part three all in god's name · cardinal normanni, archbishop of reggio di calabria. the...

Dalmas/SIGNATURE File 18, page 152

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PART THREE

ALL IN GOD'S NAME

There is no destiny. True, you enter life with a guiding plan,

sketched out yourself between lives, but in the absorbing,

fluctuating sensory environment of an infant, you lose track of it.

Essence, the heart of your soul, remembers, but the developing

personality grows its own agenda, and changes that forgotten

plan by making choices at the behest of demands, dangers,

opportunities, temptations...

Including the counter and cross-intentions of others.

But with low-key persistence, Essence, which never forgets,

nudges you toward your original goals, so far as conditions and

false personality allow.

Regardless, whatever you do is food for the soul. Food to

grow on. No life, nothing, is wasted.

From Collected Observations of Lor Lu


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Chapter 18 The Holy Father

Religious fanatics are not spiritually enlightened. They are simply

convinced by someone's authoritarian stance on God and behavior, or by

their own fear-driven aberrations. And fanaticism of any stripe can

become seriously destructive, especially when coupled with a goal of

dominance, and a mode of aggression or power.

From Collected Observations of Lor Lu It was early August, and hot for Rome. The long persistent haze was no longer conspicuous, and the air's increased methane content had shut down any argument regarding greenhouse effects and planetary heating. Though now it could hardly be blamed on fossil fuels, the use of which was way down. The Rock, its enormous marine shockwave, and gigatons of frangible methane clathrates on the ocean floor, had canceled that issue. Now geophysicists and programmers were working on new models of biosphere dynamics for prediction and planning. Meanwhile, the heat did not much oppress Pope John XXIV. The papal apartment was air-conditioned, in recognition of his years, honors, responsibilities, and the importance of his work. Though he would not agree to a luxury setting of the cooling system, which he kept at 28°C — about 82°F. The pope was of medium height, big-chested, and gave an appearance of hearty good health. His once formidable farm boy shoulders had wasted over the decades, but through the efforts of his cook and dietitian, and the ministrations and gentle nagging of his physician and personal trainer, he remained mobile and healthy for his age, his spine erect, his aorta clean.


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He'd begun his day with personal devotions, followed by thirty minutes of tai chi, then a shower, a professional shave, and a light breakfast. Meanwhile his personal attendant had laid out appropriate vestments, considering the weather, papal preferences, and scheduled events. This morning His Holiness had garbed himself in white cassock and skullcap, as usual. He'd scheduled the most sensitive business first: He would meet with Luigi Cardinal Normanni, Archbishop of Reggio di Calabria. The cardinal was a member of a faction referred to as "rejectionists," for their resistance to the Church's recognition of Dove as an avatar, an incarnation of the Infinite Soul. "The Second Coming." A recognition widely accepted inside and outside the Church, based on Dove's miracles and presence — and the Rock, which even within the Vatican was widely referred to as "the Signature of God." The pope, 17 months in office when the Infinite Soul manifested, had foreseen dilemmas of misguided conscience, and his encyclicals had been written to accommodate them, so far as truth permitted. But Normanni's response had escalated into abuse — "heretic," "apostate" — voiced during a turbulent archiepiscopal service in Reggio. So John XXIV had ordered Normanni's presence, without accusation, to test the cardinal's level of recalcitrance. He'd argued from the evidence: the healings and other widely documented miracles; Ngunda Aran's prophecy of the Rock that would strike quickly following the Avatar's murder; and the rogue asteroid that fulfilled the prophecy. And finally, the angry public reaction to the archbishop's rant. Normanni had departed sober, penitent, and on probation, temporarily suspended from presiding over the mass. But two weeks later he held a news conference — to announce that the pope was the antichrist! The charge erupted in the media worldwide: radio, television, and what passed for newspapers, given the severe paper shortage. Leaving the pope little choice but to order Normanni back to Rome, where, the media conjectured, he faced deposition, and perhaps excommunication. But the next day, briefing the Congregation of the Holy Office, the Holy Father said he would first question Normanni privately, unofficially. There were priests apprehensive about recognizing Dove as the new messiah, and about the papal


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encyclicals growing out of it, and he would deal with them as mildly as the circumstances allowed. Cardinal Haas, Secretary of the Congregation, had risen in dismay. "Your Holiness! He has gone out of his way to defy you! To the media! Leniency will encourage others like him to join in his mutiny!" For long seconds the Holy Father did not answer, until Cardinal Haas settled back onto his chair. "Carl, my good friend," said the pope at last, "my reputation as a mediator was much of the reason I was elected to this throne, this responsibility. Now I must act as I believe the Infinite Soul wishes, and turn those skills to reconciling the rejectionists, to the extent God allows. If Luigi remains hostile, a more severe response may be needed, but meanwhile... Let it be said we gave him room, treated him lovingly." For a long moment he seemed to look inward. "God loves him," he said then, "and surely, in my position, I must try."

◊ That had been two days earlier. Now Joseph Flannery, John XXIV, sat in his office, his recording secretary by a side wall. A liveried Swiss guard stood three meters to the pontiff's right. A book, The Collected Public Lectures of Ngunda Aran, lay open on the papal desk, to facing pages annotated in the pope's fine, tight, green-ink jottings. The door opened, and his appointment secretary stepped in. "Your Holiness," he said quietly in Italian, "Luigi Cardinal Normanni is here at your request, with his secretary, Father Emanuel Riccione." The pope got to his feet. "Show them in, Guillermo," he answered, his fluent Italian seasoned with a light Irish lilt. Guillermo did so, the cardinal in proud red, his secretary in black. Neither of the two moved to kiss the proferred papal ring, stopping instead by the two chairs positioned before the desk. The slight did not surprise Joseph Flannery. He ignored it, and gestured them to sit. Then all three sat. "I take it," he said, holding up the hand with the papal signet, "that you have demoted me." "God has demoted you," Normanni said.


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"Since you were last here?" The red-clad figure stiffened. "In that encounter I failed the test. Since then I have prayed at length, and God has strengthened me; I will not fail Him again. You called me here to question me. I suggest you begin." "You have answered my first two questions. As for my third: what fault have you found in Ngunda Elija Aran?" "The claim that he was the Second Coming; it is laughable! Jesus was a Jew, not a black African!" "Ah." The pope's voice was soft. "And what of the Infinite Soul? What race is It?" The reply was quick and angry: "You will not again trick me with clever words, you creature of Satan!" Joseph Flannery was mildly surprised that anger was not rising in him. "Is there, then, no grounds on which we can discuss this issue?" "Discuss?" The word came loudly, shrilly from Normanni's lips, and as he said it, he rose to his feet, Riccione following suit. "We did not come here to discuss! The Church is in the hands of the antichrist!"

It seemed to the Swiss guardsman the cardinal was teetering on the edge of madness, and his right hand left the halberd shaft to palm his taser, his attention closely on the man in red. But it was the cardinal's black-clad secretary who acted. From within his cassock, not smoothly but quickly, he brought forth a small-caliber pistol, and fired four rounds into the white-clad figure before it could more than slump. Before the taser could be used. Then, with hardly a pause, he fired a fifth round; it entered beneath his own jaw and exited the cranium.

The cardinal seemed unaware of his toppling secretary; he stood immobile, lips parted, gaze frozen, watching the pontiff's limp torso slide slowly from the desk, leaving a bloody smear.

Behind them, the office door flung open in time for the appointments secretary to see the papal shoulders and head disappear behind the desk, the face masked with blood. The recording secretary had fainted. Both the cardinal and the guard seemed paralyzed. Then the cardinal, like his personal secretary and the late John XXIV, fell to the carpet.


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Chapter 19 A Man of Duty

Jan Adriaan Cardinal Dykstra was conservative by nature, addicted to duty, and thoroughly dedicated to the Church. Including its history, traditions, government, and ecclesiastical culture. As a young priest in Amsterdam, he'd made a name for himself in a parish and diocese beset with youth-related problems, which led to an assignment to a Vatican working group on disaffected youth. His subsequent rise through the Vatican bureaucracy had been brisk, marked by impressive completions of demanding tasks. He was not strong on deadlines, but very strong on results. He also became known as a conservative willing to seek common ground with progressives, sometimes surprising both sides. At age 42 he'd been raised to cardinal by Pius XIV, in recognition of his intelligence and attitude. John XXIV had assigned him to chair the working group drafting the encyclicals on Ngunda Aran and Dove. Which required that he become thoroughly familiar with the writings and acts of both prophet and avatar. Who'd seemed to him the same person, but whom his holiness regarded as distinct and separate, the avatar succeeding the prophet in the same body. To Adriaan's surprise, he found himself intrigued, as well as ill at ease, with both of them. He was more ill at ease with the pope's preference for Ngunda Aran's recorded words, where they were incompatible with the long-accepted tradition of Jesus's words. And for Ngunda's world-view over that of gospel writers and the greco-judaic fathers of the early Church, as amended over the centuries to fit extended knowledge of antiquity, science, and humankind. But over the dark, brutally cold months, he'd become more or less comfortable with the new, enough that he no longer struggled. The Holy Father had jotted, in pen, principles to be followed in drafting the encyclicals, and given them to Adriaan along with notes toward the drafts. Adriaan,


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more fastidious, had polished them, and also being more legalistic, retitled them "policies," then submitted them to the pope for approval. His holiness had reverted "policies" to "principles," but otherwise left Adriaan's versions almost unchanged. Copies had then been distributed to the working group. They read:

(1) Canon law cannot be overhauled in a day or month or year; the process must grow through careful and thorough consideration and discussion, giving rise to ever maturing understanding. (2) At the same time, the overhaul of canon law must not be delayed unreasonably by quibbling over minutiae or sentiment. (3) Verifiable facts are senior to tradition. (4) The Logos, as taught by Ngunda Aran, is the best available human understanding of the relationship of man and God. (5) Tradition beatified by long worship or adoration must be treated with respect, even where it lacks a basis in established fact. But that respect does not extend to retaining it as canon law. (6) Liturgical elements not supported by or derivable from the teachings of Ngunda Aran can be continued in holy services — provided they do not contradict those teachings. However, such elements must be treated not as authoritative, but as ceremonial access to holy joy and serenity.

Only number 6 still pained Adriaan, and that not severely, while number 4 stimulated the thought: what if Ngunda Aran's take on the Logos is incorrect? He handled both problems with the admonition, remember the Rock, Adriaan! Remember the Rock!

◊ Not long afterward, His Holiness was murdered, and the College had shocked Jan Adriaan Dykstra by electing him Pope, making him responsible for completing (or abandoning!) the "marriage" of Church and Avatar. This responsibility was an order of magnitude higher than simply chairing the working group. And of course it entailed publicly admitting, at least implicitly, innumerable past errors of the Church, many of them painful and destructive.


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Great challenges! A great privilege! Adriaan chose John XXV as his papal appellation, for conservative inclinations or not, to abandon it was unthinkable. By now his work on the encyclicals had quenched all uncertainty in his heart: God had expressed His will in terms that could not be mistaken or denied. The challenge was to minimize the upsets.

◊ One of John XXV's first acts as Pope was to amend Pius IX's 1870 dogma of papal infallibility. It had been the Vatican's response to threats against the Church by mid-19th century European governments. But in the wake of the Avatar, if the dogma was left unamended, the encyclicals could be rejected on the basis of prior authority — leaving the needed reformation bogged in controversy and limbo. So amend it he did, in a single evening!, and the next morning presented it to the assembled cardinals, who debated for a day, then signed off on the changes as he'd written them:

When in the exercise of his office, and by virtue of his supreme Apostolic authority, the Roman Pontiff defines a doctrine of faith or morals to be held by the whole Church, he is, by the Divine assistance promised him by blessed Peter, possessed of the fullness of infallibility available at the time to a human being. The Church is thus required to accept it, and comport itself accordingly, until such time as the evolving wisdom of humanity and the Church causes the Throne to improve that definition. [Emphases indicate changes of substance.]

That would be infallible enough. But truly suitable, lastingly valid encyclicals, it seemed to Jan Adriaan, would benefit in substance if reviewed by Lor Lu. What, he wondered, would the little Hmong say to an invitation from the Vatican? Or did Millennium, after all, have plans for a Church of its own?


