Jacob's Trouble 666 is a novel by Terry, which was published a number of years ago. It tells the story of Jacob Zen, a young, lower echelon U.S. government official, who is forced to take on staggering responsibilities, when millions of people vanish, and his world begins coming apart. Terry wanted to share with you this fictionalized account of the Rapture and of the first part of the Tribulation era in serialized form. Although it is fiction, it is a story that could take on startling reality with your very next breath, because Christ's shout: "Come up hither" (Rev 4:1) could happen at any moment!
Chapter 10
Avoiding the roadblock bottleneck where Pennsylvania Avenue intersected Independence had been no problem, but finding another car was not so easy. He was practiced enough now, however, that the thievery no longer pricked his conscience, and he cerebrally separated himself from the looters who were, according to radio reports, ravaging the city. His only concern was that police or military squads might stop him and take action before he had a chance to explain his circumstance.
He wanted to, but could not, stop to help the people scattered along the Mall — smoothing the guilt-feeling with the thought that no one could have lived through the impact and fire. Still, the mind-picture would not go away. The large, intact portion of fuselage lying between the long reflecting pool, the blackened, badly-damaged Washington Monument, and Constitution Avenue. He fought to clear his mind of the grisly scene, while he drove at high speed southwestward along the 120 cutoff. Taking the alternate through Franklin Park, then to McLean would, he hoped, lessen the chance of contact with those trying to maintain order — and with those intent on doing him in, who would likely be staking out the more heavily used expressways.
The Ford sedan he appropriated on Connecticut near DuPont Circle, after the long roadblock-circumventing jog-walk from where he left the Pontiac, should be unobtrusive enough to let him get close to Stone Oaks unnoticed; just another confused, frantic commuter trying to get home. And, there were a hundred mini-disasters to divert attention from him. His chances for slipping into McLean, then onto the grounds of the estate, seemed good. His heart pulsed more quickly with anticipation the closer he got to the old mansion and to Karen. If not to Karen, then to those at the bottom of the strange Holophone call and her inexplicable change of mood from fear when he talked with her from Brussels, to total lack of concern during the one-sided Naxos call. If she had been harmed —maybe killed — he, too, was in danger. Not only from those chasing him for the materials in the attache' case, but from the ones who apparently infested Stone Oaks.
Were they one and the same? Or two opposing ideologies of equal virulence, each seeking power, probably more voracious than ever now as they rushed to fill the vacuum created by the disappearance of many leaders around the world, and by the removal of the Russian and other megalomaniacs as a force with which to contend.
No matter. If Karen was dead, he didn't want to go on. But until he knew about her, knew for sure what he faced, he would not throw off all restraints of caution. He would take time to survey his problem.
The radio told much of the story while he made his way from D.C. to McLean. Although most capitals of the West were spared their top leaderships, the United States, Great Britain and Spain were not; all suffered losses of leadership at lesser levels of government. The people, of course, were not told everything, probably not even the truth, concerning how deeply the governing institutions were affected. What was the truth? He sensed the answers lay very close.
Stone Oaks, the only home he could remember, for the first time in his life sat alien and forbidding in the blackness of the Virginia night. His wish was to drive to the guard hut and say hello to Bill Roark, who would smile and push the button that would swing open the gates, like all other times when he was a teenager coming home from a night's carousing.
Again the instinct — unsubstantiated, psyche-clutching forewarning. Bill Roark had been dead for five years. The gate hut manned since by uniformed guards from a private security company, except when Conrad Wilson was in residence, at which time they were supplemented with Treasury agents. Instinct --his most reliable innate ally —popped the dragchute of his urge to go to the gate as if nothing had changed.
Had his enemies been affected by the phenomenon? Maybe they, themselves, had fallen victims to whatever had happened. Instinct again told him differently. The old house, hulking darkly in the middle of the sprawling acreage, seemed to shout to him — like a friend caught in the sucking death of quicksand might scream — warning him to stay clear, at the same time desperately needing, wanting rescue.
There was a way into the grounds not even Conrad Wilson or the groundskeepers knew about. It was in an area not covered by electronic security contraptions, only by the dogs that patrolled on a half-hourly schedule. That is, if things remained the same. How much they had changed, there was no way of knowing. Was the effort worth the risk? Yes! And more than that, the risk was imperative.
