called quickly into his remote mike to alert the staff. Over the heads of the people in front of him, he could make out a keeper swinging wide the front gate, with the WNN crew scurrying up into position on the other side.
If the Messiah saw what was developing, she paid no heed. With a dozen cameras whirring at her, she marched steadily ahead, past them, through an alley, down a flight of stairs, headlong out into the rushing traffic of a busy thoroughfare. Feldman and crew were chasing pell-mell, trying to keep up, but the onslaught of cars, buses, trucks and bicycles was too menacing. It was suicide to follow. She was gone.
53
The Oval Office, Washington, D.C. 9:00 A.M., Wednesday, February 9, 2000
The usually implacable Allen Moore, forty-third president of the United States, was nervous. Yesterday's New Hampshire primary had delivered him a totally unexpected setback.
Moore's official reason for delaying his entry into the presidential race had been to concentrate on the important responsibilities of his office and remain aloof from campaign distractions. The idea was to assume a detached, “presidential” posture.
New Hampshire was a state his ticket had carried easily in the last election, and it had been simply assumed Moore would fare well there in this primary, without any direct, personal involvement. The polls supported this thinking. Such a laid-back victory, the theory went, would have positioned him as confident and unstoppable in steamrolling toward his party's renomination.
So, on the advice of his manager, Moore had withheld himself from the presidential race until late January, and withheld himself physically from the state of New Hampshire, not campaigning there personally at all. This allowed a hard-running young upstart Democratic senator, Billy McGuire of Maryland, to set up camp in New Hampshire and earn many a pragmatic New Englander vote.
Not that Senator McGuire really won. He'd received only thirty-eight percent of the vote to Moore's forty- three, with the balance allocated to various favorite sons.
But even getting close to the heavily favored Moore was a win for the ultraright McGuire. The media were now casting Moore as “vulnerable.”
“A goddamn fluke.” Presidential campaign manager Ed Guenther defended himself and consoled his president at the same time. “We'll cut McGuire off at the knees in March on Super Tuesday and be rid of him!”
President Moore nodded, wanting to accept this scenario, but remaining keenly aware that the ill-timed Mideast instabilities could well work against him if events continued to impact the precarious U.S. economy.
Brian Newcomb, Democratic Presidential Reelection Committee chairman, who called this meeting, was less forgiving. He was well aware that the influential new phenomenon in his party, the rapidly growing millenarian bloc, was an unstable lot. “Unfortunately, Ed, things aren't quite so pat. Now, the millenarians are going to draw encouragement from this. And we can't risk another reversal. We've got to regain our momentum, which means now we'll have to commit some of autumn's earmarked campaign funds to these primaries. It's a disruptive, costly change in our game plan.”
Newcomb left an obvious political maxim unspoken: once lost, that special, magical aura of invincibility is never truly regained.
Moore, a moderate, was annoyed with this unexpected turn of events. After all, he was reasonably popular, he was presiding over a stable economy-at least until the advent of this strange Messiah woman-and he was considered eminently reelectable by the majority of his party. The Republicans, on the other hand, had fielded a particularly unexciting batch of candidates this election year.
Moore realized that now, even if he sailed through the rest of his primaries, his New Hampshire “loss” would certainly be resurrected by the media periodically to add drama to the race-a dark cloud that could follow him all the way to November.
54
Cardinals’ Chambers, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 7:00 A.M., Thursday, February 10, 2000
Alphonse Litti pushed his chair back from his desktop computer and watched with trepidation as the final page of his report shuddered from the printer. He'd been up all night, but he defied his fatigue with the stubbornness of a driven man. Never in all his life had he felt so centered in his purpose. And so alone in his forlorn hope.
Since returning from the convocation, Litti had studied transcriptions of every known word or phrase uttered by the prophetess. He'd sequestered himself in his chambers, consulting and cross-referencing scripture against the Jeza record. At the end of the two days, the cardinal had developed what he felt was an emerging understanding of the young Messiah's message. Alphonse Bongiorno Litti saw a message that spoke forcefully and personally to him.
A message with the dual purpose of salvation and destruction.
The cardinal had labored continuously, compiling his insights and preparing a document of provocative premises and frightful conclusions. In less than one month, he intended to present this document personally to the assembled denominations at the Mormons’ second convocation in Salt Lake City.
But today, he'd present his report to Antonio Prefect di Concerci. And demand that it be included in the Congregation's draft
After waiting about twenty minutes in the prefect's anteroom, Litti was announced by di Concerci's secretary and admitted into a private, well-appointed suite. As he entered, it occurred to him that in his many years at the Vatican, he'd never once been inside di Concerci's office. And vice versa.
Spacious, with high, inlaid-bronze ceiling, art-glass windows, heavy tapestry drapes, crystal chandelier, dark mahogany paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves laden with ponderous volumes, exquisite Oriental rug, large mahogany desk and matching high-back, thronelike chair, di Concerci's office was an imposing seat of authority.
“Cardinal Litti.” The prefect greeted his associate evenly, without standing. “I have only a few minutes, I'm due to meet Cardinals Thompson and Santorini in the Museo Sacro.”
“I'm sorry to intrude without notice,” Litti apologized, “but this is a matter of some importance. I have for you a completed report uniting my analysis of the Mormon convocation with the Congregation's study-in-progress-and with my own personal research. I believe you'll find the results quite eye-opening.”
“Yes, Alphonse, I am sure,” di Concerci responded dismissively. “Leave it with my secretary and I will deal with it directly.”
Litti stood his ground. “I've been up for three soul-wrenching days and nights on this, di Concerci, and I'll not have you brush it off like so much dust!” The tone in his voice was surprisingly harsh.
Di Concerci scrutinized his colleague closely and leaned back in his chair, taken off-guard. “Cardinal, you look terrible, if you don't mind my saying so. Are you feeling poorly?”
“Only in my heart, Prefect.” Litti stared unwaveringly at his associate. “Only in my heart.”
Di Concerci rose and extended his hand to take the thick envelope. “I assure you, this will receive my personal attention as soon as possible. Now, I must attend to my meeting-”
But Litti maintained a firm grip on the package. “You and I have never seen eye to eye, Cardinal,” he said, staring up at the taller man. “And I'm afraid there's not much friendship between us. Nevertheless, in the scores of years we've been acquainted, I've never once asked anything of you. I ask now. Postpone your meeting and read