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Chapter 20 Lor Lu at the Vatican

"Your Holiness, this is Director Lor Lu of the Millennium Foundation, and his executive secretary, Mr. Benjamin Shoreff. Sirs, this is His Holiness, Pope John XXV." The pope, who'd stood when they'd entered, stepped forward, hand extended, alert to Lor Lu's reactions. "Your Holiness," said Lor Lu as their hands joined, "I've looked forward to this meeting. You have an important — perhaps pivotal position in these sensitive times." "I am privileged to meet Your Holiness," said Jan Adriaan Dykstra gravely. "You were the deputy, and I suspect confidant, of both he who came to prepare the way, and of the Avatar itself. I suspect you know their views on most, if not all, questions of substance." He gestured toward two chairs, one for Lor Lu and one for Ben Shoreff. His appointments secretary backed out, while a footman positioned another chair for the pope, so the three sat on the same level. "We are being video-recorded, as agreed by phone," the pope went on. "Is that still agreeable to you?" "It is." A small round table — of exquisite, polished rosewood veneer — was positioned beside each chair. On each table, a porcelain cup, saucer, cream pitcher and sugar bowl was centered. The footman poured, coffee as prearranged. Lor Lu smiled at him, then added cream and sugar to his own cup, and stirred, the sound a gentle tinkling. The pope and Ben took theirs unadulterated. "I trust your flight was agreeable." "Oh yes." Lor Lu paused, then grinned. "There. I believe we've satisfied the diplomatic requirement for small talk before addressing the business at hand." The papal eyebrows rose, then his forehead relaxed, and he laughed. "I agree. When we're done with that, though, I may want to bring up secondary matters."


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He began with a question he'd earlier thought to leave till last, as a possible spoiler. "Does Millennium intend to create its own church?" Lor Lu smiled. "Ngunda reminded us on the eve of the Assumption that Millennium is not — not to create a religion; certainly not in the sense of a church. We are to instruct on the Logos as taught by Ngunda and personified by Dove. And to prepare and distribute — sell and give away — materials toward that purpose: books and booklets, and electronic audio-visual material. And to heal, and to train healers and facilitators. All of which entails training persons sufficiently interested and committed. And to establish Millennium centers where people can receive those services. Things we've been doing for several years on an expanding basis. "We will do what we can to keep the teachings unadulterated, and make them widely known — with the realization that others will adulterate them for their own purposes, well intended or otherwise, deliberately or unwittingly. What they teach is their business — as long as they teach it as their teaching, not Ngunda's. On the other hand, if they put their words in Ngunda's mouth, beyond reasonable translations, we may take action — first advisory, then if necessary in the media. Basically, so far as we can, we want to protect the prophet's words from corruption. People may interpret and expand on those words as they will — we will not contest interpretations — but we will guard the words themselves." He paused to grin again. "And that is the obligatory small print. Meanwhile we will create no liturgy, hold no religious services, compose and teach no creed or prayer — nor forbid anyone else to. Many people want such things, and that is appropriate for them. Some will undertake to analyze Ngunda's teachings, assemble rules and regulations — and find and provide presumed benefits from them. "Existing churches will adjust to new perceptions, understandings and circumstances, as they deem appropriate. New churches will form. People will join them or abstain from them, finding whatever lessons and benefits they find, where they find them, and in the process, evolve spiritually. We will not try to control them, but if asked to, we may comment, citing Ngunda or even Dove. And if invited, we may suggest and advise privately. As I am doing here. "Coercion will have no part in our efforts. A human soul, interacting with other


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souls, creates its own individual evolution, according to its own individual needs, desires, history and circumstances. Historically, as you know, organized religions have worked hard to control and suppress individual choices. Many persons desire forceful direction — some benefit from it — and others feel compelled to provide it. Hundreds of millions rely on your Church, and we are impressed by your personal dedication to them. "As for us — as I said, we will try to provide and publicize undistorted knowledge of the Logos, as taught by Ngunda and personified by Dove." The small Asian's eyes met the pope's without perceptible intent to command or impel. "Of course, anything we or anyone else can say about the Tao and the Logos is metaphor; that is unavoidable. We are ensouled primates, with the limitations inherent thereto, but Ngunda's metaphors are more nearly aligned with today's actualities, than are those of other incarnate teachers I'm aware of, present or past."

◊ They discussed the Millennium procedures then. The pope knew of several persons in Rome who'd received Millennium processing: one of them a young Jesuit in the Vatican bureaucracy, during the reign of Pius XIV. The man had been disciplined for it. Jan Adriaan had followed the case only superficially, but at the time had gotten the impression of a psychotherapy rooted in New Age religious notions. More recently, heading the working group on encyclicals had refined his thinking on the theology involved, but his knowledge of Millennium procedures was slight. Persons who'd received them, including Father Kopta, had described them as effective against an array of mental difficulties, including some psychoses. And perhaps more interesting: made moderately troubled people less troubled, and sane people more sane; erased psychological addictions, and made chemical addictions much easier to treat. It also reduced destructive negative features that virtually everyone has to some degree: arrogance, greed, impatience, self-deprecation, self-destruction, bigotry... "I beg your pardon, Mr. Lu, for a prejudice of my own," the pope said. "I have long been seriously skeptical of psychotherapies, but... Might your procedures, applied to Cardinal Normanni and his secretary, have saved the life of the man who preceded me on the throne?"


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"The recipient must be at least reluctantly willing, without coercion. And it seems doubtful the cardinal and Father Riccione would have accepted the procedures. But if Joseph Flannery had received them, he might have more fully recognized the danger, and dealt with it effectively. Or if the Church had personnel officers trained to read auras..." Read auras! Jan Adriaan Dykstra had never taken such things seriously, but... His mind went now to the matter of pedophilic priests. What harm and grief! — and costs — might have been avoided if the Church had had people with such skills. Few things were as good as their enthusiasts — and their vendors — made them out to be. But even so...

◊ Before Millennium's chief executive left Rome, he'd outlined a program to train a team of Church specialists, who would in turn train further teams, in the delivery of Life Healing to clergy and monastics. It would be a trial, a start. Meanwhile, Millennium's center in Rome would deliver advanced Millennium procedures, at Church expense, to a cadre selected by the Vatican — provided the candidates were freely willing and otherwise suitable.


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Chapter 21 Merrrry Christmas!!!

The video showed Lor Lu in his utilitarian office, behind his desk, wearing a Santa cap, an outrageously false beard, and a snow-white sweatshirt fronted with "HYVÄÄ JOULUA in red, trimmed with green holly. A gift from the Helsinki Center. His smile was relaxed, its flavor jaunty, for he was talking to Millennium staff worldwide. His gaze was on the only camera, directly in front of him, for this was a personal message to every viewer, and switching camera angles would be inappropriate. He flashed a grin. "Merrrry Christmas! Being broadcast and recorded on December 23 makes this a sort of Christmas message. But its emphasis is not on the ministry of Jesus son of Joseph. Instead I'll address matters pertinent to our tasks in the coming year. In fact, I will preach you a sermon! Something you're not used to from me. A sermon addressed to the future. So brace yourselves. "Ngunda Aran was our founder, our goal-setter, our icon and teacher. Then the Assumption by the Infinite Soul, followed by the Murder, the Rock, and the subsequent calamities, created a new phase of Millennium, with new projects and responsibilities not unplanned for. "Millennium's function is not control. Not primarily, not secondarily, not any kind of arily. It is a facilitator of a new era, featuring, and depending on, all humankind. "As for my role — outside the Foundation, I'm a spokesman, with influence but not authority. Also, spiritual enlightenment is only a peripheral goal, desirable but not required. Our central goal is humane understanding and behavior, permitting humanity's survival on this planet with sufficient mental health to evolve over time, socially and spiritually. To evolve itself. That's the only way it can happen...." He paused, smoothing an eyebrow with a thumb, giving his audience a moment's


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break before continuing. "Moments of truth, in the spiritual sense, are simple, and when they come, require no explanation. We can try to teach the truths we've come by, but we succeed only in a limited sense. That limit depending on the readiness, the awareness, that the hearer brings to the subject. We can move custom, and belief, and behavior, in the direction of kindness, compassion, and sanity, but we cannot give anyone truth. Ngunda Aran could not give anyone truth. Though we're quite skilled at steering people toward encounters with truth, not only through the procedures but in ordinary conversation. "As for the Infinite Soul, watch the cubes of Dove. Watch how he lived, healed, and died! He exemplified truth, which in its fullest expression is love! Someone may not "get" that truth, but it will impact him. It was most powerful when seen live. And next to that, when seen on television in real time, and next to that, in the first time you witnessed the cube. "It's been said that Dove taunted Governor Cook into killing him. He did not taunt. By itemizing the governor's hidden crimes, he demonstrated that they had not been concealed from the Tao. The Tao knew them all. And that truth — the governor's great moment of truth! — terrified the unhappy man...."

◊ "....In the latter part of the Fledgling cycle, and throughout the Youth cycle, individuals are especially susceptible to fanaticism, a susceptibility contributed to by cultures which have have kept fanaticisms alive among some older souls as well. But souls and cultures of all ages have been tempered now by having experienced the Infinite Soul. And the Rock, which provided a powerful education in priorities, cooperation, compassion...."

◊ "....The rising of a new era results from the decay of the predominant belief system of the previous era, tends to be marked by widespread social turbulence, coexisting with the travails of evolving a new belief system. A good time for the Tao 'to play a wild card,' a manifestation of the Infinite Soul for example. Which of course it did. Followed by the Rock. "Together, the Infinite Soul and the Rock were the climax, following a century


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high-lighted by wars great and small, and increasingly dangerous. "And of course the Cold War, with its very real threat of nuclear holocaust. A threat which triggered a broad, low-intensity revolution against prevalent belief systems, and in return, angry surges of reaction by those most deeply committed to those old systems. In some cultures, people perceived as adversaries were burned, beheaded, tortured, and blown to bits. Not only by fundamentalist 'true believers,' and those they manipulated, but by 'rational' logicians with 'good intentions' — and by psychotics with great ambitions, sometimes supported by people of basically tribal cultures, clinging desperately and ruthlessly to old beliefs. "Not all the prevalent belief systems were religions. They included secular systems — capitalism, bolshevism, materialism, 'scientism,' racism and chauvinism. All of them recognizable offshoots of tribalism, the tribe being perceived by its members as following the only correct way of life and belief, its members seeing the world through tribal eyes, understanding it via tribal lore. The one true way." "Secular systems are less likely — less likely — to produce spontaneous large-scale violence. Except for bolshevism and fascism, their punishments tended to be — still tend to be — ridicule, exclusion, insults, boycotts, and sometimes vandalism.... "....The one-day nuclear war in the Middle East was a major reactionary event in the revolution, killing millions...while critically wounding two primitive manifestations of tribalism — Islamic extremism, and Zionist extremism. Meanwhile, the Second Great Depression seriously wounded capitalist extremism. Then Ngunda Aran and the incarnation of the Infinite Soul seriously wounded extremist Christian fundamentalism. Together they inspired and enabled a much freer road into the future — but by no means assuring our successful arrival. "As for the Rock, it was the bulldozer that broke down an infinitude of destructive goals, erroneous beliefs — musts, must nots cannots — giving humankind room to breathe mentally and spiritually. Partly by authenticating Ngunda's prophecy. "Meanwhile the real work remains: to build a compassionate open-ended society that will accommodate our species in all its rich and varied forms, on a minefield of necessary, existing and potential technologies that enable — and endanger! — a future of spiritual and material wisdom and richness."


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Lor Lu grinned then, suddenly, brightly changing tack. "Good! you may be thinking. Stop right there, Lor Lu! That's the thought to leave us with." He waggled an index finger comically. "Not so fast, kimo sabe! More needs to be said, and this is the time and place to say it. Because we are, after all, Homo sapiens, the familiar ensouled primate groping its way into a potentially beautiful but still uncertain future. 'Groping our way' in more than one sense. For it is a step by step process, and feeling is as important as thinking. And on a planet inhabited by ensouled, ingenious, technological apes, things can go seriously wrong. The odds seem to be in our favor now, but the Tao does not guarantee. "So. Be vigilant without being repressive. Be tolerant but not deluded. Do your best without...insisting...you're right. Again he shook his finger, not comically now, but in emphasis. "Give others the room and the freedom to make their contributions, as they see them. They may have something valuable to say that we have missed."