He pulled the sedan to the curb beneath a huge oak on the front lawn of the old Georgian-style home. Years ago, it had belonged to Lester V. Framington, then Assistant Secretary of Agriculture, the father of Joey Framington, Jacob's best friend. Now the home was vacant, awaiting the next in a succession of bureaucratic families to live in it since Joey moved away. Joey... Jacob found himself smiling, remembering the ears that stood out from the face of fair, generously-freckled skin. The red hair which, even when the boy was dressed for Mass that he was regularly forced to attend, was as unruly as when the two of them waded the creeks and mudwallows of their favorite haunts.
Now Joey was gone, a victim of an undistinguished skirmish in some forgotten African war. Gone, too, those carefree times when they roamed the neighborhood and beyond. They had explored every intriguing inch, including the one way into Stone Oaks, that would now give him a chance to slip in undetected. The old Framington-Zen Subway was the answer — if it were still passable.
He moved the Ford into high weeds beneath heavy shrubbery on the alley side of Joey's house, an area still flanked by an open field. The sedan could not be seen from the street. Slipping from behind the wheel, he quietly closed the door, then moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk, taking from it a wedge-ended tire iron. As quietly as possible, he closed the trunk-lid, trying to remember the exact spot where he and Joey entered their secret passageway.
The darkness would ensure that his movements remained covert while he pried open the cast-iron cover of the manhole 20 feet west of the tall, now unmanicured hedge. He searched the unkempt ground, spreading the thigh-high, yellowed grass with his hands, feeling for the grooved cover recessed in three inches of concrete.
There! Now to use the tire iron, spade end first, as a lever between the lid and the concrete encasement. Done! He slid the heavy disc until it fell, propped against the concrete and ground, then thumbed the wheel of his cigarette lighter and held the flame inside the black cavity.
He shivered at the thought of what he might encounter along the storm drain during his blind trip beneath the street separating Joe's house from the grounds of Stone Oaks. The prospect would, in earlier times, have delighted the fearless friends, whose last names the subway was privileged to bear. Jacob wished for Joey now, while slithering through the opening, then dropping to the cement below.
He held the lighter at half-arm's length, bending his head and shoulder uncomfortably while walking crouched. The flame flickered from a sudden breeze and died. When he rolled the wheel with his thumb, there was one spark, then nothing; the flint was gone. He pulled the case from the guts of the lighter and searched the cotton with his index finger for a new flint and cursed, not finding one.
Now he would have to feel his way with his feet. Several steps farther along he tripped over something and fell to his knees, instinctively protecting the attache' case from banging against the floor and sides of the drain. His calf burned from the exertion, then the pain dulled and stopped. He felt with his fingertips to see if the skin, nicked by the ground, was bleeding again.
Scrambling, clawing noises made him forget the wound. Rats! The squealing screams grew louder. He felt the rodents bump and scratch against his hands and legs before he could get to his feet, banging his head against the top of the drain in the process. Be stood stiffly with his back curved against one side of the conduit, repulsed at having had contact with the creatures. The noises grew faint and he moved farther forward toward the grounds of Stone Oaks, reminding himself of what was at stake, and what he had already gone through, which made all the rats in Me Lean insignificant, by comparison.
His journey ended with his bumping against a solid wall of concrete. He felt with his free hand for the heavy metal grate that covered a drainage pipe one-third the circumference of the tunnel. The grating was not there, probably the victim of time. But he found the smaller pipe, and just to its left, on the ceiling of the tunnel, should be... Yes... the cast-iron manhole cover.
Situating the attache' case so that he could push upward without bumping it, he applied steady pressure to the cover, then strained harder; no use. He would have to try and jar it loose. Its edges probably sealed with the mud of a hundred rainstorms since it was last pried open. He hit the cover with the heel of his right hand, but still it would not give. Feeling around on the floor of the tunnel with a foot, he found a broken piece of wood, which, when he picked it up and examined it, felt like part of a 2" x 4". He could use it to good advantage, but would the banging be heard by anyone passing nearby?
He stood on his toes and pressed his right ear against the cover. He heard nothing, which meant nothing, the iron lid being three inches thick. He would have to chance it.
Moments later, the seal that nature had put around the cover's edge, broke, and when he strained with both palms against the cover, it gave way, sliding until it dropped against the ground. Jacob carefully put the attache' case through the hole and let it slip to a resting position. He then struggled, with as little jostling as possible, through the manhole, painfully scraping his stomach and legs, before sliding his body over the concrete and onto the dirt and dried twigs beneath the ten-foot-thick hedge. Thankfully, the hedge had put the manhole beyond the convenient reach of the groundskeepers and sewer crews.
