“And now,” Branson went on, “I have the ear of captains of industry and titans of entertainment, because I have an army. My flock. I call something the devil’s work, and they despise that thing. I call another thing blessed by God, and my peoplebuy it, or vote for it, or go see it. That is my power, and it lets me walk with powerful men. You know President Green callsme once a month, Jonas? Just to chat.
“All that power, and I’ve tried to do nothing but good with it. How many people could say the same, if they were in my position?”
Jonas realized that he had just listened to a man spend ten minutes justifying the fact that he lied for a living.
“I don’t believe in God,” Branson said, “but I believe in belief, and its power to do good in this world. I’ve devoted mylife to that principle. But now . . .”
He lifted Gratus of Aosta’s reliquary again and smiled at it.
“Who gives a shit?” he said.
Branson threw the reliquary into the fire. It smashed, and an odd, mushroomlike odor immediately wafted up.
He stepped to another alcove and removed a second reliquary, brandishing it at Jonas. The reverend’s face was turning red—theroom had become stifling, and the overpowering odor of burning human remains didn’t help.
“Anthony of Padua, Jonas. Asses. The patron saint of donkeys, for God’s sake!”
A crash, as Anthony joined Gratus in the flames. Jonas shied back from the heat. The Oracle’s prediction had clearly brokenthe reverend’s mind. He wanted to run, wondering in a panic if he should try to warn Maria, get her out of the house. He consideredwhat might happen if he actually had to fight Hosiah Branson—he couldn’t even picture it.
Branson stepped to the next alcove and picked up a small crystal chest—into the fire it went. The scents wafting out of theflames had taken on a new quality—notes of nutmeg, mixed with a sharp, chemical odor.
A vision popped into Jonas’ head, very clear—the reverend’s wife opening the study door some hours from now, and finding bothher husband and his assistant dead on the rug before the fireplace, poisoned from the fumes generated by some ancient preservative.
Jonas stepped forward and put a hand on Branson’s arm.
“Please stop, Reverend. What are . . . what are you doing?”
Hosiah swiveled his eyes toward Jonas. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, beading in his eyebrows. He wiped it away withhis sleeve.
“That prediction was a direct attack, Jonas! He’s trying to destroy my credibility—make me a joke. And not just me, either.Hindus, Muslims . . . we’ll all get it. We can’t compete. The Oracle hasn’t come out and said he’s the voice of God yet, butit’s only a matter of time, and then . . . a prophet whose predictions actually come true? We’re done. Faith is fickle, I’msorry to say. The Oracle’s doing what we do, just . . . better, and people are paying attention. Shifting their loyalties.The Site’s only been up for three months and our donations are down by . . .”
“Fourteen percent,” Jonas answered, without hesitation.
“Fourteen percent,” Branson echoed, nodding his head. “We have to stop him. I won’t let my life’s work be ruined by some charlatan.”
“Charlatan?” Jonas said. “I mean . . . the predictions he’s making . . .”
“Yes, a charlatan. A fraud,” Branson said. “I can admit to some doubt, early on. That prediction about me . . . pepper onmy steak . . . I couldn’t get my head around it. Not at first. That’s why I had to take this time—these days away—just tothink it through. But now . . . I know what to do.
“We’ll take him down, Jonas. You and me, and some of my powerful friends. It’ll work. I know it. After all, we’ve got Godon our side.”
Branson smiled again—that neon-bright grin.
“Do you really think it’ll be that easy, Reverend?” Jonas said. “I mean, the Oracle does seem to be able to predict thingsbefore they happen. We don’t know what else he’s capable of. What powers he might have.”
“No. We’ll be fine,” Branson said.
“But . . . how do you know?”
“The Oracle isn’t a god. He’s got no magic. He’s just a man. Without a doubt. Do you know how I know that?”
“How, sir?”
“Because he fucked up.”
Branson eased himself down onto one of the couches, the leather creaking under him.
“He got rattled,” Branson said. “He sent that prediction at me like a sniper’s bullet, like some kind of attack, but it’llbite him in the ass, I promise you that.”
He sipped Jonas’ sherry, savoring it, taking his time.
“I didn’t see it at first. I’ll admit, I was probably a little rattled myself. The Site is so pervasive . . . even I sometimesforget that it’s all a lie. But I tell you this—there is nothing supernatural about the Oracle.
“The fool said I’ll supposedly put pepper on my steak on such and such a date. Well, I have a choice, don’t I? I have freewill. When the time comes, Jonas . . . it’s simple. I just won’t do it.”
“But I don’t see how . . .”
“Because,” Branson said. “I’ll have that steak live, in the ministry’s cathedral, on television, with the signal going outall over the world. And I’ll lift that pepper shaker, and then I’ll look at it, and I’ll smile, and I’ll set it right backdown, unshook.
“Everyone on the planet will see that the Oracle can be wrong. And between now and then, we’ll use every resource this organizationhas at its disposal, every connection I have, every favor I’m owed, to find him. We will name him, and we will take away hispower, and that . . . will be that.”
He raised his sherry glass and drained it.
“The Oracle gave us the weapon we’ll use to defeat him. He fucked up. That’s how I know he’s just a man.”
Branson shifted his gaze toward the fireplace, the flames fueled by blackened, smoking, shattered saints.
“God doesn’t make mistakes.”
Chapter 8
At his kitchen table, surrounded by stacks of thick-bound books and scattered web page printouts, Hamza examined the tableof contents of The Swiss National Bank Law: A Treatise. He flipped to the section on international currency exchange regulations.
Even the introductory paragraph was a rat’s nest—a