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Chapter 22 The First Church of Dove

Arnold Nelsen didn't know what sect had built the small frame church, or who originally had worshiped there. When he'd first noticed it, the sign in front had read "Wedding Chapel." Now it read "First Church of Dove." Inside, some sixty or so had gathered, and led by the pastor, were reciting a creed. "I believe in the holy, almighty Tao, who created and ensouled the UNIVERSE, and in his Avatars, Jesus and Dove, sent to save us from the grim and gruesome Wheel of Reincarnation. And I believe in the Holy Spirit, who awaits our awakening to His Glory, that He may save us from the sin of karma, and the suffering of further lives on Earth...." Arnold grimaced. The pastor was too pious-looking, and sounding, for his taste. The opening hymn had been familiar from Arnold's childhood — at least the music had — but the creed was a clumsy pastiche. He would not recite with the pastor, wouldn't even fake it. Myrna had asked him to come with her — one of her friends had enthused about it — and he'd agreed. If this was actually the faith of the future, he supposed he should know more about it. When they'd finished the creed, they sang another hymn. Then the preacher prayed at moderate length to "O mighty Tao," with the congregation, most of it, chiming in with "praise be to the Tao," as indicated on the photocopied program. Arnold sat stoically, present but not participating, waiting for the sermon, which would, he supposed, tell him how bad this farce really was. Then the plate was passed, and under Myrna's worried gaze he added a folded George to it, which wasn't bad for the times. The sermon was about Dove's healings, and the Tao's love, and how important it was to live according to the Tao's rules of behavior. Afterward came another prayer


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and another hymn. After that the preacher invited anyone there to testify to their faith. A tallish, rawboned, wiry-haired man of perhaps sixty years stood up, looked around, then spoke. "This is not an affirmation," he said, "just an observation. I believe I've read everything in print by Ngunda Aran, and I watched a lot of his talks on television — and hardly anything you've said even resembled what he said. That's your right, of course, but it's also my right to walk out of here. Which I'm going to do, because either you don't know what you're talking about, or you're a grade D fake. A phony." Arnold stared while the man began to sidle out of the pew. Murmurs, soft but angry, were spreading through the congregation. Arnold got to his feet — wondering what the hell he was doing! — and followed the man's example, a blushing Myrna a step behind, while one, then a second person clapped. By the time Arnold reached the aisle, more were following his example. He felt hostile glares as he strode out of the sanctuary. Outside, the man who'd commented was walking ahead of them, west on Prindle, more slowly than they. "Excuse me, friend!" Arnold called after him, "I'd like to thank you for saying what you said." The man stopped and turned. "Actually," he replied as they caught up to him, "I was just thinking maybe I shouldn't have rained on his parade like that. But there had to be people there who didn't know, so for what it's worth, I owed it to them." The two men shook hands. "I'm Gerry Dexter; that's Gerry with a gee. Or Dex if you'd rather. Air Force, retired, a master sergeant." "Arnold Nelsen, hydrologist, and this is my wife Myrna." Dexter shook hands with her, too, and they exchanged courtesies. "Are you folks local?" Gerry asked. Speaking to Myrna, giving her his full attention. "No," she said, "the Air Force took us in. Arnold does things for the government." Three others had caught up with them, and waited a few yards off. Now they too introduced themselves — Stan and Joni Forrest and Ted Berg. "We just wanted to thank you, Gerry, for what you said back there. Saved me the trouble; we've been Ngunda fans for three years." He grunted. "That twit behind the pulpit may be sincere, but he's also an idiot."


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They began walking again, and Arnold found himself saying "it's always seemed to me that churches considered control their number one duty." Grinning, Gerry raised an eyebrow. "A man after my own heart. I grew up going to church, and to parochial school, which had their good points, but I'd come to that same conclusion well before I flew the nest." Looking at the Forrests, he shifted gears: "Arnold's a hydrologist, who speaking of control, 'does things for the government.'" Stan turned to the Nelsens. "Hydrological things?" "Part of the time," Arnold said. "I set up a system of watershed surveys, using a helicopter and an interface sonar; got snowpack data useful for predicting streamflows, especially floods, this summer. But I invested a lot more time and effort setting up a system to train and equip people to use hand-powered tools; loggers' crosscut saws for instance. Those old saws are pretty hard to find, so I programmed computer specs for die makers — enables machine shops to make the saws locally — and a system to teach people how to use and maintain them. You'd be surprised how many octagenarians survived around the country, whose memories and long unused skills can be useful in the recovery. And they trained people to train other people." "Hey, I read about that project!" Stan said. "So you're the one! Good on you!" Stan Forrest's words warmed Arnold; it hadn't occurred to him he might have become a sort of low-grade celebrity. Nonetheless he deflected the praise. "It gave a lot of old people a chance to contribute again, earn some additional income, be recognized and appreciated." Myrna brought the conversation back to Ngunda Aran and religion. "Arnold and I don't know much about Dove. We were never actually interested, except I was, a little, when they started covering his healing tour on television. I watched some on CNN. Mostly it was mob scenes, which made him seem more genuine. They didn't tell us much about his teachings though." Arnold looked at Gerry again. "What do you think?" he asked. "How genuine is he? Was he?" "I believe he's just what so many people claim. Just don't ask me to prove it. His teachings resonated with me at first exposure, even after Sarah pointed out I'd always been skeptical of religions." He paused, then added, "So I tried out the basic


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Millennium procedures, which convinced me there was something real there. Gave me food for thought on" — he paused — "miracles is the word." "Miracles," Arnold echoed, frowning. "That's the word. Not loaves and fishes-style miracles — I'm still skeptical about something from nothing — but healing is real to me now, at a personal level — what Millis call life healing. I got that the year before the Rock — April 2014 — and got rid of acute muscle spasms that had caused me a lot of grief; food allergies, occasional bouts of acute asthma, migraines...and spells of plain cussedness. Sarah said I was a lot easier to live with afterward than before. Results like that can make you a believer." Arnold decided to let be. It sounded pretty subjective, but subjective problems were still problems. "The levitating bothered some people," Ted Berg said. "It bothered me, too, till I saw it live at Nashville." "You were there?" "Yeah, I was there. In fact, I was headed back to Seattle from there when the tsunami hit. Sarah was in Port Townsend then, visiting our daughter and her family. Apparently they didn't go to high enough ground." He grimaced. "Now there's a situation where levitation would have been useful." Oh shit! thought Arnold. He gripped the older man's arm, finding it thicker and more firm than he'd expected. "Gerry," he said, "I can't tell you how — how honest-to-God sorry I am. About your wife and...and the rest." Then felt like an idiot. Gerry Dexter turned, smiling wryly. "When we multiply that by the billions who died one way or another since the Rock hit, we begin to grasp how frail a grip we have on life in the physical universe. And how worthwhile it is to adjust our understanding of it. It certainly adjusted mine." "Gerry," said Stan, "you're chief among the six of us in knowledge about Ngunda Aran and Dove. What would you think of leading a discussion group? Not start a church, or claim any access to 'deeper knowledge' — but to sort out our thinking, and see where it leads us. I guarantee I'd be part of it." Arnold felt a touch of panic — a low grade sort of lord spare me the idiocy panic —


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then heard Myrna say "I would, too." There'd been nothing in the least tentative about her words, and for the first time in their nearly fifteen years of marriage, he really faced how deferential she usually was to his opinions. Clearly this was different, or she was now. "So would I," he found himself saying. "They're right, Gerry. You've got the right attitude to lead it."

◊ When the Nelsens got home, Arnold didn't remember much about the plans, except they were all going to get together at the Forrests' apartment the coming Tuesday evening, to watch a video of an Ngunda lecture, and talk about it afterward. And that Stan and Joni intended to invite another couple they'd recently met. "They're like you guys," Stan had said to him and Myrna, "really intelligent but not much informed." Like you guys. Arnold felt uncomfortable with that.


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Chapter 23 Interview with Bernard Seligman

American Scene Magazine: Bernie, last month's Meissner Poll of Jews in America found your opinions on Jewish issues the most respected of anyone's in the country. Yet ten years ago, few people had heard of you, beyond your own students. Why this sudden rise in status? Bernard Seligman: [Slight smile] Do I detect a rhetorical question, Duke? We live in a different world today; I'm sure you've noticed. Not just Jews have had to adjust their lives and viewpoints. But we had a head start; our world paradigm was rubble years before the Rock struck. And apparently my thoughts on that, and what they mean, make sense to a lot of other Jews. ASM: Can you elaborate for us? Seligman: Of course. Elaborating seems to be my stock in trade. For nearly two thousand years, most Jews saw themselves as a people without a homeland. We lived in scores of different lands, almost always treated as outsiders, pariahs even, to the nth generation. Often the only aspects of public life in which we were allowed to participate, were commerce and paying taxes— commerce often restricted to the lowest levels. We weren't all bankers. And for the Jewish common man, there might be military service, conscription even. Meanwhile we were steeped in the holy writings: the Torah and the Talmud — Jewish law, tradition, and thought. Including the Jews as God's Chosen People...and Israel as the homeland God had promised us. Supposedly. And with many of us, this


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idea of a homeland in Palestine stuck — in an oddly twisted way, even with those who no longer believed in God. For more than a few Zionists were atheists. Our hard experiences in foreign lands made the concept especially attractive. Including many in places like Vienna and Chicago and Los Angeles, where life was good. Because our tribal experience has been that when life seems good [adds a broad Yiddish accent], "vatch out for tomorrow." In fact, our sense of Jewish identity is as much a result of long persecutions as of tribal tradition, recognizing that the two overlap and interact, of course. Tribal! What an irony! We're not even a race anymore, not really Semites, let alone a tribe. We've intermarried extensively since the Diaspora, despite prejudice against us. And prejudice by us, oh yes, by us. Read your Old Testament. ASM: When finally there was a homeland, especially a threatened, beleaguered homeland, that must have added cohesion and identity for Jews everywhere. Seligman: A homeland only in a manner of speaking. God had given it to us as part of a covenant, and more than once withdrew it — passed it to someone else — because we didn't keep our part of the bargain. The first time it was to the Babylonians, later the Romans, then the Byzantines, who passed it on eventually to the Turks. Briefly it belonged to the Crusaders who gave it up to the Turks again, who gave it up to Britain in 1917. And as the centuries passed, it seemed God was not interested in renewing the old agreement. But in the late 1800s, with antisemitism intensifying in Europe, it was inevitable that a popular movement would take shape to return to Palestine — the "Promised Land." First in peaceful ways, by buying land from the Palestinians and settling on it. So our numbers grew there, and in the 1920s there was violence. But in the 1930s, with Nazi persecutions growing in Europe, the movement grew anyway, becoming a flood at the war’s end. It was terrorism — bombs and assassinations by Zionists — that levered the British out, and the UN peacekeepers. Which made later outcries against Palestinian terrorism hypocritical. Justifiable perhaps, but hypocritical nonetheless. But yes, it did build cohesion and identity for Jews everywhere. Particularly the


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military successes — we became roud of ourselves — particularly in the early years. Before the negative effects became so clear. And as usual, the shakers and movers — the men who took the bull by the horns to make a Jewish homeland real — did not question their own judgment, or recognize any validity in counter arguments. They were zealots, and all that counted was the cause — what they wanted. Not a uniquely Jewish attitude of course; one with a terrible record in the world before Abraham, long before we Jews existed as a people. An attitude that accounts for, or contributed to, most of the atrocities committed by human beings against other human beings. [Leans back in his chair] ASM: Anything else? It sounds to me as if what you said has been setting the stage for more. Seligman: Exactly. Because what happened, those few years ago, could have been much worse. Much worse. And almost was. You've heard of Masada? ASM: That's the ancient fortress where Jewish patriots held out for so long against the Roman army. Around 70 AD. Seligman: 72 AD. And when capture was imminent, they all suicided; cut their throats. Some of them with help; the children and women especially. Can you imagine? They'd have been killed soon enough, of course, and this was actually a cleaner death, so to speak. And probably most important, it denied the Romans the satisfaction. You know what happened after Tel Aviv and Haifa were nuked. And we— There, you see? I keep saying "we"; sharing the guilt! Needlessly. Like others of us, I spoke and wrote against Zionism; a century of Jewish idealism but also of Jewish guilt. Jewish shame. Zionists called us traitors. To many, Jehovah was an angry god, a god not of love but of vengeance; our God, on our side. Some Zionists, to their credit, tried to combine Zionism with compassion and justice, especially in earlier decades, but it was doomed to fail. Or so it seems to me. Too many Muslims, and too many Zionists,


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believed that justice means vengeance. What a tradition! Many of them realize now that was incorrect. If nothing else, the nuclear exchange and the Rock have taught them. But the Rock was still a few years away when Hezbollah nuked Tel Aviv and Haifa. And we — there's that word again — in return we nuked Gaza and Damascus and Beirut and Riyadh. You know the story; after the Geneva trials, everyone knew it. We'd been like a vampire driving a stake into its own heart. But when our missile fired at Mecca was intercepted in the stratosphere by a NATO defense satellite, Avraham decided to nuke — Jerusalem! — because Mecca had been spared! Insanity capped by insanity! A contingency plan already existed! That's the most horrifying part. This was more than a psychotic moment; it had been premeditated; Avraham was a reasoning psychotic. It would deny the Palestinians the city. So like Samson, he wanted to bring down the temple. But Captain Yossi Chazan's heroism prevented that, thank God. His martyrdom may have saved us from a shame we could hardly have survived as a people. It was bad enough that an Israeli cabal had drawn up such a contingency plan, and that a Jewish commander tried to carry it out. Even though it aborted, that betrayal shook many of us more deeply than anything else could have. [Sits back again, shaking his head.] Some of us disowned our Jewish identity, at least temporarily; wrong action, wrong target. ASM: Won't your long tradition, and the many centuries of thought and learning that mark the Jews as a unique and valuable people — won't that help keep the Jewish identity intact? Perhaps serve as a basis for healing, even bring back some who withdrew? Seligman: To the extent they do, it will be because of Chazan's martyrdom, at the hands not of Palestinian zealots but of our own Zionist zealots. But it must include meaningful efforts by Jews throughout the contaminated lands toward helping our victims.


