“It doesn’t matter,” Buscema answered flatly. “You’ve got to endorse him and endorse him big. Big and loud. Look, you’re already lagging on this front. The others, your fellow church leaders who signed up for the global warming initiative two years ago . . . they’re on board.” Buscema was referring to the eighty-six Christian leaders who, despite strong opposition from many of their evangelical brethren, had signed up for what became known as the “Evangelical Climate Initiative.” Some of the most prominent church leaders, however, such as the president of the National Association of Evangelicals, had resisted publicly supporting the movement, even if they privately backed it. “This is your chance to leapfrog over them and take control.”
Darby frowned. “But what about that sign that keeps popping up? What is it? If it was a cross or something clearly Christian, then fine . . . but it’s not.”
“It doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that it’s there. It’s up there and everyone’s looking at it and wanting to be part of it.” Buscema leaned in and fixed Darby with unflinching resolve. “You’re missing the point here, Nelson. Catholic, Protestant, Baptist, Presbyterian, Quaker, or Amish—or even Mormon, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, or Scientologist for that matter. None of it matters now. You’re right that it’s not a cross up there. But it’s not a Star of David or a crescent or anything linked to any of the other major religions either. It’s a game-changer. An entirely new paradigm. It could be the start of something bigger than anything we’ve seen before, something new, something global. And as we’ve seen throughout history, when these things happen, they spawn big organizations. Right now, there isn’t one. There’s nothing. There’s just a man and a sign in the sky. But people are coming to him in droves. And you need to decide whether or not you want to be part of it. Right now, you can get a jump on the others by hitching your wagon to him before the rest of them. Things can change . . . in the twinkling of an eye.” He just couldn’t resist throwing that one in. “Because even if it isn’t specifically, obviously Christian,” he pressed on, “if you haven’t embraced it while everyone else has, you just might find yourself with a whole bunch of empty pews. And that wouldn’t be a good thing, would it?” He winced, trying to stop himself from taking another dig using an End of Times catchphrase, but he couldn’t resist, and he kept his voice as even as he could and added, “You don’t want to be left behind, now, do you?”
“DID HE BUY IT?” Drucker asked Buscema.
“Please,” the journalist said mockingly, the sound of rushing air coming through his car phone. “He’s so into it it’s almost painful to watch.”
“You gonna see Schaeffer again?”
“He’s left me two messages since I last spoke to him,” he confirmed. “Same with Scofield. I’ll let them sweat it out a little bit before calling them back.”
Chapter 46
Boston, Massachusetts
Matt and Jabba were in the bloodstained Camry, parked outside a modern, six-floor office block in the Seaport district.
Matt’s face was screened by the shadow of his baseball cap and the upturned collar of his coat. He sat in the passenger seat and eyed the building with quiet fury. It was a bland, architecturally bankrupt tile-and-glass box with a large parking area out front. There was no corporate signage by its front entrance; instead, various tenants probably leased suites there, moving in and out in accordance with the ebb and flow of their earnings. A thin blanket of snow from an early-morning flurry covered the asphalt and trimmed the bare branches of the trees that dotted the lot.
They’d been parked there for half an hour, and had seen only one person walk into the building. There had been no sign of the hard case.
The painkillers had taken the sting out of Matt’s wound, but it still hurt every time he moved. He still felt a bit light-headed, which he attributed to the loss of blood. His body was pleading with him to give it time to heal, but the pleas were falling on deaf ears. He could walk, and right now, that would have to do.
“I’m going to have a look,” he told Jabba. He reached for the door handle, grimacing with discomfort as he pulled on it.
Jabba reached out to stop him. “Not a good idea, dude. You shouldn’t even be here. Look at you.”
“Just a look,” Matt repeated; only as he pushed the door open, Jabba put a hand on his shoulder and stayed him.
“I’ll go,” Jabba said.
Matt looked at him.
“I’ll go,” he protested-insisted, his voice rising a notch, before concern flitted across his eyes. “If I’m not out in five minutes, call the cops,” he added, slapping his iPhone into Matt’s hand. Then he caught himself, and grinned. “God, I never imagined I’d ever hear myself say that.”
Matt brushed it away, dead serious. “Just don’t get too nosy.”
Jabba looked at him askance. “Seriously, sometimes, it’s like you don’t even know me,” he mock-griped, then climbed out of the car.
He scanned left and right as he ambled across the lot, slightly overdoing the casual don’t-mind-me attitude, but there was no one around to notice. Matt watched him disappear inside the building’s entrance lobby.
Less than a minute later, he emerged.
“Well?” Matt asked.
Jabba gave him a piece-of-cake smile, but his body told a different story. He was breathing fast, and his face was sprinkled with sweat droplets that weren’t there before.
“No receptionist. Five names on the roster, one per floor. Third seems unoccupied, or they’ve been too lazy to put their name up,” he informed Matt in between sharp breaths. “But I think I know which one we want. Just need to go online somewhere to confirm it.”
Matt thought about it, then said, “Okay. Do it here.”
Which totally threw Jabba. “What, you want me to use my phone?”
“Yep,” Matt confirmed, sure of it.
“Dude, they could track our position. My iPhone’s got A-GPS, as in ‘assisted.’ Makes their job even easier.”
“Fine. Do it. And stay on long enough for them to be able to do it.”
Jabba looked at him like he was nuts. “You
Matt nodded. “Yep.”
Jabba was now looking at him like he’d sprouted little green antennas from his ears. “Why?”
“I want to fuck with them a little. Shake them up. Keep them unbalanced.”
“It’s my phone, dude,” Jabba specified. “All they’ll know for sure is that I was here.”
“Same difference. They know we’re together.”
Jabba looked like he wanted to object more, but he gave up, raised his hands in surrender, and turned on his phone. He checked his watch, then fired up his Macbook and connected it to the phone, using the phone’s Internet connection. Matt watched as Jabba’s fingers danced across the keyboard and tapped the touchpad a few times. He