Now to sit quietly and wait until the next pass by the security men and the Dobermans. But what about the dogs? They would sense his presence. Would scent him! If so, he would dive back into the hole and be gone before the men and the dogs could fight their way through the heavy brush beneath the hedge.
Footsteps crackled through the dried vegetation. He could hear, but not see, the guard and the animal, who began to whine and growl while they approached. The dog was obviously agitated and Jacob knew why; he edged closer to the manhole.
"What's the matter with you, Franz?" the guard said. Jacob heard the Doberman's low, throaty whine; the animal had his scent! He threw his left leg into the hole, but hesitated to hear the handler's words.
"Come on, Franz! We don't have time to chase that rabbit tonight. Coffee's waiting!"
He imagined the guard jerking the Doberman roughly, hearing the animal give a rebellious squeal.
His nerves quieted while he listened to the guard and his charge crunch farther along the hedge. Soon they would be patrolling the far side of the estate and he would be free to make his break across the grounds and into other places only he knew about.
He had to know how often the guards made their rounds. It used to be every 25 minutes but that could have changed, and probably had, along with everything else. He needed to know precisely the time, in order to gauge when he could safely return to the manhole when his mission was finished. The watch! Lost in some trash receptacle or being worn by someone inside Naxos. Maybe in Fredria VanHorne's purse, ready for mailing. Before he made his escape, he would find a vantage point from which to observe the guard and the Doberman while they passed by his and Joey's tunnel opening.
Peering at the old mansion through the tangle of hedge trunks was a nightmare, like one of those slow-motion excursions through sleep-terror — so vivid at the moment of the dream that it becomes real — the natural world, the surreal. But this was no dream, because he didn't have to ask himself, as he invariably did during the dream-state, whether he was dreaming.
He gave one more quick examination of the grounds, then squirmed his way on his stomach between the widest opening he could find. Outside the hedge, he felt naked, an easy target. He fought to control his urge to bolt full-speed toward the cover offered by the heavy shrubbery immediately surrounding the mansion — with the calm rationalization that so long as the spotlights remained unused, the guards could see him no easier than he could see them. Besides, he had the advantage of knowing where, and approximately when they made their rounds, while they were unaware of his presence. The noise, however, that he would make galloping across the dry leaves and dead branches would grab their attention. Better to move slowly from one thick-trunked oak to another, staying low and quiet.
After allowing time to make sure the guard and his dog were no longer a threat, Jacob crossed the expanse as planned, then hurried on hands and knees through the bushes near the house. He scanned the grounds to see if the security people had spotted him. All clear! And, he had entered the shrubbery at exactly the point he wanted, not 20 feet from the basement's western-side cellar entrance.
There were three ways into the basement on this side of the home: a large door with steep stairs descending into the cellar; a double, metal-paneled hatchway with fewer, more shallow steps to the basement floor; and the way he and Joey always took, the way he would take now: a four-foot-square opening, covered with a hinged, metal cover over a steeply inclined chute that dropped directly into a small room.
Few people alive, if any, knew of the opening now, because the hole was safely tucked beneath the beautiful greenery which no one had disturbed for years, except to trim. The chute's function four decades earlier had been to receive coal deliveries.
Prying the covering open proved to be easier than he had thought; however, climbing in the opening beneath the low vegetation was more difficult, and he struggled to get into the hole. He remembered that once he and Joey dropped through it in less time than it now took to put a single adult leg into the opening.
Jacob had not been in this part of the old mansion since he was 12, but little had changed. He felt his way in the semi-darkness, his vision aided by a low-wattage bulb burning above a fuse box on one wall. He moved quickly through the coal bin, the area housing the no-longer used coal furnace. Then he passed through several small storage rooms before reaching the steps leading to the home's first floor.
What if he had concocted the whole problem in his mind? What if Stone Oaks, the people in the mansion, were innocent of the misgivings he had about them? Was all this skulking about necessary? He was tired and growing more so because of jet-lag and hunger, which burned at the center of his stomach. The nerve-racking ordeal he had been through combined with the body-weakening process to dilute his mistrust — to lessen his caution. He couldn't afford that. The faithful instinct assured him that to let his guard down, even briefly, might be a fatal error.
Moving quietly, Jacob edged up the stairs slowly, watching the closed door at the top. He forced his mind to re-analyze the facts that supported his need to continue considering those in Stone Oaks his enemies.
Fact 1; His call to Karen from Hotel Clemmenseau in Brussels. The fear in her voice, afraid at first to talk. His own fear that Treasury agents, who Marchek felt might be part of a conspiracy of some sort, could be listening in on his and Karen's conversation. His, perhaps wrong, decision that they would have to take a chance and discuss what she had learned.