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ASM: Have you sometimes wondered what might have been if Congress had approved the president's proposal for a partial trade embargo against Israel? Seligman: It might conceivably have worked. A partial, free-will embargo helped end apartheid in South Africa. But a lot of us in this country — Jews and some evangelicals, especially — lacked the vision and courage to support an embargo against Israel. Actually a lot of us intended to take financial actions, to reduce the effects of even a free-will embargo. And of course, the other side of the proposal was that the Palestinians commit to a mutually satisfactory solution. It's doubtful they would have. We'd made agreements before, but some Palestinian faction would break it. A case of the primacy of ruthlessness. Both sides had become very good at ruthlessness; they'd experienced so much of it. So maybe it required the nuclear exchange, terrible though it was. ASM: Right. And now there's an agreement without partition. Seligman: For those who survived the war and decided to stay, yes. There are far fewer Israelis now, since the nuclear devastation, the new diaspora, and the Rock. Which makes matters easier of course; a benefit out of tragedy! But at what a cost! ASM: Indeed what a cost. Thank you, Bernie, I wish you well. You as a person, and the metaphorical you — the Jewish people.


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Chapter 24 Conference

Many have become confused by the terms "God," "Tao," and "the

Infinite Soul." What are the differences, if any?

They are truly indescribable, beyond comprehension by humans

during and even between lives. But it can be helpful to characterize

them this way: "The Tao" is a point source "containing" all that is. All!

The physical universes and the non-physical, vast and in constant

movement. "The Infinite Soul" emphasizes the Tao's all-knowingness,

self-creativty, and love. While the concept of "God" grows out of

sapient life forms expressing their vague sense of it, while stressing its

commonly misunderstood relationship with us humans.

Beyond that...I suggest you not worry about it. It's quite enough

to get used to it.

From Collected Observations of Lor Lu Alfredo Gustavo Cardinal Reyes smiled at the fourteen guests gathered in what, just last year, had been Santo Tomás's village council chamber. Before the Rock. From a long-term spiritual perspective, he thought, the Second Coming was doubtless the key event, but for now the Rock outweighs all. Meanwhile, Father Jaime, with his ham radio network and his many contacts (how had Jaime come to know of them in the first place?) had succeeded in gathering this group from as far as Cartagena, on the Caribbean, and Ariba on the Rio Putomaya. (Jaime had gone over the list with the cardinal.) Several wore clerical garb — but no robes — the rest wore nondescript traveling clothes. Reyes knew only one of them,


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though over his years as priest, bishop, archbishop and cardinal, he'd come to know many persons — churchmen and laity. One of them, clearly, had access to a late model helicopter, with remarkably long range and a high operational ceiling. And had somehow arranged not only to get it fueled, but refueled as necessary. Had gathered these people, setting them down by night outside Santo Tomás, and bringing them in on foot. Jaime had insisted it was not a cartel aircraft, nor cartel fuel. Beyond that, he said, he'd been sworn to secrecy. (Had North Americans played a role in this?) For the manyeth time, the cardinal wondered about his Jesuit intelligence aide. He'd come without dossier, only a Vatican document, with photo and thumb print, from the Congregation of Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs. Attaching him to the Archdiocese of Bogotá, without defined operational authority. Nothing more except the date: March 24, 2016. Nor of where he'd been during the weeks between then and arriving at Santo Tomás. And now, he thought, I must trust in God. When all had been seated, the cardinal stood. "Friends and brothers," he began, "I am Alfredo Gustavo Cardinal Reyes, Archbishop of Bogotá. I thank you for being here. We have goals in common, you and I, but I have not asked you here to form an alliance, or undertake actions. Rather, I want us to know each other, be aware of each other. And I want especially to make our revolution personally known to you — who we are; what our intentions are. In the words of Martin Luther King: 'I have a dream!' Mine is of peace: first for Colombia. And if we are wanted, perhaps beyond." He paused for emphasis, then repeated: "If we are wanted. If we are clearly, explicitly asked for. And even then not as occupiers." "In any case it must begin with Colombia, our ravaged mother. The Tao, manifest as the Rock, saw fit that we experience further afflictions — afflictions shared worldwide — but not accompanied by the hatred and vindictiveness of La Violencia. Those Afflictions, following the Second Coming, have given us an opportunity to start anew. Now, brave, steadfast, just, we must seize the moment, and trust the Infinite Soul to guide us." He looked down at the now familiar priest beside him. "Beginning with Father


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Jaime, I would like each of you to stand, identify yourself, perhaps tell us who or what you represent. Later I hope you will tell us something of your reasons for being here, and contribute to the discussions. Father Jaime?" The Jesuit stood. "I am Jaime. I represent the Vatican, and have been sent to support the cardinal's efforts. Not for the Church, but for humankind and God." One by one the others rose and spoke. Some of them also gave only a single name, and some did not identify their affiliation. The circle ended with Juan. "I am Captain Juan Enrico Lopez, formerly of the 1st Lancero Battalion, now of the Revolution of the Saviors. I am the cardinal's adjutant." Juan sat down, and the cardinal stood again. "I thank each of you for being here. Now it is time to describe the conditions existing in Colombia, each from our own viewpoint. We — Jaime and I — have sorted them out as best we are able. Jaime has contributed more than I to that, so I will ask him to present them. If you have questions or comments, please hold them till later; there is paper and pencil at your place. If it is necessary that you interrupt, raise your hand. Jaime will call on you or not." He turned. "Jaime?" Again the Jesuit got easily to his feet, relaxed as always. "Most of you will recognize parts of what I say here," he began. "Much of my information came from you by radio or courier, and some is common knowledge. "There are several major players in today's Colombia. Most powerful is the national army, under the command of President José Alberto Salazar, and General Federico Imre Kovacs. They are not represented here. Recently, important units of the army have defected to us, but it remains by far the most powerful military force in the country. However, it confines itself to Cundinamarca, where it is better able to house and feed, and control, its troops and their families." Jaime went on to summarize the most important aspects of the government's situation. Notably, and under the circumstances unavoidably, it had lost its ability to direct events, or even display itself, much beyond Cundinamarca. Except, in a very limited way, by air. Next he described the current status of the cardinal's army, sorting facts from rumors.


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Much was also known about the other factions. But much was not, for some had a great deal to hide, and since the Rock, much that had been known was obsolete. The FARC and ELN were Marxist rebels and bitter rivals. The paramilitary AUC had been in violent — in brutal — reaction to the Marxists, and more or less allied with the government, but its several parts and sponsors had agendas of their own. Some of the gathering knew about one or another of them in useful detail, but none were really well informed about them all, so in the council room, attention was strong. "Everywhere," Jaime said, "the remaining rebels — the remaining everyone — have been forced into survival-level activities, especially farming and crafts. Their technical, industrial, and exchange infrastructures have been crippled, and what remains either does not function at all, or limps along weakly for lack of fuel and other resources. Income from coca and poppy, even coffee! has disappeared, and a cash economy hardly exists. Food is king, and a loose sort of feudal communalism has begun to evolve, to provide order, and primitive goods and services. "And people are finding the changes acceptable, at least for now. For many — if I may use that term in today's depopulated Colombia — for many, today seems preferable to what came before. Because for the present, La Violencia seems over — and because the Rock has shattered the class structure. The appeal of Marxism has been dirtied by its long criminality, and eclipsed by what many see as the clearly demonstrated existence and power of God. Communal democracy attracts them, while communism they equate with coercion and ruthlessness. "Ramiro Pineda," Jaime went on, "remains the FARC commander in the Andes, and is headquartered at Bucaramanga. Orinoquia and Amazonia, both more or less Marxist, are effectively isolated from him. He has communicated to them, but they ignore him. They consider him irrelevant to their needs. "The leaders of both the east and the mountains still see Bogotá as the enemy, an enemy now crippled by the Afflictions, but given time, capable of reasserting itself. Therefore, they believe their long-term survival depends on breaking the army or seizing command of it." Jaime paused, giving his audience a moment's respite from his calm words, and


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time to complete their notes, but his eyes did not stop observing them. "In many respects, however, the differences between the Andes and the eastern regions are greater than ever. Since the Rock, the need to recover, rebuild, and feed themselves is seen as primary in both regions by both factions, but in the Andean countryside it has weakened the FARC's power over the people. Who have been strengthened, those who survived. Strengthened not in numbers — perhaps one in four or five remains — but strengthened in will by their very survival. "And by Bogotá's isolation — its de facto abandonment of most of the country. Many soldiers have found their way home, or adopted new homes, bringing their rifles with them. Sometimes more or less organized, they still provide local defense, able to respond if threatened, and mostly unfriendly toward the Marxists and the AUC alike. "While in Orinoquia and Amazonia, FARC has become oriented on local food production and rebuilding. There, within the local units, discipline has held up well, because the new agenda, recovery, agrees with the natural inclination of the local people. There, in fact, FARC has become nearly synonymous with the population. Each locality has its own farms and livestock and villages and small industries — all decimated of course — and there is no regional commander. Since the death of Commander Machetazo, no one has claimed his authority. Yet." His eyes paused momentarily on one his listeners. "There the FARC is its local units. Local councils discuss what they might do, and seventy years of 'La Violencia,' followed by 'the Second Coming' and the Afflictions, have metamorphosed the Orinoquian and Amazonian populations, making them unwilling to take arms except in defense. "In the Andes, FARC is less all-encompassing, but retains considerable coherence around a charismatic leader, who has the support of a strongly armed cadre. But even so, Pineda's power is notably limited. His guard numbers perhaps 50 men under arms, and he can depend on 500, maybe a thousand, to turn out when he calls. Which he hasn't yet, on any large scale, because he'd have to feed them. More than 3,000, he claims, if the army or the AUC try again to eliminate the FARC, or seriously suppress the peasants. But discipline has become relatively weak and erratic. His men come and go.

"Rebuild! Grow food! That's where people's attention is now.


