But we can be sure that God was there with Skip, and with Cardinal DiMilo. God directed their brave hands, and through them God saved that innocent little child,” Patterson told his black congregation. “And God welcomed to his bosom the two men He sent there to do His work, and today our friend Skip and Cardinal DiMilo stand proudly before the Lord God, those good and faithful servants of His Holy Word.
“My friends, they did their job. They did the Lord’s work that day. They saved the life of an innocent child. They showed the whole world what the power of faith can be.
“But what of our job?” Patterson asked.
It is not the job of the faithful to encourage Satan,” Hosiah Jackson told the people before him. He’d captured their attention as surely as Lord Olivier on his best day—and why not? These were not the words of Shakespeare. These were the words of one of God’s ministers. “When Jesus looks into our hearts, will He see people who support the sons of Lucifer? Will Jesus see people who give their money to support the godless killers of the innocent? Will Jesus see people who give their money to the new Hitler?”
“No!” A female voice shouted in reply. “No!” “What is it that we, we the people of God, the people of faith— what is it that we stand for? When the sons of Lucifer kill the faithful, where do you stand? Will you stand for justice? Will you stand for your faith? Will you stand with the holy martyrs? Will you stand with Jesus?” Jackson demanded of his borrowed white congregation. And as one voice, they answered him: “Yes!”
Jesus H. Christ,” Ryan said. He’d walked over to the Vice President’s office to catch the TV coverage.
“Told you my Pap was good at this stuff. Hell, I grew up with it over the dinner table, and he still gets inside my head,” said Robby Jackson, wondering if he’d allow himself a drink tonight. “Patterson is probably doing okay, too. Pap says he’s an okay guy, but my Pap is the champ.”
“Did he ever think of becoming a Jesuit?” Jack asked with a grin.
“Pap’s a preacherman, but he ain’t quite a saint. The celibacy would be kinda hard on him,” Robby answered.
Then the scene changed to Leonardo di Vinci International Airport outside Rome, where the Alitalia 747 had just landed and was now pulling up to the jetway. Below it was a truck, and next to the truck some cars belonging to the Vatican. It had already been announced that Renato Cardinal DiMilo would be getting his own full state funeral at St. Peter’s Basilica, and CNN would be there to cover all of it, joined by SkyNews, Fox, and all the major networks. They’d been late getting onto the story at the beginning, but that only made this part of the coverage more full.
Back in Mississippi, Hosiah Jackson walked slowly down from the pulpit as the last hymn ended. He walked with grace and dignity to the front door, so as to greet all of the congregation members on the way out.
That took much longer than he’d expected. It seemed that every single one of them wanted to take his hand and thank him for coming— the degree of hospitality was well in excess of his most optimistic expectations. And there was no doubting their sincerity. Some insisted on talking for a few moments, until the press of the departing crowd forced them down the steps and onto the parking lot. Hosiah counted six invitations to dinner, and ten inquiries about his church, and if it needed any special work. Finally, there was just one man left, pushing seventy, with scraggly gray hair and a hooked nose that had seen its share of whiskey bottles. He looked like a man who’d topped out as assistant foreman at the sawmill.
“Hello,” Jackson said agreeably.
“Pastor,” the man replied, uneasily, as though wanting to say more.
It was a look Hosiah had seen often enough. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Pastor … years ago …” And his voice choked up again. “Pastor,” he began again. “Pastor, I sinned.”
“My friend, we all sin. God knows that. That’s why he sent His Son to be with us and conquer our sins.” The minister grabbed the man’s shoulder to steady him.
“I was in the Klan, Pastor, I did . . . sinful things … I… hurt nigras just cuz I hated them, and I—”
“What’s your name?” Hosiah asked gently.
“Charlie Picket,” the man replied. And then Hosiah knew. He had a good memory for names. Charles Worthington Picket had been the Grand Kleegle of the local Klavern. He’d never been convicted of a major crime, but his name was one that came up much of the time.
“Mr. Picket, those things all happened many years ago,” he reminded the man.
“I ain’t never—I mean, I ain’t never killed nobody. Honest, Pastor, I ain’t never done that,” Picket insisted, with real desperation in his voice. “But I know’d thems that did, and I never told the cops. I never told them not to do it … sweet Jesus, I don’t know what I was back then, Pastor. I was … it was …”
“Mr. Picket, are you sorry for your sins?”
“Oh, yes, oh Jesus, yes, Pastor. I’ve prayed for forgiveness, but—”
“There is no ‘but,’ Mr. Picket. God has forgiven you your sins,” Jackson told him in his gentlest voice.
“Are you sure?”
A smile and a nod. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Pastor, you need help at your church, roofing and stuff, you call me, y’hear? That’s the house of God, too. Maybe I didn’t always know it, but by damn I know it now, sir.”
He’d probably never called a black man “sir” in his life, unless there’d been a gun to his head. So, the minister thought, at least one person had listened to his sermon, and learned something from it. And that wasn’t bad for a man in his line of work.
“Pastor, I gots to apologize for all the evil words and thoughts I had. Ain’t never done that, but I gots to do it now.” He seized Hosiah’s hand. “Pastor, I am sorry, sorry as a man can be for all the things I done back then, and I beg your forgiveness.”
“And the Lord Jesus said, ‘Go forth and sin no more.’ Mr. Picket, that’s all of scripture in one sentence. God came to forgive our sins. God has already forgiven you.”
Finally, their eyes met. “Thank you, Pastor. And God bless you, sir.”
“And may the Lord bless you, too.” Hosiah Jackson watched the man walk off to his pickup truck, wondering if a soul had just been saved. If so, Skip would be pleased with the black friend he’d never met.
C H A P T E R – 32
Coalition Collision
It was a long drive from the airport to the Vatican, every yard of it covered by cameras in the high-speed motorcade, until finally the vehicles entered the Piazza San Pietro, St. Peter’s Square. There, waiting, was a squad of Swiss Guards wearing the purple-and-gold uniforms designed by Michelangelo. Some of the Guards pulled the casket containing a Prince of the Church, martyred far away, and carried it through the towering bronze doors into the cavernous interior of the church, where the next day a Requiem Mass would be celebrated by the Pope himself.
But it wasn’t about religion now, except to the public. For the President of the United States, it was about matters of state. It turned out that Tom Jefferson had been right after all. The power of government devolved directly from the people, and Ryan had to act now, in a way that the people would approve, because when you got down to it, the nation wasn’t his. It was theirs.
And one thing made it worse. SORGE had coughed up another report that morning, and it was late coming in only because Mary Patricia Foley wanted to be doubly sure that the translation was right.
Also in the Oval Office were Ben Goodley, Arnie van Damm, and the Vice President. “Well?” Ryan asked them.
“Cocksuckers,” Robby said, first of all. “If they really think this way, we shouldn’t sell them shit in a paper bag. Even at Top Gun after a long night of boilermakers, even Navy fighter pilots don’t talk like this.”
“It is callous,” Ben Goodley agreed.
“They don’t issue consciences to the political leaders, I guess,” van Damm said, making it unanimous.
“How would your father react to information like this, Robby?” Ryan asked.
“His immediate response will be the same as mine: Nuke the bastards. Then he’ll remember what happens in a real war and settle down some. Jack, we have to punish them.”
Ryan nodded. “Okay, but if we shut down trade to the PRC, the first people hurt are the poor schlubs in the factories, aren’t they?”