97
The Oval Office, Washington, D.C 9:30 A.M., Wednesday, April 5, 2000
Edwin Guenther, presidential campaign manager, and Brian Newcomb, Democratic Presidential Reelection Committee chairman, rose respectfully and solemnly as the forty-third president of the United States entered the Oval Office.
Smiling faintly, Allen Moore motioned them back into their chairs and took his seat behind his desk. This morning, the day after Super Tuesday, the normally youthful-appearing president looked much older than his fifty-six years. Yesterday had been a disaster. Of the nine states holding presidential primaries, not a one supported the incumbent. It was a landslide for Moore's tenacious opponent, Billy McGuire.
“A tough night, eh boys?” The president broke the uneasy silence.
“Yessir,” Guenther responded glumly.
“I don't see how we can give credence to yesterday's results when only eleven percent of the electorate shows up to vote,” Newcomb volunteered.
“Is that what the final tally was?” Moore sighed, “Yeah,” Guenther confirmed, “and only seven percent turned out in California. Now what the hell kind of primary is that?”
“The most expensive ever conducted,” Newcomb calculated.
“There's gotta be a way we can invalidate the returns based on insufficient voter turnout,” Guenther suggested. “I've got the attorneys working on that now. Given the unprecedented national crisis, I think we've got grounds to-”
Moore held up a hand to stop the turning wheels. “No.” He shook his head. “That wouldn't change things. Look at the polls. We've been dropping steadily since early March.”
“Ever since the Jeza fiasco,” Newcomb icily finished the thought.
“So what would you have us do, anyway?” Guenther spit out. “Have Al get born again and make him suck up to the anti-Jeza far right like that craven opportunist McGuire?”
‘It's a little late for that,” Newcomb spit back. “You know McGuire got the Confraternity of U.S. Catholic Bishops to endorse him. Hell, the Church even
“They were leaning that direction anyway.” Guenther's corpulent face was turning a fiery red. “It was as much McGuire's anti-abortion stance as it was the pope's decree.”
Newcomb started to respond, noticed Moore's crestfallen face and thought better of it. “Al,” he tried to sound encouraging, “it's a long way to the convention. And with the political climate in such an uproar, hell, a lot can happen between-”
Moore held up his hand once more and forced a dim smile. “No, gentlemen, please. Enough's enough. The writing's on the wall. McGuire has a two-to-one margin of delegates already. He's leading in fourteen of the twenty states left. I talked it over with Susan last night. It's a doomed effort, boys. It's time to pull the plug.”
Guenther and Newcomb shot looks of hurt disbelief at their president. Although Moore's decision should have now seemed inevitable, neither campaign manager was truly prepared to accept this incredible turn of events- the most decisive rejection of any sitting president in the history of the Union.
“At two o'clock this afternoon,” Moore informed them, “I'm holding a press conference to announce my withdrawal.”
“Al, please,” Guenther pleaded,
“I'm sorry, Ed.” Moore stood up to make his decision final. “To be quite frank, it's not so terribly hard for me to give up the responsibility of this office. Nothing makes sense to me anymore. I feel like I've completely lost the handle on the nation. And I pity the poor bastard who inherits the social nightmare out there. I'm beginning to think that little woman is right. Maybe it is the Last Day.”
98
Na-Juli apartments, Cairo, Egypt 9:39 P.M., Friday, April 7, 2000
Returning to his apartment after a long day, Feldman found the tape on his answering machine completely filled. This time, however, no calls from Anke. There was an assortment of unimportant business messages, and then an almost continuous series of short, anxious calls from the resurfacing Cardinal Alphonse Litti.
The cardinal left no number, but claimed it was important he reach Feldman, gave the time of his call, and added that he'd keep phoning every hour, on the hour, until he connected.
Litti was perfectly prompt. At ten o'clock sharp, the phone rang and Feldman heard a familiar, welcome voice. “Jon, thank God I've found you!”
“Hello, Cardinal. How have you been?
“That's not important right now, Jon. Let's just say I've been meditating and studying and learning from the Messiah.”
“How is Jeza?” The concern in his voice was apparent.
“She's well, Jon. We've had to keep Her hidden as much as possible with circumstances as dangerous as they are, you know. Not that we can do so for long. She has this uncanny knack for slipping away when She has a mind to.”
“Yes.” Feldman smiled drolly. “I've experienced that a few times myself. When can I see her again?”
“Shortly, Jon, I suspect. I don't know Her plans exactly, She's rather mysterious in that way. But that's the reason I'm calling you. I-She-needs your help.”
Feldman's heart kicked.
“Jon, I have to rely on your complete confidence here.”
“You know you can, Alphonse.”
“Jeza wants to leave Cairo and return to Jerusalem. I need your help to smuggle Her back.”
“Jerusalem? Why? It's too dangerous. All her enemies are there. Everyone who thinks the world's about to end is converging on Jerusalem for a front-row seat. It's safer here in Cairo.”
“She has to be ‘about Her Father's business,’ as She says. Whatever the Almighty might be asking of Her, I don't know, but She's determined to return, one way or another.”
“You realize, Alphonse, WNN's still blacklisted in Israel. All our facilities up there are seized and we're not allowed back in the country.”
“Please, Jon, I have nowhere else to turn!”
“Did Jeza ask you to contact me?” He held his breath.
“She doesn't know I'm calling.”
Feldman sighed.
“She's intending to leave within the next week or two, I believe,” the cardinal continued. “She doesn't want me along, says it is too dangerous. But I insist that you also make provisions for me.”
“Okay,” Feldman agreed. “I'll see what I can do. How can I get back in touch with you?”
“I never know where She'll lead me next, Jon. Just tell me when and where, and I'll contact you.”
Feldman did so, hung up and immediately placed a call to Sullivan. A short time later, he was phone- conferencing with Bollinger, Hunter and Cissy, developing a plan of action. While still going over a few details with Cissy, he heard a knock at his door. Begging Cissy's indulgence, Feldman laid down the phone, rushed over to the door, flipped the latch, shouted, “Come on in!” and dashed back to the phone.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the slender form of a young woman dressed in a full-length trench coat, white beret and matching scarf, her head tilted downward. Signing off, Feldman replaced the receiver and turned to meet his visitor.