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"FARC has no interest in fighting the cardinal's army, even though our recruitment activities hurt theirs, and in fact reduce Pineda's reserves. He supposedly has said the cardinal's army is incapable of fighting any of the established forces, 'not even the ELN.'" He gestured the quotation marks. "What he thinks of our recent successes isn't known, but certainly he thinks about them. They are food for thought." Once more Jaime paused, his expression wry for a moment, with a suggestion of distaste. "And now we come to the AUC, whom the Marxists — and the people — learned to fear more than any other armed force in Colombia. Originating from private 'armies' hired to protect the families of druglords, and with roots in patronal feudalism, the AUC came to be supported by the government and trained by the army, though financed largely by the drug cartels. It warred on the FARC, blunting and containing it, and murdered civilians in red-dominated areas.... "The AUC reduced the ELN even more seriously, driving its remnants increasingly under cover..." Jaime had been speaking without notes. Now he paused, as if considering what next. "With the Rock, and the collapse of the world economy and drug trade, money from the druglords and the military dried up. The AUC let most of their soldiers go — the druglords could no longer pay them — retaining relatively small forces for household protection. But they told their more usefully located platoons they'd rehire them when they could afford to. Meanwhile they let them take their light weapons with them; they could hardly prevent it. "Then the cardinal began recruiting, and some of the FARC and numerous ELN veterans joined him, bringing their weapons, training and experience. As a result, our own weapons are a mixture of Kalashnikovs, M4ss, old M16s, and the Hk416s the lanceros and airborne brought with them. But the AUC's core personnel tended to remain loyal to the druglords, as a source of future income and security. The 'good old days,' they think, they hope, will return. And at any rate they tend to be bonded by all they have on their consciences. "So far I've barely mentioned the ELN. It began with a group of Colombian idealists who went to Cuba to train as insurgents. For years it was led by ex-priests, who in time developed a socialist peace proposal that Colombian presidents and


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American governments rejected out of hand, as no more than a Marxist political ploy. Meanwhile, ELN military efforts were diluted by their social and humanitarian efforts. Also, for a long time, the ELN did not harvest 'taxes' on coca and poppy growers as the FARC did. What they did do was undertake to finance themselves by kidnapping wealthy persons for ransom — including members of drug families. One early kidnapping was instrumental in the formation of the AUC. They also kidnapped wealthy foreigners for ransom, and employees of foreign corporations, contributing markedly to North American support of the Army — while weakening international support for the ELN's peace proposal. Which might otherwise have become a basis for international mediation, and leverage against the ruling class." Jaime's lips pursed, suggesting thought. But Juan Lopez would have wagered that the Jesuit had already thought this through quite thoroughly. "Recently," Jaime went on, "we've heard that the government has approached the cartels for their support in a campaign against the cardinal. The marginal Puño Cartel is connected to the president via his son-in-law, John Cohagan, who is said to have expressed interest. But Cohagan's ability is doubtful. The Cali and Medillín Cartels are said not to have responded; their bosses were reputedly in Europe or North America, seeking new enterprises. If either or both ally themselves with the army, they can cause us serious trouble, depending on how many experienced men and other resources they are able to muster. "The FARC, of course, knows this, and has to be concerned. "But the cartels seem unlikely to act. To them we are an unknown quantity. We've been remarkably successful, but have fought no battles. While it's been suggested the government is only going through the motions, not really trying. "Meanwhile we have word that Salazar has suggested to Pineda that if he helps Bogotá suppress us, the government will declare Amazonia and Orinoquia autonomous regions under FARC rule — which shows how little Salazar understands Amazonia and Orinoquia. Or Pineda, who would hardly trust a man with Salazar's reputation for treachery. Though he might pretend for a bit."

◊


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Jaime did not tell them all he might have. Withholding not from distrust, for his active gaze had watched their eyes and auras for hints of duplicity, and hadn't seen any. But there were things that needed to wait, things too dangerous, vital and speculative, to voice before so many so soon. So he simply asked for comments, questions, and discussion.

◊ Late the next day, their guests left. Then Jaime, along with the cardinal and Juan, sat down together to play with ideas. And plan.


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Chapter 25 News Item

THE OLYMPIAN, Olympia WA., Communities Page

August 9, 2016 At the Lewis County courthouse on August 8, the attorney for Reverend William Kelley of Chehalis obtained a cease and desist order against Arnold and Myrna Nelsen, Gerald Dexter, Stanley and Joni Forrest, and others unnamed, charged with slandering Reverend Kelley and his First Church of Dove. A hearing has not yet been scheduled.


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Chapter 26 Briefing a Cardinal's Envoy

Father Jaime's cool gaze unsettled Lieutenant Roberto Sunaga, nor could Sunaga watch Captain Lopez without looking away from the Jesuit. This was still Colombia, where trust was risky. One could die suddenly here. Among some officers in the cardinal's army, there was uncertainty about whether the cardinal was in charge, or the priest. In either case the two Churchmen were much preferred over Salazar and Kovacs, but if the Jesuit was in charge, things were going on beneath the surface, toward who knew what larger goal? The cardinal, on the other hand, was a known, home-grown factor they respected and admired. And finally, Sunaga had no idea why he had been called in. Juan Lopez knew. Jaime intended to send Sunaga to turn as much of the old ELN as possible. (The cardinal already had many of them in his army.) Sunaga had been part of the ELN, Comandante Libertad's adjutant, so Libertad must have trusted his intentions, ability, and discretion. Sunaga's mix of Japanese and mestizo genes blended well in most respects, but his eyes were definitely oriental. He could, it seemed to Juan, pass as Japanese. Jaime saw more: Sunaga's aura, mien, and what those slant-lidded eyes reflected. The young man was not particularly tense, but he was wary. "Lieutenant," Jaime said, "I have a very important mission for you." (Sunaga's wariness eased, but his focus sharpened; he loved challenges.) "But I need to know you better before I tell you about it. I know that in the army you were a lancero. And in the ELN you had Libertad's trust. The revolution has some interests in common with the ELN, yes?" "Yes. However, the mutualities were greater earlier." "Explain." "In more recent years, in the ELN, ideals were sacrificed for survival. Hardly


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surprising, but unfortunately the sacrifices — the compromises — weren't worth it. They did not succeed." "You are correct, of course." The Jesuit's lips pursed, as if he were considering how to word what came next. He was thinking that the compromises had amounted to virtual abandonment, but all he said was, "What do you think of Comandante Libertad?" "Basically he respects principles. But he can be ruthless, and at times...makes foolish decisions. I believe..." It was Sunaga's lips that pursed now. "I believe he has become apathetic toward its cause, his cause, but is unwilling to abandon it." "Ah! Interesting. What do you think of his cause? The ELN's cause?" "The cardinal's cause has trumped it; his every act, so far as I'm aware, demonstrates his dedication to the needs and hopes of the people. I do not expect to hear from him the old Church cant that only the soul counts, and that suffering is irrelevant. Or good." Jaime smiled slightly. "You have read him correctly. But I asked about Libertad's cause; the ELN's." "Primarily it is to stay alive now, which is neither inspiring nor satisfying. It is why hundreds of its men have turned to the cardinal." "Um-hmm. I have also come to that conclusion, but it's good to have it corroborated by someone who knows first hand." Father Jaime had tilted his head back slightly, to better meet the eyes of the young man across the desk. "So. That brings us to my reason for calling you here. His Reverence is interested in turning Comandante Libertad, and his men with him. Do you consider that possible?" "Possible? I suppose it is, but... The commander always appeared to me agnostic at best, but not hostile to the Church; churchmen and ex-churchmen were prominent in the founding and early command of the ELN, and since Libertad took command, the ELN has abducted no clergy. "But how many men he commands now, I do not know. I don't even know how many he remains able to contact since the Rock. Perhaps not many." "He will find ways, if he decides to," Jaime said. "Allowing for overlap, if he can contact 30, and each of them 10 others, and each of them 4 or 5 others..." He paused,


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eyes intent. "I want you to go to Libertad — I know where he is now — and turn him. I do not order you to do this; you must choose freely. But if you consider there is any chance of success..." The pause was both question and invitation. "I will do it, of course," said Sunaga. "Ah! Good!" From the beginning, the Jesuit had seemed casually confident, but now a light seemed to have turned on inside him. He glowed with it. "Libertad will want some specifics of our plans. Assuming he believes that together we can capture Bogotá." Juan Lopez had stood listening without speaking. He'd known the pitch, could have given it himself. But the word assuming had snagged his attention. It seemed to him that Jaime had no doubt, but what might Libertad think? "The AUC will have its ideas about that," Sunaga replied, "ideas much different than anything the ELN would consider." "We have plans for dealing with the AUC," Jaime replied. "Meanwhile you will take our proposals for a peace agreement, and alliance, to Comandante Libertad." He gestured. "Captain Lopez knows them well, and by the time you leave together, you will know them too. Together you will convince Libertad, you as the presenter, and both of you together as assurance of our good will." "By the time we leave?" Sunaga said. "Then I am not to leave at once?" "That's right. Juan has another mission that must precede yours — two of them in fact — but we needed to talk with you first. Now, more about what you will take to Libertad...."

◊ The pitch for Libertad's support was to be plain and simple. With victory, the cardinal would establish a provisional government. Then a national convention would hammer out a new constitution, with the ELN's "Proposal for a Negotiated Political Settlement" as a starting point. The Afflictions had enormously reduced the population, and the old, seemingly unending political stresses. The old political power structure had collapsed, and public attitudes had changed. "How great, really, how durable, is that change in attitudes?" Sunaga asked. Jaime answered slowly. "Great enough that the cardinal's revolution is drawing


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more and more recruits in a region that earlier was dominated by the FARC and the AUC. It includes recruits from them and from the army, as you know, of course. As for durable? Enough for our time frame. And consider: in just over a year, the Earth has been visited by an avatar of God, has witnessed his murder, and been hammered by the Rock. And all that grew out of them. "In a century those events will be no more than literature, but now, briefly, they are fresh in our minds and souls. We will not waste this opportunity, and the Church is working hard to assimilate the lessons learned, regarding priorities, the evaluation of importances...and the importance of compassion and mercy. To treat them as far more than words; to make them living concepts. You have seen that here. Already the firefights and executions, so common in our countryside, have almost disappeared." The plan, Jaime went on, would allow peasants to cultivate very small acreages of coca; a compromise on an old controversy. But there was to be no refinement. (As a matter of form, Jaime used the word agricultors instead of campesinos.) At present coca was symbolic — there was little market for it, legal or illegal — and at any rate, food crops had everyone's preference. The cardinal's government would undertake to develop export markets and agreements for a considerable list of pharmaceutical and other specialty crops. And with Marxist and rightist paramilitary violence largely eliminated, the scenic beauty and attractive climate of the Andes could reasonably be promoted worldwide, for future tourism, and possibly vacation and retirement homes, as the world economy recovered. A prospect that might not eventuate, but probably would. And with honest, responsible government in Colombia, the rest of the world would more readily involve themselves in her recovery. Hopefully early during their own recoveries.


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Chapter 27 A Stirring in Islam

In Dar-el-Bejda (Casablanca) are numerous mosques, some quite old. The newest — preceding the Rock by only two years — is the centerpiece of a landscaped plaza in a middle-class suburb. Its construction had been part of a brief cultural resurgence, the fading of militancy that followed the nuclear disaster in the holy lands, some two thousand miles east. On this particular Wednesday, with the evening prayers completed, had been celebrated, and in a meeting room, some sixty adults sat in their bare or stockinged feet, crosslegged on the thick carpet or soft cushions. Its twilight was abetted by candles (electricity remaining seriously limited). They'd gathered to hear and discuss the meaning, for Islam, of Ngunda Elija Aran. Some had attended one of the previous Wednesday meetings; this was the third. In that short time, by word of mouth, attendance had risen from just fourteen. A man in an ankle-length robe stepped to the lectern. Its microphone had been removed, stilled by the lack of electricity, but his practiced voice was adequate. "May the peace of Allah be upon you," he said easily. "I am Omar Bekai, an imam of this mosque. Some of you also know me as your optometrist. I am glad to see so many here." He turned to a man on a cushion to one side. "I have invited a friend to speak to you this evening." He beckoned. The man rose and stepped to the lectern, to stand beside the imam. "Some of you may know him: he is a prominent, highly regarded attorney, Yusuf Hassan. Advocate Hassan would not himself tell you this, so I will; much of his time is graciously spent representing those unable to pay. He is a man who heeds Allah at his own expense. "We met only recently, he and I, and talked far into the night. He has not only read Ngunda Aran's words in print — perhaps all of them — but has listened to many of them on video cubes, seen them delivered. And he has thought about them deeply,