"I know it sounds paranoid, Jake. But that's what you thought before we were nearly killed and Dr. Marchek was... murdered," Karen had said. She had found notes of some sort in which the eschatologist had written something about a secret place where he kept what Karen said were things he told no one, not even her. Marchek died the night of that day he made the notes. "I found out the reason he was murdered," Karen had said. "...I found out that they killed Dr. Marchek because he learned that this country, that is, some people at the top, have..." They had been cut off.
Fact 2; The surveillance, the cameras, the guard at Naxos who walked in on him, obviously wanting a look at what he was concealing in the closet. Was this part of something to do with the evil in this old house? Or a separate evil?
Fact 3; The certainty, in his own mind at least, that his own government, that Conrad Wilson, were keeping the full truth from him.
Fact 4; The most troubling of all. His Holophone conversation with Karen had been doctored. A pre-recording that duped him the first time around, in which her voice displayed no emotion. Her demeanor having changed completely from the terrified state she was in when he talked with her from Brussels. That call had been made, supposedly, to this house. The picture phone connection made in a basement room within 20 yards of where he now stood.
A strong case for regarding those in the mansion as his collective nemesis.
And, what about the disappearance? A factor he could not even fathom. Where did the sudden disappearance of all those people fit in his nightmare? Or did it?
Looking first into the other basement area was the logical tactic. The governmental nerve-center of the old house, consisting of the latest telecomputer communications and cryptology equipment, was the place to start his search for answers — and for Karen. During the least precarious of times, that area was manned by at least three people from State. Now, with the dual cataclysms, with the certainty that martial law would be instituted, security would be stepped up. Increased activity surrounding the estate lent credence to that likelihood.
What if he were discovered? He could claim indignantly that Stone Oaks, after all, was his home. Why, then, the sneaking in? Because of the disappearance or whatever it was... Because of the Russian thing... He simply did not know what to expect, the old mansion being an unofficial international liaison point for the State Department.
Whether those excuses would work ultimately made no difference. If it came down to it, he would use the one weapon he had, the explosive in the attache' case. Unless, this enemy knew about his mission to the President, and about the explosive and how it worked. The operative had said however, that only he, the operative and President Farley knew the explosive device's formula for detonation. So, he must be satisfied, for the moment, with that thought.
The immediate problem was how to get to the DNC, Conrad Wilson's pet term for the Diplomacy Nerve Center. Again childhood experience made a way for the adult to proceed with the least chance of being exposed. The sealed-off dumbwaiter was the answer. Like the sewer-tunnel, there was a question of whether it was usable after so many years. And could he get to it without drawing attention to himself, considering the noise it would be necessary to make?
Opening the door at the top of the steps, he looked through the crack in all directions. He must make it through the dark hallway, through the small, informal dining room and into the pantry just off the seldom-used kitchen, with the hope that Wilson had not ordered the antiquated elevator taken out.
Moving into the hallway, he crept along one wall and through the doorless archway into the dining area — stopping, then ducking beneath a big oak table in the center of the room when he heard voices coming from the kitchen only a few steps away. The dining room was dark, except for the light spilling beneath the kitchen's swinging doors. He would be safely out of view when they passed through — something they must do because there was no other exit from this kitchen.
The feet of two men shuffled back and forth in the line of light beneath the doors. The voices were clearly audible.
"As I see it, it's our job to present this thing in a way that will convince, or at least explain in the most convincing way possible, what's happened and why it happened."
"Yes... that it's more than just theory. It's rationally explainable." "But that the details have to wait."
"Exactly. The details have to remain classified." "For security reasons."
"Yes. We tell them that the details of what's happened have to remain classified for security reasons, until such time as the facts can be fully presented without danger."
"We'll talk only in terms of a natural phenomenon, then..."
"That's right. The scientists will continue to explain it as two separate events, caused by a single phenomenon. They'll say that due to the complexity of it all, they won't talk about it further, publicly, until they can give all the facts in understandable terminology."
"So what we'll be doing for now is just expanding on what we've already given them. The cosmic disturbance story." "Exactly."
The doors swung open and Jacob moved deeper into the darkness beneath the table. Both men stood for a moment in the doorway, silhouetted against light from the kitchen. The taller, slimmer one spoke. "Well, we've been looking for a reason strong enough to warrant the merger. This has certainly provided us a legitimate reason."
