The Second Coming by John Dalmas

They shook hands on it. His was firm, dry, and warm. And his touch . . . She was reminded of her first impression. This was someone she really shouldn’t have much to do with.

When Cochran had left, she sat down at her desk. Prior to her Montana trip, her loyalty to Millennium had been professional. But since her trip, she realized, she felt an emotional loyalty, because Millennium really had done—was doing—good works. Nonetheless, her talk with Lor Lu had disturbed her, and what Duke had said was troubling, even if far from demonstrating anything. And if she uncovered something, she wouldn’t have to tell him unless it seemed like the right thing to do.

Turning her chair to her keyboard, she wrote in an instruction, and after a moment another. She kept pulling strings for nearly half an hour, going deeper and further than she’d intended. And learned nothing of consequence. Finally she keyed in a call.

“This is Duke.”

“Duke, this is Lee. I didn’t learn a thing. If you want to talk about my Montana trip, let’s get together for coffee at 10:30, for 15 minutes. In the coffee room or my office, either one.”

“Great. Your office at 10:30.”

* * *

When they hung up, Cochran’s mind went to other possible sources for information on David Hunter. Maybe Nidringham would spring for a private investigator, one who specialized in money people. A fishing expedition, for general information on associations, and anything suggestive of illegal activities.

41

We have further news regarding this morning’s failed terrorist attempt on the life of Pope John XXIV. There were three gunmen, and all of them were killed. One has been identified as Jack Russell, once a captain in the terrorist wing of the Irish Republican Army. Dressed as priests, and with several fully automatic pistols concealed beneath their robes, they attempted to kill the pontiff at a papal appearance in the Vatican’s Piazza San Pietro. Unable to get nearer to the pope than about fifty feet, they began shooting into the crowd, apparently hoping that people would get out of their way. Seven were killed, including all three gunmen. Eighteen others were wounded. The seventy-seven-year-old pontiff was slightly injured when thrown to the ground by a Swiss guard, who then fell on him to protect him.

Headline News

Atlanta, GA,

Jan. 17

Scanning the article, Thomas Corkery’s expression was wry but not distressed. Russell had fucked it up. They should have had grenades.

Corkery was not surprised. But meanwhile it left him with no major income source, and his minor sources had dried up with the Hard Times.

Fortunately the Catholic Soldiers remained, such as they were, and those who financed them. “So, Thomas,” he told himself in Gaelic, “it’s off to Montreal with you.” He had no doubt he’d find the necessary contacts there within a day or so of arriving, and his school French would finally serve some purpose. He’d regret leaving this South Boston Irish neighborhood, but perhaps there was one like it in Montreal.

42

In Southern California, the year’s rainy season had begun late but with gusto, reminding Rafi Glickman of winter in Israel. The tires buzzed on the wet freeway pavement, and the delivery van’s wipers slashed furiously back and forth. Its cargo was not the bread suggested by the name “Romeo’s Bakery” painted on the sides. The disguise was only skin-deep. There hadn’t been room for even a facade of loaves, to satisfy a quick look through the door. There was barely room for the cargo and technician.

“Slow down,” Rafi said in Hebrew. “The exit’s just ahead.”

Despite the exceedingly sparse 2 a.m. traffic, the driver had not been speeding. It wouldn’t do to be stopped by the Highway Patrol. It was bad enough having to leave on an exit whose road would take them into the mountains. A bread truck driving into the Cleveland National Forest at two in the morning? If that wasn’t suspicious! But the tall step-van would itself seem odd on such a road, so Ben David had ordered something misleading painted on its side.

Rafi was mildly troubled by not knowing how the test worked. He wondered if even the technician knew. He didn’t know the technician, not even his name; names were not divulged unnecessarily, and one never asked. Only Ben David knew them all, kept in a memory as remarkable as Rafi’s own. Somewhere, presumably, they were written, otherwise the loss of the gray and silent Yeshua Ben David would cripple the organization. Perhaps the names were in a safe deposit box somewhere. If he could find out . . . but he couldn’t imagine being so lucky.

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