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in the context of the Quran, and of a life lived in Islam." Turning to his guest, he said, "Advocate Hassan, the lectern is yours," then stepped away and seated himself on a cushion. "Thank you, Imam Omar." Yusuf Hassan looked out at his audience. "I will begin by addressing some issues that to me seem central to the matter of Ngunda and Islam. Afterward I will invite your comments and questions. "In referring to Allah, Ngunda used the word 'Tao,' from the Chinese. In that language, 'tao' means 'the way.' Also it means 'everything' — 'the one' — everything as a unified whole, including its Infinite Soul. Ngunda preferred a word, a name, that carried as little in the way of cultural or political trappings as possible. But he did not forbid calling it by more familiar names: Allah by us, for example, and Jehovah by Christians. Because God is God, in whatever language, by whatever name." He paused before continuing, speaking slowly at first. "When we recite from the Quran, we say: 'In the name of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful.' But it is also said that Allah 'is stern in retribution.' Is that not inconsistent? In the sura "The Table," the Prophet, peace be upon him, tells us 'do not allow your hatred for other men to turn you away from justice. Deal justly; justice is nearer to true piety.' And in the sura "The Cow," he says of men, 'They can grasp only that part of knowledge which Allah wills.' "What further knowledge do we have on this? Ngunda points out that the Tao is all, and that it acts even-handedly, which is to say without favoritism. With a justice that goes beyond human understanding. That is the nature of Allah. In the language of electronics, one might say the universe is 'wired' for balance, for equal responses to action, responses sometimes immediate, sometimes delayed; sometimes identifiable, sometimes not. "If you leap from a roof, you hit the ground quickly. If you start to swim across a river, and the crossing is more difficult than you can manage, you drown, but perhaps after a long struggle. Unless, of course, someone adds their energy into the equation, and rescues you. "In any event, Allah, the Tao, knows all that goes on within you, including suffering, and feels compassion for you. And when you die, the Tao 'embraces' you spiritually. Watch a cube of Dove's murder, peace be upon him, in which he expresses


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compassion for his murderer, and you will gain a fuller sense of what compassion is." He scanned his audience, then added: "One might complain, 'but I didn't know!' In this universe, what we don't know far exceeds what we do know. What is most important to know is compassion and mercy." An insistent hand had been raised, and Yusuf pointed. The questioner arose and spoke: "The Messenger of Allah, peace be upon him, said he was the Seal of the Prophets. That there had been prophets before him, but none would follow. Yet you suggest that Ngunda Aran was sent by Allah." "Indeed sent by Allah. In the sura "Thunder," it is said 'Every nation has its mentor.' By hindsight we can see that this was true before the Blessed Muhammad, peace be upon him, and after. Thus one might not want to argue that Ngunda Aran, peace be upon him, is a new prophet of Allah, but one cannot deny that he has been a mentor, with new messages for us, spoken freshly in new words. "The world changes. And people change, individually and collectively. Not basically, but in knowledge and understanding. We have changed enormously in our power to do good and harm, magnified and expanded by science and technology." Yusuf Hassan paused as if examining what he'd just said. "Think again on the words of the blessed Prophet, peace be upon him: 'Every nation has its mentor.' When he said that, he lived in Arabia, thousands of kilometers from our city. Yet a hundred years afterward, Morocco was conquered by Arabs, and over time converted by them. And of course by now, Arabia, Morocco — all the world! — has been changed and rechanged, repeatedly and greatly. One might wonder if it is not time for another mentor. "Have you heard of the Christian reformer, Martin Luther, who lived five hundred years ago? Was he not a needed mentor to the Germans? Eighty, a hundred years ago, was Mohandas Gandhi not a mentor to the Hindus? Read the words and acts of those men: they led their people out of bondage and oppression, and their ideas spread widely. "Not only each nation, but each era has its mentor, who teaches his people in the currency of their nation and their time. And now we live in a time when all nations must come together in peace, aided by a mentor for all humankind. I believe that is


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what Allah had in mind when Ngunda Aran was born, a man of three races born into a fourth land, who would be a mentor to the world." From his first words, the attorney's voice had been calmly powerful, almost serene. "It is time now," he went on, "for nations and factions to gather their will, and with love, set aside hatreds, set aside vengeance, set aside tribes, clans, old loyalties...and forge new ways, new brotherhoods." Suddenly his voice crackled with energy. "NEWER, STRONGER, MORE COMPASSIONATE LOYALTY TO ALLAH!" With that he stood quiet for a moment, softened, eased. "We have all read the Quran. Now it is time to ignore the whispers of the wicked, who have mocked Allah by teaching hatred in mosques and schools and homes! It is time for reform — which has already begun. The nuclear war, Ngunda Aran, and the great Rock have prepared all of humankind. Have bent stiff necks, broken arrogant pride, and made possible what had previously seemed impossible." His questioner still stood, though his head had bowed. Now he raised his eyes again. "How shall we start?" The handsome brown face smiled, growing in beauty. "You started two weeks ago, when you first gathered here with Imam Omar. Now you number at least...what? Sixty? Seventy? With your hearts open, sort further, this evening or later, through the teachings and examples of Ngunda Aran, and see for yourself what they can mean for Islam."


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Chapter 28 Diplomacy Under the Gun

Ramiro Pineda. Captain Juan Enrico Lopez trotted his horse through Bucaramanga's mostly empty streets, thinking how his sense of time had changed. Things took longer than before, but people had gotten used to it. Gotten used to being more at the mercy of time, yet less pressed by it. It took more to trigger a sense of urgency now. Before the Rock, he could have driven from Dos Aserraderos to Bucaramanga in four hours. On horseback it had taken three long days, even with a remount in tow. Today there'd been FARC guard squads at each major ford, each crude bridge along the road. He was getting close. Now the sun had set. Street lights were a thing of the past, and at 7° north latitude, twilight was brief. But he'd already spotted the New Hotel Bolívar, new only in name, where Ramiro Pineda was said to be headquartered. Here and there, windows were electrically lit. Either someone had found and installed a backup generator, or they'd had one before the Rock. In either case they had fuel to power it. Or a storage battery and someone peddling a stationary bike; it was how Jaime kept in shape. On the front lawn, a hitching rail had been installed, and when he'd dismounted, Juan looped his reins around it. At the entrance, a guard questioned him, then opened a belt radio and spoke briefly. "Someone here wishes to see Ramiro. He says he is from Cardinal Reyes." The man may have been a Marxist, but he'd spoken the cardinal's name respectfully enough. Was part of that tradition? Juan wondered. Or because this cardinal had an army? A minute later another guard appeared, took the pistol from Juan's belt holster, and patted him down for concealed weapons, not omitting his ankles. Then he led him to Pineda. In the FARC chief's office, Juan, and Ramiro Pineda, sat down to strong coffee.


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"The cardinal wishes to overthrow the government before Christmas," Juan said. "Our power increases from day to day, and with it our need to feed our men, and keep their interest engaged until the time to move. So we wish to speed the victory. You understand." Pineda regarded him from beneath lizard lids. "And you want me to do...what?" "I understand Salazar has proposed an alliance to you, offering autonomy in Orinoquia and Amazonia." The hooded eyes flashed ironic humor, but he commented only that "all kinds of rumors can be heard. Listeners make of them what they will." "What of reports heard directly from the lips of a personal aide?" "Whose aide? Salazar's? The aide must say something relevant, something of consequence, something that can be evaluated as true or false, or he is not worth listening too." "The army of the FARC is still potent," Juan said, "and ours increasingly so. Together, properly led, we can crack Kovacs' army, and cracked, it will come apart. We can then capture Salazar, or cause him to flee. And dictate terms." "What terms? And what is in it for the Revolution?" "That is for you and the cardinal to discuss and come to terms on. If you are interested." "The president's offer was much more explicit." "Explicit perhaps, but the president is a notorious liar. As I am sure you've noticed. There is what he says, and there is what he does." Pineda took a cigar from a shirt pocket, licked it, bit the tip off and spat it out, then lit the cigar with a kitchen match. Matches were no longer easy to get, sometimes even used as money. The ritual completed, the FARC commander let a plume of pungent smoke seep from dark lips, and regarded his visitor again. "You are a cagey young man. All right, if you will not be explicit with me, I will nonetheless be explicit with you. First about your cardinal: he is a tool of the Church; that means he is not to be trusted. If he actually believes, then he is a fool whose judgment cannot be trusted; he will destroy himself and those around him. If he does not believe, then his oath is worth nothing. As for his Church: it is a lie built upon lies;


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it has victimized the poor for two thousand years, and that will not change. "Nonetheless, if I were foolish enough to negotiate with him, I would require a constitution for all of Colombia, designed after the Cuban. Beyond that, the details of power sharing are negotiable, within limits." Then, sitting back, he took another cigar from a blouse pocket and offered it to Juan, who accepted. "First," Juan answered, "let me reply that the cardinal is widely trusted. He persisted in telling the truth about the president, even after Salazar's threats. The cardinal is widely respected by the Colombian people for his courage." Juan paused meaningfully. "He is the single most trusted and respected person in Colombia. As you know. And while everyone else's power shrinks, his grows." Now Juan carried out the cigar ritual, watching for any Pineda response, but all he saw was a slight scowl. "His honor, his honesty, is the source of his power, and the effective safeguard of the trust people give him: to violate that trust would be to lose it." Juan bobbed his head, as if agreeing with his own words. "He pointed that out to me himself, when I suggested some possibilities."

◊ The two men continued to talk in a cloud of cigar smoke, generalities punctuated with seemingly casual bargaining points. The cigars died of consumption, and an orderly brought in fresh coffee, strong and hot. Finally Pineda agreed to talk with the cardinal. He and Juan would work up a first-order agenda the next day. Then the orderly led Juan to a room in the Bolívar for the night. Pineda would no doubt discuss the proposal with a trusted lieutenant, and possibly by short-wave radio with some other confidant. But Juan didn't worry about that. He trusted both the cardinal and Jaime. And most importantly, he trusted himself and his talent — to do and say the right thing. The next target on his hunting trip was the one about which he felt most concern: in Medallín, where Rey Pizarro should be back from Europe. Before the Rock, many AUC commanders had answered to Pizarro as their patrón, their sponsor.

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Señor Tercopelo. Captain Juan Enrico Lopez had first met Major Hector Castano at a briefing by Father Jaime, before leaving Santo Tomás. There'd been only the three of them plus the cardinal, and it was almost too brief to be called a briefing. Hector Castano had made a poor first impression on the young lancero. A tall, darkly morose man, he outranked Juan, though Juan would command their mission. Juan didn't like Castano's AUC background. The AUC was fascist, brutal, and a prime destructive element in Colombia's poisonous politics. The briefing was little more than a statement of purpose — what was wanted from whom — and a time and place to meet, but the cardinal's presence emphasized its importance. Two days later, Juan had ridden off to Bucaramanga, and Ramiro Pineda. Now he and Hector met again, as planned, in a mostly empty, unremarkable hotel in Puerto Berrío, where they stayed a single night. Coming to know one another scarcely more than before, for their joint mood was — not good. Previously Juan had approached difficult missions with a sort of fatalistic matter-of-factness, and if not optimism, at least self-trust. But now he was grim, troubled. It occurred to him that what he felt might be simply a reflection of what the morose Hector Castano was feeling, and considered questioning him. But as evening darkened, they went to bed having discussed nothing. They'd eat before daylight, and talk in the saddle beneath God's sky.