The voice — the familiar face — discernible now while its owner faced the light. Lawrence Thorton, top-rated network news anchorman. "It's all in place, and the Social Security input makes it easy to make the conversion. UNIVUS and UNIVER aren't that different from INterface, as I understand it," Thorton said.
"Except that INterface is a million times faster in its ability to provide detailed data on everyone who's lived since Social Security records have been kept. And its capabilities in the area of physically keeping tabs is unparalleled."
"I'm talking about the ease of converting all personal data and transactional aspects from the old system to the new... they're similar."
"Yes... they are basically the same as far as basic technology is concerned. It'll just be a matter of pushing a few buttons. The satellites, lasers, fiber optics and computers will do the rest. Our main thrust is to get people to accept the concept, once and for all, of global citizenship."
"With these calamities they've witnessed, that shouldn't be a problem."
The other man moved slightly, to a position where the light struck his face. He was Martin Vestoble, President Parley's Chief-of-Staff. "Certainly not in Europe. And people here will come around once they know we've lost so much in this disappearance thing. People in this country, despite political differences, have always looked to the sitting-President as leader in a crisis. With Parley gone, and the Vice President doing what he's going to do, they'll accept a more global leadership."
"He will have to institute Executive Order 16,000 to get the authority he needs to do it," Thorton said.
Executive Order 16,000! Giving the Executive control over every facet of national activity! — In effect, dictatorship!
"Parley would've never imposed 16,000. If not for his disappearance, and the Russian invasion, we would have had to go to the alternate option. Parley would've had to go," Martin Vestoble said.
So they didn't know what caused the Russian destruction or the disappearances. They simply accepted those cataclysms as fortuitous to their one-world plan. And, that plan would have been carried out, even if they had to create artificial calamities. They would have assassinated the President, if necessary, and invoked Executive Order 16,000, regardless. What about the Vice President? What could he do, once he took the oath of office, that Vestoble apparently believed would be even more dramatic than invoking the Executive Order?
"We're lucky this thing didn't happen earlier," Vestoble said, reaching into the kitchen to flick off the light. "A month ago we could've offered only promises. Now, the system's in place and ready to go."
"I'm looking forward to seeing how it's all going to fit together," Thorton said, while both men passed through the dining room, then walked down the hall, their voices becoming muffled in the distance.
His instincts had been right, drawing him clandestinely to Stone Oaks. Whatever lay at the heart of their plan to deal with the monumental changes taking place in the world could, perhaps, be learned here in the old mansion. And, maybe, whatever was at the root of his own problems.
After an estimated two minutes, Jacob moved from beneath the table and crept through the kitchen into the pantry. A large china cabinet covered the wall where the dumbwaiter was once loaded and unloaded in the transport of food, laundry and trash -- the shaft running vertically the height of the three stories. The last time he rode the manually operated lift he was 13, and probably 70 pounds lighter. Would it support his weight now?
He strained to move the old cabinet from the wall. The opening was covered by 1/8" thick plywood, hinged at the bottom on either side and latched at the top with a throw-bolt. He pulled the bolt to the left, freeing the covering to swing down and against the wall. He wished for light to see the condition of the dumbwaiter, but had to settle for feeling the chains that were strung over pulleys and gears at various points up and down the shaft. They felt relatively clean, not rusted or corroded, but more flimsy than he remembered, and he did not relish climbing into the black shaft, or trusting the wooden floor of the lift to support his 182 pounds.
He reached into a recess inside the wall and unfolded a handle. Cranking it slowly at first, he became bolder when the sounds of the apparatus proved less noisy than he had feared. The platform came to him after 20 seconds of cranking and he ran his hands across the flat, dusty surface after locking the cranking mechanism back into place. He had to risk it.
Carefully placing one foot at a time on the carrier and pressing down to test its solidity, he continued to support the bulk of his weight on the heels of his hands until satisfied the old platform was reasonably trustworthy. It creaked and swayed, but seemed to want to hold the weight. Would the gears allow him to lower himself slowly, under control? Only one way to know.
He crouched, his full weight now on the carrier, and turned the tension knob on the brass plate beside the cranking mechanism to full tension. Holding tightly to the chain that held him suspended, he freed the crank handle. The platform jerked and fell a few inches, but the tension chain held. He tested the lift by slowly letting it ride downward; for the moment, at least, the thing was working well.
The dumbwaiter arrived at basement level with a bump against the shaft's floor. He fumbled through the right pocket of his pants for the nail clippers, silently cursing when he realized they were not in the right pocket but in the left, making it hard to retrieve them because he had to slide the handcuff and the attache' case as far up his left arm as possible, then get his left hand deeply enough into the pocket to reach the clippers.
