“Ngunda Elija Aran, who has presumed the title Messiah. An affront to the Holy Church and to God himself.”
“Aran? I’ve followed him in the papers, and heard him on the telly. I wasn’t aware he’d claimed the mantle of Christ.”
“Others claim it for him, and he’s never rejected it. He’ll say it in time, if he lives.”
“Ah! A terrible crime.” Corkery’s tone was mocking. “Well, let’s talk about it. After all, messiahs are supposed to die at the hands of the wicked. Why not mine?” He chuckled, then added, “No doubt you’ve had thoughts on how it might be done?”
The man is cold, Russell thought. Cold. He kills for money and pleasure; the Cause means nothing to him. “He’ll be here in Boston. In January, speaking at the Bentham Avenue Unitarian Church. And, Thomas, the man’s security people are the best. We want no shoot-out, nor anything that could lead to our identification. Use a bomb, not a pistol. If it sends some Unitarians to hell with him, there’s little lost.”
“It won’t be cheap,” Corkery said. “Planting bombs of suitable size, bombs that won’t be found, takes arranging and care. Also, I’ll need information on the church and its services, and we’re unlikely to have an insider to work with. I do know someone who custom-makes bombs, excellent bombs, but he has a cause of his own, and always needs money. Then there are costs I can’t foresee till I’ve a plan sketched out.” He paused, grinning, rubbing thumb and forefinger together in Jack Russell’s face. “And of course there are my own small needs.”
Russell’s lips twisted sourly. It always came down to that: his specialty, getting the money. “Times are hard,” he answered. “I’m prepared to give you three thousand cash today, Canadian. For a rough plan in ten days, by mail, and a detailed plan in four weeks. Then we’ll see how much more is needed.”
Corkery shrugged. “Indeed. And meanwhile, what derring-do will you be up to?”
The question was further mockery, another annoyance atop the others. Russell knew what was said of him—that when it came to killing, he lacked the stomach for it. “I’ll be in Rome by December,” he answered drily, “disposing of the antichrist with my own hand.”
Corkery’s eyebrows rose. “With your own hand, you say? I’ll believe that when I hear of the old man’s murder on the telly.” He paused. “And you named as the triggerman.”
* * *
When Russell had left, Corkery filled a coffee cup with the dregs from three, and put it in the microwave. To let a contract on a man because others call him Messiah! he thought, and shook his head. Russell’s crazier than I am. He has no cause now, only hatred looking for targets.
“Well,” he murmured aloud, “it helps pay the bills.”
19
The great Millennium scam is back in the news today. Several of its apostles are visiting foreign countries in Europe and Asia, while another is favoring South America with his holy presence. Last night a Russian-speaking disciple spoke to an estimated fifteen million viewers on Russian television.
Meanwhile Millennium’s great guru has been on a flying trip to Australia and New Zealand, hoping to cash in on his father’s down-under origins. . . .
The Heartland Superstation
Rock Island, IL
Oct. 22
Duke Cochran had fallen asleep with the plane still on the ground in L.A. Now the pilot’s voice tugged him reluctantly awake.
They’d been on the move for eleven days, days that with the help of jet lag had blurred together in Cochran’s mind. They’d crossed the Pacific to Sydney by Superjet, then by charter plane had crossed and recrossed Australia. Ngunda had spoken in the continent’s five major cities, then crossed the Tasman Sea to New Zealand, where he’d spoken in three more. After that they’d returned to Sydney, and another trans-Pacific jet.
The crowds had totaled 145,000, and in addition, Dove had been watched by an estimated 7.5 million on Australian and New Zealand television. Impressive, considering that the two countries combined had less than two-thirds the population of California, in an area the size of the lower forty-eight states.