asked, his tone declaring a challenge, rather than posing a question.
“That’s just hyperbole,” Wallace said. “It’s all metaphorical.”
“There’s not a goddamn thing metaphorical about murder. This is outright treason.”
McCormack flipped to another page.
“And as far as the rest of the world is concerned? Open your ears to this one: ‘We should invade their countries, kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity.’ A goddamn Christian jihad. That’s what they want.”
The president slammed the binder closed.
“You need to start listening to what these people are saying. This isn’t like the fine print in a mortgage, it’s right out there. You want to be president in two years, but something could happen to me, and you’d be sitting in this chair tomorrow. And the piper has to be paid. Manton Roberts could just as easily have a hundred million people stopping in their tracks and calling for your impeachment as saying the Pledge of Allegiance.”
Wallace felt himself swallow. An embarrassing, involuntary display
… but of what? Weakness? Doubt? Fear?
“I’m going to leave you in here with this material,” McCormack said, rising to his feet. “You may not take what it says literally, but tens of millions do. At least know what he’s saying and who he’s appealing to. If there’s another terrorist attack or if unemployment spikes higher, despair will drive people to him in herds. Unthinking, instinct-driven herds.”
McCormack paused and bit his lip. Finally he said, “Have you been following what’s been happening in China since the earthquake?”
Wallace nodded.
“We’re not immune to that happening here.” McCormack looked away, brows furrowed. “And that’s what people like Manton Roberts are counting on-he’d even drive the country into the ground if he thought it would bring his Christian revolution closer.”
McCormack looked back at Wallace.
“Someone once said that revolutionaries don’t seize power, they just pick it up like a fumbled football lying on the field. We need to make sure it doesn’t slip out of the hands of the people elected to carry it-and that’s you and me.”
McCormack turned and headed toward the door.
“Are you going to participate in National Pledge Day?” Wallace asked.
McCormack stopped and glanced back, the sudden change in direction throwing him off balance for a moment. He steadied himself against a bookcase, then said, “You’ve given me no choice.” He then turned toward the door and reached for the knob. “I have to.”
A half hour after the president left, Wallace closed the binder and placed it back on the desk.
Nonsense. It was all nonsense. No one took this stuff seriously.
Wallace wondered whether the president had read the Salvation Army’s literature when he’d served on their national advisory board.
Does anyone really think that the Salvation Army’s War College really intends to train people for armed combat?
Does anyone think their generals are real generals and their colonels are real colonels? That their commissioned officers are commissioned to do anything more than slop mashed potatoes onto metal plates?
Wallace rose and walked to the window and looked through bare tree branches toward the White House lawn. In the thin layer of snow he could make out the footprints of a uniformed Secret Service officer, the steps measured as if by a yardstick or by a metronome or by fifes and drums.
How many times had the president greeted the Salvationists, given them awards, held a July Fourth celebration with them on that patch of grass?
How many times had the president asked him to carry the Salvation Army’s luggage up to Capitol Hill? Lobby Congress so the Salvationists wouldn’t be forced to hire homosexuals, but nonetheless receive federal funds. Make sure that faith-based didn’t really mean goodwill to all.
Apolitical my ass, Wallace thought. I can do some research on my own.
Wallace returned to the desk and ran a search for the Salvation Army War College on the president’s computer, then navigated to a song titled, “I Am a Soldier in the Army of My God.” He found the words he was looking for and left them on the screen when he walked out:
I am a soldier.
Even death cannot destroy me.
For when my Commander calls me from this battlefield,
He will promote me to a captain and then bring me back to rule this world with Him.
As Wallace made his way down the rustling hallways, past the ticking keyboards and hushed discussions, he asked himself a question that he was sure the president had never asked himself, especially after church on Sunday with a sermon about the Second Coming still infusing him with joy and lightening his steps:
What need will the country have for a president, or a Congress, or a Supreme Court, or even elections when the Commander returns to govern by the word of God?
And other questions, even more serious ones:
Who is to say when the battle has been won and who has the right to speak for the winner?
CHAPTER 30
Graham Gage’s cell phone rang as he sat in Batkoun Benaroun’s kitchen with him and his nephew. He held up his forefinger and thumb spaced an inch apart to keep Benaroun from overfilling his wineglass for a second time, then looked at the number and answered.
“Is everything all right?” Gage asked.
Low engine rumble and the grumbling of tires on a rough road filled the long seconds before Faith answered.
“Can you hear me? “ she asked.
Benaroun and Tabari cast him questioning looks from across the table.
“Good enough. Go ahead.”
“I left the kids working in the village. I’m in the back of a military ambulance with Ayi Zhao on my way down to Chengdu.”
“Is she sick?” he asked Faith, while nodding at Benaroun and Tabari to indicate that at least Faith was okay.
“She’s fine. It’s just a dodge. Her son and daughter-in-law are being detained by a workers’ group. The leaders are willing to meet with her before they do anything. We told the garrison commander that she needed medical attention so they’d drive her down to the city.”
“What do the workers want?”
“Specifically, I don’t know. Generally, vengeance. Her son was the vice mayor in charge of construction and his wife was the first party secretary. He’s ultimately responsible for the collapses of the hospitals and the schools and her for the party failing to protect them from foreign exploitation. And they’re rich. Astoundingly rich. But their corrupt money won’t buy them out of-”
A blaring truck horn cut off her last words.
“What’s that?”
“We’re near the edge of town. The other drivers on the road seem to have lost respect either for the military or for ambulances.” She emitted a short, nervous laugh. “I’m not sure which. But it’s not the China I’m used to.”
“Does she have a plan?” Gage asked.
Gage gazed out of the window at the fog blurring the stone-walled patio. It reminded him of an outdoor Chinese court hearing he’d attended in a rural Chongqing village on behalf of Transparency Watch. The defendant had confessed under torture to subversion, a capital crime. Usually these hearings were held in secret, but this one