Painfully managing the feat, he pulled open the clippers' handle and slipped it through the crack between the wall and the piece of plywood that was the door covering the dumbwaiter shaft. Would the bolt still be accessible, like when he was a boy? Would the noise alert someone? The door opened into a small room with a concrete floor, an area formerly used for dirty laundry and garbage pickups. Outside the room lay a network of hallways and larger rooms used by the State Department.
The bolt slid to the right, but not without considerable resistance, unlocking the covering, which began its swing downward. He quickly grabbed the edge of the plywood to keep it from banging against the wall below.
Now to analyze his situation. How many times he had done this — happily. A little boy's adventure, troubled only by the villains skulking about in his imagination. How different now, with real terrors to test his stealth.
With the plywood bolted back in place, he moved to the door leading to the maze of corridors and rooms. No activity in sight, but he could hear human sounds coming from somewhere several rooms away. One last childhood secret — the crawlspace between the basement and the first floor, accessible only through a maintenance equipment closet just off the hallway. If the closet was not locked.
Outside the tiny room, the hallway was brightly illuminated with squares of fluorescent lights mounted in the ceiling. The off-white walls were uninterrupted by anything that might offer a hiding niche. If he could just make it 30 feet to the maintenance closet.
Made it! - Tried the door - Unlocked! Quickly, he shut the door behind him when he heard voices and footsteps. Two men! There would be only one of two places they were going -- only two doorways in this part of the corridor. The door to the room he had just come from, and the maintenance supply room, where he was now! He backed into the corner that would hide him if the door swung open, and felt around in the darkness for something, anything, that might serve as a weapon. He had not come all this way to be trapped in a janitor's closet! A pipe wrench! He could wreck at least one skull before having to deal with the other man.
The handle turned and the door opened. When the man turned on the light, Jacob would yank him inside and smash his head, then face the other man as quickly as he could. But the intruder didn't turn on the light; instead he fumbled in the semi-darkness, searching the corner directly across from where Jacob stood.
"Where's that cleanser can, Joe?"
"It's just to the right, beneath the sink."
"Yeah... here it is. I got it."
Jacob lowered the pipewrench, weakness replacing the battle-ready muscle tenseness. Heels clicking in the distance told him the men were no longer a threat.
He would not risk turning on the light in the closet, but must be careful not to knock things over in the crowded area. The ladder was built in as part of the wall, just to the left of the sink — still there, just as he remembered. Feeling his way up the 2" x 4" strips to be sure they were still solid and that there was nothing that might fall hanging on the steps, he his right hand to touch the plywood piece that covered the opening to the crawlspace. Unlike the coverings for the dumbwaiter shaft, this covering was removed more often, and it raised easily. The wiring and the metal ventilation tubes, as well as, the plumbing, were regularly inspected through this opening to the crawl area.
After struggling upward onto the flooring, he replaced the plywood, then crawled, feeling ahead with his free hand. Like the sewer-tunnel and the dumbwaiter, this one-time friendly play area now seemed hostile, and was more confining than when he and Joey Framington crawled these same planks to spy on the unknowing State Department men and women inhabiting the forbidden regions below. Now, the spying would be for real, the penalty for being found out, much greater.
There was hope, because despite elaborate security — though certainly not as elaborate as what now surrounds the estate — he and Joey were never caught in the act of spying.
It was a simple enough procedure: remove the ducting tape, quietly slide the square, metal duct sections apart, and peer through the grated vent. One could observe, without being seen, everything going on in the room below. Each room in this basement area had at least one duct and he would have a look at them all. The trick was to take the silver tape off slowly, carefully, so it could be replaced when the spying was finished.
His first two attempts led to darkened, empty rooms, and he replaced the ducts before moving to the third, the room he remembered as the largest in the State Department complex. Looking between the thin, slanted vent louvers, he saw four big television screens, three filled with images of human activity; the fourth appeared to be a massive computer screen displaying data and graphics. People, maybe a dozen — it was hard to tell because some were out of his line of sight — occupied chairs facing the screens. A tall man wearing a navy blue suit stood with a pointer in his hand.
The President's Chief-of-Staff and the anchorman sat in the front row. The man's clear, distinct voice was that of Grant Halifax, Vice President of the United States.
