kill the son of a bitch!"
"We don't understand, and neither can Amsterdam. The man in London can't be reached."
"What are you saying?"
"It's as though he disappeared."
"What?"
"Every noninvasive avenue to him has been blocked. I've used every access we have here at Langley, all to no avail."
"What the hell is happening?"
"I wish I could tell you, Mr. Guiderone."
"It's the pig of the world, Eagle," said the son of the Shepherd Boy, his voice guttural.
"He's in London and I'm in Paris, a half hour in the air from each other. Which of us will make the first move?"
"If it's you, sir, I'd be terribly cautious. He's guarded around the clock."
"That's his vulnerability, Eagle, because I'm not."
Brandon Scofield, in his Savoy robe, paced angrily in front of the windows overlooking the Thames River. Antonia remained at a room-service table, picking on a breakfast tray that she claimed would last her the rest of the week. Beyond the single central room of the mini suite an armed three man MI-5 unit patrolled the corridors, their weapons concealed under white floor-stewards' jackets. They were relieved by additional units timed to the schedules of the Savoy's actual employees, and thus were indistinguishable from them.
"Sir Hog's Butt has us caged like animals or the lepers of Molokai!" spat out Beowulf Agate.
"And not even in a decent-sized suite."
"The larger suites have more entrances; Geof explained that. Why take the chance of diversion and access?"
"And I explained that more entrances mean more exits," countered Scofield.
"Why eliminate them?"
"It's Geoffrey's call. We're his responsibility."