◊ In fact that sky smiled brightly on them. Puerto Berrío was at the east end of the pass, where the railroad to Medellín climbed out of the rugged Magdalena River gorge into and over the Cordillera Central. A never-paved road accompanied it, more or less, but both road and railroad were multiply interrupted, broken where the Great Rain had washed out roadbeds, bridges, culverts, trestles, or where slopes had slid or slumped. The moderate slopes were mostly grazing land; the steeper were frost-ravaged jungle scrub. The earlier mountain forests and coffee plantations were largely gone. Juan was glad Hector had arranged for sure-footed mules to exchange for their horses. During the season past, others had found, and more or less cleared, detours through and around mudslides and washouts, but travel was slow. The ride to


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Medellín threatened to take three or perhaps four days instead of two. At first they simply rode, saying little to each other, but where the riding was better, they talked. When they paused to hobble the mules and let them graze, Juan boiled coffee on an open fire. There they talked at greater length, Juan questioning at times, but mostly letting Hector say whatever his muse presented, giving Juan a fuller sense of AUC life. Nothing intimate, but revealing. And with that they began to bond as comrades. Hector was a tall rangy mestizo, who physically could pass as a full-blooded indio. But in Colombia, indio was a cultural, not a racial term. Over a period of years he'd worked his way up the ranks of a paid paramilitary company to become its commander. Eventually his company was stationed near Medellín, where after a time he became Pizarro's aide, and operations coordinator of all the AUC that Rey Pizarro could claim, which was much of it. Hector had married, fathered a child, a little girl, and lived in a small house — concrete, painted pastel green — in a pretty Medellín suburb, and drove a small Japanese car. A very different life than he'd lived before. There, for several years, he'd occasionally watched the Latin American edition of CNN, late at night. And when Dove's Grand Healing Tour began, Hector and Yolanda Castano became addicted to its coverage. Watched it all, some of it live, beginning with its opening in a Lutheran Church parking lot in LaCrosse, Wisconsin, down to its bloody conclusion in the governor's office in Little Rock. And that same day, off the coast of Kamchatka, the enormous mushroom cloud that marked the cataclysmic arrival of the great meteor Ngunda Aran had predicted. Ngunda had characterized it as "a geophysical manifestation of the Tao." Cardinal Reyes, on radio via satellite, had called it la Firma de Dios — the Signature of God. Before long, all the Spanish world learned to call it la roca de aflicción. At dawn the next day, Hector Castano, his little family and their small Japanese car, disappeared from Medellín. Before the Great Rain had worked its helical way around the planet to the Andean tropics, the Castano family had taken residence in Hector's childhood village of Santa Inés. Within hours of the first hard drops, the village was gone. The survivors built huts in the forest, and days later, cholera broke out. Yolanda Castano was one of the first adults to die. Little Isabel had preceded her.


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As soon as Hector heard of the Revolution of the Saviors, he'd enlisted, and risen quickly, becoming a battalion XO. He'd talked with, and no doubt been vetted by, Father Jaime (who read auras, though in Santo Tomás, only the cardinal knew that).

◊ After Hector's oral memoir, the two riders' talk was mostly mission-related. With Juan at times reciting bits from the autobiography he'd carefully created with the help of a CIA specialist at Langley. He could tell it, even visualize it, as if it were true. But mostly he listened, gathering from Hector things he needed to know. Juan was not thrilled at the prospect of meeting the druglord, known widely (though not to his face) as Señor Tercopelo (the fer-de-lance, a large and deadly pit viper). Though for most of his career, Hector had received his orders through go-betweens, during his final two years his orders had come directly from Señor Tercopelo. He'd never become one of the druglord's inner circle, his confidants, but he'd dealt with him, and overheard much about him. Tercopelo, if not offended, was said to be generous and more or less affable, but at times could be contemptuous or truculent. Only occasionally had he killed anyone personally though, and then it was said to be quickly and cleanly, with neither scruple nor sadism. "What offends him?" Juan asked. Startlingly Hector grinned. "Marxists first, and after them, anyone else he perceives as enemies." "That's not amusing." "Of course it's not, but there is an element of humor in it. He is a riddle, and the name Tercopelo is even punned. By his own hand he has killed — what? Five or six times? Maybe eight? In a business known for ruthlessness and brutality, he is often pleasant. Also, he has prevailed as much by intelligence and generosity, it seems to me, as by fear and death, and I believe he is proud of that. Though that generosity is made much more effective by his known brutality." "Yet he has abundantly earned his reputation. He has caused many deaths indirectly, by sending out persons like myself. He would tell me to 'take care' of someone, and I would send out a team. As I had been sent out in my time." He stopped his mule at the edge of a hill of mud and rock and broken trees — a


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great mudslide. After evaluating for a moment, he steered his mule to one side, and with his heels urged it forward, repeating and expanding what he'd said: "Rey Pizarro hates Marxists, those he perceives as friends of Marxists, and anyone else he sees as enemies." After they'd worked their way around the slide, he turned again to look at Juan riding beside him a step back. "On the other hand," he added, "though he scoffs at religion, he tolerates Churchmen who speak against him — gives them what he calls 'the right of the robe.' I myself have heard him use the expression. But what he thinks of His Reverence, I do not know, nor what he thinks of Dove, if he thinks of him at all." Hector laughed without humor, a sort of grunting. "I don't even know what he thinks of me now, but I can guess. He has had people shot for disloyalty." That last struck Juan like a punch in the gut. "I'm sorry if I was brusque with you earlier, major," he said. "You may be more at risk than I on this mission." He paused. "What turned you to His Reverence?" "Dove turned me. I watched him on CNN during the Great Healing Tour, and knew I was witnessing the Second Coming; the real thing. Though till then I had not really believed in the first. And when I saw him killed, I could no longer continue as a murderer. A soldier, yes — that is different — but I could no longer order death squads to do their work. That's why I left, went home to Santa Inés. And if anyone was sent to kill me, they did not arrive. Shortly after I got there, the Great Rains came, and many were swept away by floods. "As for me — when I die, I die. Meanwhile, in whatever time I have, I will work at atoning for the crimes I have committed. And continue it in my lives to come, till I have wiped away all the ill karma I have created in this life." Once more he looked aside at Juan. "As you can see, since I have been with His Reverence, I have read much of what Ngunda Aran taught. It is never too late, or too soon, to learn, or to begin atonement. I only wish I'd been a better human from the beginning." The tears in the ex-para's eyes surprised Juan. He'd never really looked at how powerful the message could be, for someone who'd lived such a life.

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Tercopelo's Medellín office was bright, sunny, the drug lord's smile thin. "You wear a different uniform now, Hector." Hector's self respect and physical hardness did not hide his fear. Rey Pizarro was born intimidating, was wired for it, Juan did not doubt, and had been feeding it steroids ever since. His size and square heavy features contributed. It took real commitment and courage for Hector to agree to this mission, Juan told himself. Now Tercopelo grinned at his former aide. "And a major now. You always were a good man, my friend." And that is the charm Hector described. A charming viper. The nearly black eyes shifted to Juan, fixed on him. Some men meet your eyes to dominate you, Juan thought. They were alone with the druglord, except for a man who sat well to one side. A small man, calm but alert, and no doubt very quick, wearing a shoulder holster over a sheer white short-sleeved shirt. His wrists were small, but his forearms bulged with muscle. "And you, captain," Pizarro said, "what is your role on this visit?" "I am the cardinal's envoy. I know his thoughts." The thick black eyebrows lifted a few millimeters. "Ah. Then I suppose I should ask your name." Name only. His rank was obvious from his insignia, and the cardinal assigned no serial numbers. "I am Juan Enrico Lopez." The name meant nothing to Pizarro. His gaze returned to Hector. "And you, Hector, what is your role?" "I know you, Señor, know you better than anyone else in the cardinal's army. My function is to advise and correct Captain Lopez." "I see. You are still an errand boy then, even as a major. It was your destiny from birth. But a very good errand boy, I am sure." Hector's face darkened. Pizarro's attention moved back to Juan. "So. What brought you to me?" Playing games to keep us off balance. Well. "The cardinal would like to complete the revolution, capture the government before Christmas. An alliance with the AUC would


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ensure it." Surprise was part of Pizarro's reaction, garbed in an "Ah!" of realization. "He would, would he?" He paused, adjusting. "And then what?" "Then a new constitution for Colombia." "Ho! And how is that supposed to work? Without enforcement, a constitution is used paper. It cannot work without fear, and a leader willing to exercise it. And enforcement is seriously restricted without functional roads and railroads. Or an organization that is everywhere, like mine." How well has yours been working lately? Juan asked himself. "The traditional class system has collapsed," he replied. "He would replace it with a meritocracy. Trust and self-interest would replace fear and self-interest. Persons like yourself would find less violent — less dangerous means to support your lifestyle." The druglord's challenging stare had lost its edge. He was feeling his way into something he didn't understand, didn't trust. Clearly he recognized the cardinal's potency, but was probably unsure how far it went. We all are, Juan thought. He hadn't looked at that before, but there it was. Colombia was a large country, bigger than France, Germany and Poland combined, and much of it more mountainous than Switzerland. Without a functional motor road system. Then he realized. "The main tie is the Church," Juan said. "It is truly everywhere. Even the Marxists have been unable to change that. And in Colombia, the Church is ruled by the cardinal, this one respected, dedicated — and pragmatic. And creative; that is important. We live in a new world. The old one has been destroyed by an act of God. We have to reinvent it. Reinvent ourselves." Rey Pizarro looked long at Juan, thoughtful now, not challenging. Then, with a flick of his head, he shook off the spell, and reaching to a call pad, touched it. "Ricardo," he said, "send José in." His eyes returned to Juan. "We will talk about this tomorrow. Meanwhile you have spent a long day in the saddle. You will no doubt welcome sleep." Juan was aware that someone, José, had entered the room to his rear. He got to his feet, Hector a half second behind. "You are correct, señor," Juan said. "Does either of you wish a female companion for the night?"


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"Not me," Juan answered wryly, then bent to the musette bag he'd carried, opened it and removed two thin booklets. "Here are two things that might help you understand the cardinal and his intentions. The larger is a selection of Ngunda Aran's thoughts. The other is the existing efforts, those that have reached us, of the Holy Father's encyclicals, written to define the Church in the new era. Worldwide. Colombia does not exist in a vacuum; something you've known for a long time." As Juan held them out to him, Rey Pizarro looked at them as if they might contain anthrax. Then he took them, eyeing the titles before looking back at Juan. "Sleep well, captain, but do not allow yourself great optimism."

◊ In his room, Juan lay awake barely long enough to wonder if Hector would have trouble sleeping.

◊ In a matter-of-fact way, Rey Pizarro was proud of his home. For decades, one of Colombia's coffee kings had lived there, with his old money, cultivated tastes, and British education. By contrast, Pizarro, through age twelve, had been educated in a Catholic school for working-class children. Then he'd gone to work driving mules in a coffee plantation. At thirteen years, ambitious, large for his age, and innately aggressive, he became an errand boy for a drug family. At age fourteen, with a reputation for quick eyes, quick intelligence, and reliability, he became a courier between brokers and the jéfe in his home village. He carried significant sums of money, and the records in his receipt books were immaculate: clearly legible, and they always checked out. Also at fourteen, with a knife, he killed his first man, who'd tried to rob him. Old money too could be ruthless and criminal, but the drug trade? Pizarro's education in crime was one of the best, and his attitude matched it. Now he stood greeting his two guests in the breakfast room. As on the evening before, they'd been patted down in advance, politely but professionally, without apology. A slender white-jacketed youth seated the three of them at a round, golden-brown mahogany table. This morning, two gunmen instead of one sat casually a few yards to Pizarro's sides. Watching, waiting, not eating. Not even sipping coffee


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When his guests had been seated, Pizarro looked Juan Lopez over, long enough to make most men nervous; the captain accepted the examination casually. Meanwhile Pizarro deliberately ignored his one-time aide, but Hector showed no sign of resentment. He's seen me operate too often, Pizarro thought, more amused than disappointed. And Hector seldom shows his feelings unless you take him by surprise. His indio upbringing. "Did you sleep well, captain?" he asked at last. "Very well, señor. In the army, even officers don't sleep on mattresses like yours. Not in the cardinal's army, not in General Kovacs'." "Good." Pizarro gestured. "Would you care to ask God's blessing on the food?" "Yes, thank you." The captain hadn't seriously prayed since childhood, and kept it brief, Pizarro doubting his sincerity. Then they began to eat. The druglord had developed a taste for French cuisine, and had long since brought his own Parisian chef to Medellín. Pizarro hadn't troubled to memorize the names of what he ate that morning. It was enough to enjoy it. As they ate, he finally deigned to speak to his ex-aide. "Hector," he said, "I was aggrieved to lose you. What happened?" "I had watched the Dove heal on CNN. Watched his murder, and realized he was what so many said — the Second Coming." Pizarro's head jerked in an inaudible grunt, an unspoken dismissal of the very concept. He turned to Juan. "And you, captain?" "I too. And what do you think of Ngunda Aran, Señor Tercopelo?" The broad mouth tightened, and the voice. "Never again call me by that name, captain." The words were meant to frighten, Juan realized, to freeze his mind. "Señor Pizarro then," he said. "I had thought you enjoyed the nickname. The tercopelo is deadly and beautiful, and the very word frightens strong men." Head back, Pizarro lay aside his fork, and again examined Juan Lopez, this time with eyes narrowed. "And what frightens you, captain?" he said at last. Juan's lips pursed in thought. "When I was ordered to visit you, señor, then I feared. You have a reputation, and of course the nickname. Then I remembered the Grand Inquisitor, in the Spain of our forefathers. He judged persons, and if they were


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guilty, or if he thought they might be guilty, or if his eggs had been poorly cooked that morning, he might send them to the torturer. Who'd been taught as an apprentice to cause maximum pain, maximum terror. But when it was over..." Juan had begun his answer without knowing where it led, still didn't, and wondered if he'd regret it. Then found himself saying: "I do not believe in hell, señor, but I do believe in a sort of purgatory, in which we revisit each and every harmful act of that life. Revisit it with full and intimate, personal knowledge of the pain, the grief, the loss we caused. With no attorney beside us, no possibility to deny, or to hide, or to lighten it in any way. In life, God gives us freedom of choice. But after death we learn what true justice is. At best, earthly courts provide only retribution and isolation, not justice. "Can you imagine what the Grand Inquisitor found, when he died?" Without rising, Juan bowed now to Pizarro, torso and head. "I could be mistaken, of course; certainly I cannot prove it. None of us can prove what we believe of death. But what I described seems not incompatible with what Ngunda Aran said and wrote. Ngunda took it further, of course. Someday, if I survive these times, I will read more of it. All of it. But I am basically a man of action, not a scholar or a seer." Rey Pizarro stared like a carven icon crowned with darkness, and Juan turned his attention to breakfast again. A few minutes later he glanced toward Pizarro once more. The druglord was eating, but seeming not to notice what. Hector, meanwhile, had almost finished; Juan wondered what he was thinking.