"Each of us here represents government, business or media institutions counted on to maintain order in this Geoquadrant. And it is our job to convince the people that 'The Plan,"1 which will soon be put forth, is the only thing that can assure peace and safety in this crisis and during the transition. It is a transition which has been coming, as you know, but which can now be put into effect with great urgency because of this... cosmic disturbance."
The words were spoken with inflection that implied foreknowledge. "Cosmic Disturbance" — obviously, that was to be the official term for it.
Halifax turned and stepped near the screen displaying the graphics, and pointed. "Of course it's still too early to know exactly the number we've lost, but according to all indications it will exceed 25 percent. That, in itself, doesn't sound so bad." He moved the pointer to a line on the screen. "Here are the critical statistics: We've lost 17 percent of the Senate, 13 percent of the House, 19 percent of the Executive Branch, including, of course, the President, and one member of the Supreme Court. Of course, there's no way of knowing right now the total loss of the Judicial Branch on a national scale.
"Even all that doesn't seem so bad. However, a quirk of fate, or whatever, took people with critical knowledge of our system and how it operates. Top people, particularly in economic matters. Two examples: Ways and Means Chairman Beniton is gone; several members of the Federal Reserve Board were killed in that crash in the city a short time ago. Many others in vital positions with UNIVUS."
Grant Halifax stepped forward and slapped the pointer against his palm, his features more clearly visible to Jacob when the overhead lights struck the Vice President's thin, sallow-skinned face.
"In other words," Halifax said, smiling broadly at those sitting in front of him, "...this thing has worked out just the way he said it would! We just didn't expect it this soon." There was delight in Halifax's tone.
"We now have the facts and figures and most of all, the crisis, to back up our contention that we have no choice but to throw our lot in — totally -- with the one and only plan that will move us into the New World Oder we've worked so long and hard to bring about."
Halifax's audience mumbled approval and agreement to each other; he raised his hands for quiet, his face taking on a more somber expression.
"Ladies, gentlemen... we can implement EARTHSPHERE-10 much sooner than originally anticipated. As you know, EARTHSPHERE-10 is the heart of 'The Plan' to once and for all bring all peoples together for peace.
"EARTHSPHERE-10 will consist of ten geographical regions, each region being responsible to each other and the Commissioner, who will head the Commission of Ten.
"Those regions by name are: Eurosphere, South Amerisphere, North Amerisphere, Australisphere, Afrisphere, East Asiasphere, West Asiasphere, Atlantisphere, Pacifisphere and Medisphere.
"Just as he said it would be, the Russian opposition is gone. And, just like he predicted, now our enemies from within have been removed as opponents of the magnificent plan for a glorious planetary future!"
The Vice President was no longer the cool, calculating politician Jacob knew him to be, but impassioned — evangelical.
"We, gathered here, will serve as the nucleus for that new beginning on the North American Continent. The cosmic disturbance has made it possible to speed up our timetable. Let each of us now put our talents as government leaders, as business people and as scientists and members of a united global press, to work for INterface. For if we lead properly, the people will follow. There is no alternative. Soon he will address the world audience. Just before he does so, I will invoke Executive Order 16,000, and, as Chief Executive, declare the United States a loyal Geoquadrant of INterface Universal."
The reason for Karen's panic when he talked with her from Brussels! The cause of Marchek's death! It had to be! Hugo Marchek must have learned that this nucleus group, even if it had to manufacture a crisis and murder the President, were intent on instituting Executive Order 16,000 so the nation could die, to be reincarnated as part of the European-centered one-world system. Karen, too, must have had to die because of her knowledge — or else be changed to someone, something other than the woman he knew, and loved.
Now, even his passion to find Karen seemed of little consequence in the rush of events. He felt trapped, the crawlspace suddenly wrapping around him — a suffocating, immobilizing coffin! The old mansion, no longer the warm, protective home of his youth, but a deadly pit out of which he must hurriedly climb. His country no longer his; its soul ripped out and traded by Grant Halifax and his co-conspirators for the promise of their places within the hierarchy of the European-sired computer Utopia.
Was Conrad Wilson a part of this traitorous cabal? If so, why the attache' case? Why not just let him in on it, then, if he refused to go along, simply get rid of him? No... no... Someone had tried to kill him. His foster father had warned him of the Europeans' grab for power. That was why he was to take the case and its materials to the President. Stone Oaks had been taken over in its master's absence. And what about the attache' case? Was it still vital to anyone? Probably not. The disappearance phenomenon, and the quick-acting, usurping one-worlders, likely made whatever formerly damaging information was contained in the case, of no effect.
