The Apocalypse Codex

looks away…”

Barry finds himself drifting off on a wave of—not boredom, exactly, which is odd, because boredom is what he would have expected—but euphoria. How strange, he thinks dazedly. Schiller, once he hits his groove, isn’t as annoying and preachy as he’d expected. Schiller’s got a vision, a vision of charity and joy that he wants to share with everybody. “Good works are central to faith,” he explains: “My creator wants me to do good, and rewards those who do good. And the best reward is another hard job. The job, my friends, is central, and our job here today is to work out how we’re going to raise tens of thousands of young people out of deprivation and debasement and lend new purpose to their shattered lives.”

Barry submerges again, diving in the torrent of words. Which he finds mildly astonishing because, as a sixty- year-old cynic (risen to the second-highest ministerial tier, but too old to raise his aim to the PM’s office itself) with no little experience in rhetoric himself, he has long considered himself immune to such blandishments. But they feel so good. Schiller is painting a picture of redemption, of a joyous coming-together in pursuit of the commonweal that reminds him momentarily of why he went into politics in the first place: the conviction that he can make a difference, change things for the better.

When Schiller finishes, he claps with the rest—then shakes his head, dazed. Schiller is obviously right about something. What is it? The Caring Society initiative? Or could it be something deeper? Barry finds it hard to think, because now the airline founder is standing up, striking a pose, outlining his plans to bootstrap a network of community-centric work exchanges to match up the needy with the jobs they so obviously desire—there’s no time to think about Schiller’s inspirational words, and by the time Mr. McGready is wrapping up his pitch the actual neon-limned words themselves have faded into rosy memories.

On the way out, he makes a point of clasping Pastor Schiller’s hand once more. “We’ll have to talk again some time,” he says effusively.

Schiller smiles. “I’m sure we will.”

*     *     *

A CAR IS WAITING OUTSIDE NUMBER TEN TO WHISK RAYMOND Schiller away. It’s a stretched BMW limo with mirror-tinted windows. Roseanne, his current number one handmaiden, is waiting in the jump seat with his briefcase. A blonde and high-cheeked twenty-something, dressed in a trim gray skirt-suit with only modest makeup, she could easily pass for a lawyer or a political aide. Schiller approves silently, letting his gaze rest on her. There is a flash of futile lust, but nothing more, for which he is duly grateful. The lust often tries to overwhelm his will right after he has worked a blessing, testifying before the Unsaved. She waits until the driver starts the engine before she opens the case. “How did it go, Father?”

“It went well, Daughter.” The formalities of their relationship reaffirmed, he sinks back in the leather and closes his eyes. His stomach is full: not gluttonously so, but enough to make him torpid and lazy. Two sins in one. “Hmm. Make a note: I need to focus on Barry Jennings. His heart is open.”

“Barry Jenning?—Or with an ‘s’?”

“He’s their Home Secretary. Like the Attorney General, only more powerful. One of the top five posts in the administration. He’s ripe for a weekend retreat. Phase one, of course.”

“Yes, Father.” Roseanne has some kind of high-tech digital pen; she can scribble notes and add them to his BlackBerry without re-typing anything.

The car sways heavily on its suspension as it noses past the barriers at the end of Downing Street and turns into Parliament Street. They’re heading towards Victoria Embankment, and then out east in the direction of Docklands, less than fifteen kilometers away, but three-quarters of an hour through the heavy Central London traffic.

“Another note. John McGready. We need to invite him, too.”

“The airline executive?”

“Yes.” He hears Roseanne flip pages on her notebook. “A letter to the prime minister. Begins. Insert appropriate salutation. I’d like to thank you once again for inviting me to breakfast today. I found it deeply humbling and moving to discover a kindred spirit in you; truly the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and it is our duty to perform wonders on his behalf. I look forward to contributing to your Caring Society program, and if there is anything I can do on your behalf I would be delighted to help. Insert appropriate conclusion. Send.”

“Got it.” Roseanne clears her throat tentatively. “Father, Lindsay sent an update on yesterday’s correspondence while you were inside…?”

Ray opens his eyes and looks at her directly, showing no outward sign of the turmoil in his soul. Gluttony, sloth, lust: it’s a good thing he’s Saved. Even so, some prayer is indicated. And mortification. These excursions into the carnal world of the fallen are increasingly wearing, but also increasingly hard to avoid as the mission proceeds. “Tell me the news,” he says evenly.

“Yes, Father.” Roseanne glances down at the tablet computer in the briefcase. “Item: Operation Castitas. There has been a suspected security breach, level two, in the research and development conclave. One of the external contractors—a researcher in an essential post—has apparently been talking to his sister by phone. We don’t have a log of what’s been said but he has made an increasing number of long calls to her from within the campus. Security first verified that there was no change in her family circumstances—no babies, no deaths, no obvious explanation—then escalated. Fowler wants to know how to proceed.”

Ray suppresses a sigh. “How replaceable is the contractor?”

Roseanne glances down again. “He’s part of the core team working on the ventral tegmental area and the amygdala, Father. A parasitologist specializing in neurochemistry.” Her lips tighten in disapproval.

“In other words, not.” Ray thinks for a moment. “All right. Tell Fowler to focus on the sister. Double-check for options, just in case—if we can save her, that will be sufficient. Otherwise, our Father will know His own.”

“Yes, Father.” Roseanne makes a note. “Next, the arrangements with the New Life Church for next weekend’s mass outreach service need attention. Brother Mark is having problems negotiating with the PD for crowd management services, and we’re seeing some push-back from the Church board of overseers—a couple of them are not yet Saved and, reading between the lines, Gilbert managed to offend them during the negotiations. He hadn’t been briefed on the progress of our outreach mission to them.”

Ray sniffs. “All right. Remind me to call him personally”—he glances at his wristwatch—“after six p.m., British time. I’ll need a printout of the report.” He pauses. “Anything else?”

“A final note, Father. You asked me to remind you—”

“About the presence in the audience at the arena on Sunday, yes.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m certain it was another of the elect: I’d recognize the scent anywhere. But there were too many people.” He frowns, frustrated. “Remind me again tomorrow. I shall make enquiries once we are home. If there is already a church cell in London, that would save us much trouble.” He breathes out. “Is there anything more?”

Roseanne shakes her head. “That’s all from Lindsay.” The head of Ray’s office staff. “You’re set, Father.”

Ray unwinds somewhat. Doubtless there will be more tiresome administrivia for him to render judgment over when they get to the airport—his staff defer to him as before the throne of Solomon—but for now he can relax. Everything is running along just fine, and in about half an hour he’ll be boarding a Falcon 7X bound for Baltimore. While he doesn’t own the executive jet himself, the Ministries hold a controlling interest in the fractional aircraft ownership group: enough to guarantee him a plane of his own whenever he needs one—and, more importantly, guarantee that it is kitted out to his very exacting requirements.

He focuses on Roseanne, who is squaring away the travel kit in the bag. She is, he thinks, wholly delectable; a younger and wilder Ray would have jumped her bones as soon as look at her. Those days are long behind him, thanks to God and Mission, but she still inspires a ghost of possessive lust in his shriveled heart, if not his loins. Young and zealous. His pulse speeds. She closes the briefcase and looks at him evenly. “Yes, Father?”

“I require mortification, Daughter.”

“Ah. Of course.” She bites her lower lip. “Right now? We’re less than half an hour from the airport.”

“Now.” It’s inevitable. He can’t tear his eyes away from her. If he has to wait, it could be too late for both of them.