◊ Pizarro dismissed them after breakfast. "There is no point in you continuing here," he said. "You are of too little standing. If the cardinal wants to bargain with me, let him come here. Kyril will see to your departure." Both bodyguards moved toward them. Juan shrugged and got to his feet, not meeting Pizarro's eyes. To do so now might seem a challenge. "As you wish, señor. But I assure you, his reverence will not come here. There is only one Revolution of the Saviors. He is prepared to win, and your help would mean less to him than his to you. He sent me here because he is interested in what comes after victory — in the peace — in what happens after he has overthrown


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the existing structure. And that requires that people like yourself have a spokesman among the victors. But you are not his only candidate." Juan bowed again, curtly, slightly, almost mockingly. "We will take our mules and leave your generous hospitality. These gentlemen" — he gestured at the bodyguards — "are unnecessary to see us on our way." That, it had seemed to Juan, was the critical moment. His bluff was called, the issue settled, by Kyril drawing his pistol. Juan did not stall then, but strode down the corridor and up the stairs to the rooms they'd occupied. There they discovered their own pistols were missing. In twenty minutes another Slav, "Vladi," led them to the stable, Kyril following with a third, perhaps for security. In fifteen minutes they were back in the saddle, riding toward the ruined railroad. There they were held till four Hispanics arrived. "Señores," Kyril said, "these men are to escort you to the Magdalena. If you present difficulties, they will no doubt deal with you summarily."

◊ Juan half expected that when they'd gotten well away from town, they'd be executed and their bodies disposed of; it seemed the safest handling. It did not happen. Meanwhile the trail was familiar to them now, and before long the route was mostly downhill. It was midday when Kyril caught up to them. "Señores!" he called, "Señor Pizarro has ordered me to return you to him. It seems you forgot your pistols, and in Colombia it is unsafe to travel unarmed."

◊ So they followed him back to Medellín. There no one mentioned their expulsion and its cancellation. Instead, Señor Tercopelo invited them to supper again. Tomorrow, he said, would be soon enough to discuss an agreement with the cardinal. After a warm shower, Juan and Hector sat together on Juan's balcony with cool beer, watching twilight fade from the sky; at latitude 5° 30' north, it didn't take long. In the absence of nearly all electric lights, stars were already showing. "What do you suppose changed things?" Juan murmured. Hector shrugged. If Juan wanted to risk being overheard by some listening


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device, he wouldn't worry about it. After a moment he answered. "He might simply have reconsidered. Or perhaps he was testing you...or...who knows?" This time Juan spoke less quietly. "Perhaps he simply wants to be on the winning side." It occurred to Hector that Juan might want to be overheard. He took another swig of beer, then said: "That is possible. It would make sense, and he is abundantly intelligent." They said almost nothing more then, just finished their beers and went to bed.

____________________ "Comandante Libertad" was not much like the name he'd been born with: Manuel Eustaquio Gomez — a name that seemed to him dishonest, corrupt, along with much else in the world. Including the parents who'd given it to him. Parents he'd regarded as hopelessly bourgeois before he even knew the word. His father had been born and raised Moishe Abraham Steinhorn, in San Antonio, Texas. Being something of a rebel himself, young Moishe resented the sting of the rabbi's slipper sole strenuously applied to his childish buttocks. (The rabbi had no razor strap, and wore suspenders instead of a belt.) At age 25, Moishe Steinhorn gained access to a modest trust fund bequeathed him by his maternal grandfather. And with his like-minded bride, Ruth Rachel Bergmann-Steinhorn, had relocated to Mexico City. Already moderately proficient in Spanish, they soon (1) began lessons in Catholicism, and (2) applied for Mexican citizenship as Miguel Armando and Ruth Regina Gomez. All of it a rejection of their families' Orthodoxy, and disapproval of the Zionist occupation of Palestine. Unable to change the past, they disowned it. A few years afterward, Manuel Eustaquio Gomez was born, an only child. At age eight he learned inadvertently that his roots were Jewish, and that his family name had been Steinhorn. He'd been shocked! — for one thing he was prejudiced against Jews — yet when he was told the rest of the story, to his childish mind, his parents' abandonment of their Jewish origins seemed disloyal, unprincipled. He was not surprised. Year by year, Miguel Armando and Ruth Regina learned the scope and severity of


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their son's disapprovals and rejections, almost uniformly different from their own. Along with everything else, he disliked Mexico City, for he was asthmatic, and its smog threatened to do him in. His father, who did his best to cope with Manuel's problems, sold his advertising business at some sacrifice, and relocated to Oaxaca. There he built a home in a breezy subdivision above town, where the child's outraged respiratory system desensitized, and he was enrolled in a Catholic school. Rabbi Steinhorn would have gone ballistic (or died of stroke) if he'd known. Manuel's parents may have been rebellious when young, but they were not fundamentally rebels. They'd been children of their time, and in tune with their peers, reacting against orthodoxy (both capitalized and lower case) and much else in society. Their son's rebelliousness was different; it appeared hardwired, covering seemingly everything. He even read little — just enough to get through school — as if rejecting the thought there might be anything worth reading. Then Manuel started college, learned about Marxism — and began to read willingly. Became interested in Fidel Castro and his Marxist island, and went to Cuba for a year of study. There he met a small group of Colombian rebels, and when they left, he went to Colombia with them. He never returned to Oaxaca. Trying to make the Colombian revolution work, he discovered that he too could make mistakes, and mellowed a bit...if "mellowed" is the word. He still found little that pleased him, but recognized now that some things were less objectionable than others, things he could support, despite their flaws, in he name of improvement. Also he was highly intelligent (though aberrated), seriously competitive (when once engaged), and someone whom others tended to yield to. Thus, in time, he found himself in command of the ELN. He then took the name Comandante Libertad. Given his innate cynicism and upper middle-class upbringing, it was an unlikely choice. But also given that cynicism, and his commitment to the recognizably flawed premises of Marxism (more flawed even than capitalism), he leaned heavily on intuition. Thought tended to come after a decision instead of before, in the form of rationalizations and second-guessing, and rather often he silently berated himself. But even so, he was slow to change a position. Stubborn.

◊


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Very unlike Señor Tercopelo, Libertad had moved into the modest home of a trucker and his family, all "dead of the Rock," as the saying went — the father (and his truck) taken by a mudslide, the wife and both children by some plague. Libertad made do with a house staff of two: Perfecta prepared the meals and did the cleaning. Her surviving son, José, saw to most everything else. (Libertad's more intimate needs, which in his case were casual, were fulfilled by a young local woman who visited him when sent for. He was not interested in attachments, which experience had equated with distraction and aggravation.) His squad of guards and hit men shared the large parental bedroom, where they slept on cots. He himself slept on a cot, in what had been a guest room. Guests, when there were any, slept in any of four small rooms built for the trucker's children and intended children. This afternoon the commander had two guests, though he didn't expect them to stay the night. Leaning back in his chair, he examined them. They wore the loose, unbleached cotton work clothes of rurales, but with a difference. Pinned on one was the insignia of a captain, and on the other a lieutenant. The lieutenant he recognized. "They wish to speak with you, comandante," said their escort. Libertad nodded curtly, and addressed the lieutenant. "You I know, Roberto," he said, then shifted his gaze to the captain. "But who are you?" "I am Captain Juan Enríco Lopez, Cardinal Reyes's envoy to the commander of Ejército de Liberación Nacional. Yourself. Lieutenant Sunaga is here as my adviser, and as assurance to you that both the cardinal and myself are honorable men." "Hmh!" Libertad's grunt combined acknowledgment and cynicism. Yet he did have a concept of honor — his cynicism was an expression of it — and of humanity's, and God's, failure to measure up. After a pause he went on. "And you are here because...?" Juan told him. Libertad listened skeptically, then turned to Roberto, and like Rey Pizarro to Hector Castano, said: "And you, lieutenant. Why did you leave me for that tool of the Church?" "Ask first why I left my family, where I was the eldest son of a prosperous commercial fisherman with three tuna boats. My younger brother became addicted to cocaine at age fifteen, and could not or would not stop using it. President Gavaldon


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had pledged to stamp out the cocaine trade, and made a highly visible start. So I enlisted in the army as an officer candidate, then volunteered for the lanceros. But soon I became disillusioned. Not only were we not succeeding; there was corruption, the acceptance of bribes. "Meanwhile I had read the ELN's manifesto, and believed there was great virtue in it, so I left the army and came to you." Libertad found the recitation familiar; he'd heard it before — when? Three years earlier? — while interviewing Roberto. "Then," Roberto continued, "I saw on television the Healing Tour of Dove, and I believed. And continue to believe." He gestured, the gesture taking in the world at large. "How could I not, after the Rock arrived as only Dove predicted. After scientists had scorned what he'd said. The experts, afraid of any truth seemingly at odds with their religion, science. Ignoring the very possibilities they would later use to explain how it happened!" He paused. "Yet you ignored all of it!" he said suddenly, finger jabbing. "Ignored what it meant!" Oh oh! Juan thought. Don't blow it, Roberto! Roberto plunged on: "Because it is at odds with your religion! Marxism!" Comandante Libertad felt slightly dizzy, as if about to be sick. In fact Roberto's words "the Rock" had triggered a cognition that depressed the commander's brainstem function, stopped his breathing, slowed his heart beat. The next several sentences had registered without examination, but meanwhile he had a sense of "truth discovered." Then he was breathing again, a deep gasp, and for a moment his heart raced. At odds with your religion! Marxism! "Well," he said. "Well." "Are you all right, commander?" Juan asked, and Roberto stopped talking, aware now that something had happened without his notice. "Yes." Libertad's breathing was labored. "Yes, I'll be all right. It's an old breathing disorder." He knew as he said it, he was lying, rationalizing again. "As a child I was asthmatic." With an effort he focused his eyes and attention on Roberto. "Thank you, Roberto, for your honesty." From him the statement was astounding.


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Then he turned his attention to Juan. "So your cardinal finds value in our manifesto. If we join him, what will it mean to our revolution? In practical terms."

◊ Juan told him. It was much less military than political, politics extending far outside Colombia's borders. It was not at all what he'd implied to Señor Tercopelo. They discussed it till late evening, with a brief break for supper and watered wine.

◊ The next day Libertad sent for a local man he knew of, a sometime court recorder, who also sold secretarial services. Then the commander and Juan hacked out a protocol of agreement, the secretary getting it all down in shorthand. That same night, by the light of a kerosene lamp fueled with diesel oil, the secretary typed it on a relic Underwood manual typewriter, using ancient carbon paper to make two dim copies. After another day of discussion, they'd refined it sufficiently for a presentation draft, with two copies freshly typed, using the man's best ribbons.

part three all in god's name · cardinal normanni, archbishop of reggio di calabria. the...

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