“Three.”
Leuchten recognized, far too late, that this was indeed a moment of destiny, here in this dingy conference room deep insidea Virginia military base. The future would emerge from this moment, shaped into some new configuration.
“Two.”
He was present. He would witness it. All his choices, all his sacrifices . . . they’d bought him that much. But ultimately . . .the future belonged to the Oracle.
Leuchten reached forward and pressed a button on the speakerphone in the center of the table.
“Sir, there’s someone out here who wants to speak with you.”
A pause. A long, thick pause.
“Send him in,” the president said through the speaker, his voice icy. “By himself.”
The Oracle stood up from the table, a satisfied look on his face. Two of the Secret Service men walked to stand on eitherside of him. Leuchten watched as the agents escorted Will Dando from the room.
Leuchten stayed where he was. The marines were still in the room—they probably didn’t know what to do either—but he had nointerest in talking to them. Five long, silent minutes passed.
The door opened, and the Oracle returned to the conference room, followed by Daniel Green, the president of the United States.Leuchten rose to his feet.
“Sir, are you all right?” he said.
Green did not look good, not good at all. He usually glowed with ruddy good health. Now, though, his skin showed a waxy under-pallor,and the wrinkles on his face stood out as deep canyons etched into his forehead and cheeks. His eyes stared, unfocused.
“Let them go,” the president said, his voice distant. “Take them home and leave them alone.”
“Sir . . . are you sure?” Leuchten said. “We can’t do that. This isn’t the plan, Mr. President. You know that . . .”
“Let them go, goddammit!” Green roared. The dead look had left his face, replaced by an expression of rage and despair. Leuchtenhad never seen him so uncontrolled before, not even in private moments, behind closed doors. He glanced at the Oracle, whowas standing to one side, his arms crossed, looking very self-satisfied.
“Well,” Will Dando said. “I guess that’s that.”
Chapter 33
Jonas Block watched from a seat in the corner of the dressing room as Reverend Branson dismissed the fourth centerpiece optionpresented to him by the preternaturally patient set designers working to help create the visual presentation for the big dinnerbroadcast planned for the twenty-third of August.
A number of ideas had been considered—run it as a banquet, with Branson surrounded by family and friends. Or perhaps a moreintimate affair, with only a few guests—theologians and politicians and significant men of business, to underscore the importanceof the great man on this day that he would demonstrate his power over the false prophet.
Ultimately, Branson had decided that he would be the only person onstage, eating his meal while delivering a sermon on thepower of personal choice and every individual’s capacity to resist the pernicious influence of evil—demonstrated viscerally,once and for all, when he declined to allow pepper anywhere near his steak.
A huge PR campaign was in full swing for the big event—donations were up, for the first time in months. Of course, the costof promoting the dinner was in danger of outstripping any gains they’d seen, but from what Jonas could tell, Branson didn’tcare at all. This was his moment—his line in the sand. He would spend any amount to win. Beating the Oracle was everything,and it had to be done in public, with the world watching, or there would still be room for doubt.
Never mind that every other prediction had come true. Never mind that Branson was trying to convince the world that the Oraclewas a liar, when from all appearances the Oracle had only ever told the truth.
A fifth centerpiece was set aside, the professionally plastic smiles on the designers’ faces beginning to waver.
Jonas’ cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.
Matthew Wyatt? he thought. That is unexpected.
Wyatt worked in DC—in the White House, in fact. Jonas knew that political types, especially of the less senior variety, likedto exaggerate their access. Wyatt was the real deal, though, an aide to the chief of staff. He worked directly with the hundredsof lobbyists who constantly attempted to push their agendas into the Oval Office, determining which, if any, might merit theattention of Anthony Leuchten, and then, possibly, be placed on the desk of the president.
Matt Wyatt was an old friend—they had both attended the same small Christian college in South Carolina and had kept in touchas they found themselves working in the orbit of powerful men. An old friend, certainly, but it was unusual for him to callunprompted. An occasional text, or an e-mail update once or twice a year, but a call out of the blue? Odd.
Jonas tapped the screen to answer the call and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Hey, Matt,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Hey, man,” came Wyatt’s voice, sounding excited. “Just listen. I can’t talk long. I know who the Oracle is. The FBI foundhim, and the president just met with him, down at Quantico. It wasn’t on his itinerary—we were on our way to a campaign speechin South Carolina when we diverted to Virginia. Jim Franklin—he’s the FBI director—called, and after Green hung up, he hadus turn around. A briefing sheet came through before the meeting, and I snuck a look at it once he got off the plane.”
“That’s . . . that’s incredible,” Jonas said. “Who is he?”
“His name is Will Dando. He lives in New York.”
Jonas closed his eyes.
Will Dando, he thought, realizing the depth of the choice that had just been laid before him.
“Matt, why are you telling me this? Isn’t it . . . I mean, I’m sure this isn’t the sort of thing the president wants gettingout.”
“It’s not,” Wyatt said, “but I’ve been listening to Branson’s sermons. I know the danger the Oracle represents, and how hardyou’ve been working to find him. That whole Detectives for Christ initiative you guys set up—it resonated with me, I guess.I think that if anyone should know who he