Jacob heard Grant Halifax's words fade ,while he moved as fast as he could quietly manage, gently lifting then setting the attache' case on the crawlspace floor with each knee-forward movement. Inside the closet again, he opened the door cautiously, checking both ways for sound and movement. Apprehensively, he moved into the hallway and quickly into the room with the dumbwaiter.
The fact that he had not yet run into anyone who might try to stop him, or at least question his presence, bothered him for some reason, but the thought passed swiftly within a torrent of other thoughts. His mind racing ahead to the several barriers he must hurdle before leaving the grounds. Back up the shaft aboard the creaking lift, one hand over the other, pulling the platform upward with the aid of the gears and pulleys — not at all the same experience as with Joey those many times before, those many years ago.
Back through the darkened kitchen, down the hall and stairs, upward through the coal chute and into the shrubbery surrounding the old home. Still no opposition.
Lights suddenly swept along the grounds, illuminating the hedges where the manhole escape route lay! Then the beams moved slowly out of sight. Spotlights! Did they know he was on the grounds? Had they decided to wait until he tried for his exit before taking him? Now the light swept near the home where he crouched beneath the hedge, then past him. Whether to run now, staying low, taking one big oak at a time, or, to wait for the next spotlight sweep against his objective — the hedge and the manhole. Either way, the odds of being spotted were against him now. No need to suffer the pain of waiting, agonizing over the decision that must be made; regardless, the thing had to be done.
His run, bent to present as low a profile as possible, seemed forever between the bush and the first oak tree 50 yards away. He stopped to assess the lights and the sounds of guards manning them. On to the next tree, belly-flopping at its base, just as the powerful beam of light crossed six feet to his right. His heart pounded and his chest ached from the impact. Pain throbbed in his right wrist, with which he had tried to buffer contact with the ground. The distance left to reach the hedge and the manhole, would have in earlier days been nothing; however, this night it looked to be an endless expanse, as he watched the searchlights criss-crossing the grounds. Lying curled around the trunk of the gigantic oak would not get him to the tunnel and out of danger. The lights were sure to zero in on him before many more seconds passed. Up and running, trying to maintain a low silhouette, pausing for no more than three seconds, then moving swiftly again — only 70 feet to the hedge now. The light! Trained directly on him for what seemed ten seconds! They had him!
No! The blinding beam continued to move like the other beams. He could not, would not, wait for the next sweep, but rather would keep moving until he reached the hedge, bypassing the two trees remaining between him and the escape route.
Fifty... thirty... fifteen feet... The hedge! He slammed into the many-trunked vegetation with his back and shoulders, doing his best to keep the attache' case from jostling, feeling at the same time the sharp stings of the limbs, which scratched and jabbed his face and neck. His injured calf made contact with the hedge trunkage and he started to scream away the pain, but stopped himself. He continued to crawl on his elbows and knees until he was sure his entire body was hidden, then lay silent for more than a minute, waiting for men and dogs, for a hail of machine gun fire. But they would not fire on him except as a last resort. That might destroy the contents of the attache' case.
But, whether that influenced their thinking depended on what forces were involved. The operative who gave him the attache' case said only the three of them, the agent, the President and Jacob, knew about the explosive apparatus.
The operative could have lied, could have been setting him up. But why lie? Setting him up for what?
That was not likely, or else the men who picked him up at Andrews would have killed him for the materials. Instead they tried to get away from the people who chased them just before the disappearance. The agents he was with would have joined forces with the pursuers. Besides, the Treasury agents who picked him up had to present elaborate credentials before being allowed into Andrews' VIP Base Operations section, while the would-be killers were content to wait somewhere outside Andrews.
And now, if the security people at Stone Oaks knew his whereabouts, they would hesitate to shoot only if they were afraid their bullets might riddle the contents of the case, but not because they were aware of the explosive charge which would devastate everything.
Something — the instinct again — told him it was time to remove the case from his wrist. He threw off the tendency to debate the whys of the urgings; so far his hunches had been right.
Now to remember the procedure, while there was faint light to work by before going into the tunnel. He took the key the agent had given him, inserted it into the slot of the cuff on his left wrist and turned.
"Three minutes to detonation," he whispered, placing the leather case on the dirt beside the manhole. "Unless they're snapped back together." He closed the cuff until he heard the click, then hesitatingly opened the case, exposing a blue box, like the one the agent demonstrated in the pumping station.
"Pull the latch up... and no more Jacob Zen," he whispered, placing the fingers of both hands on either side of the metal box. "Push inward on the clasp three times... and the thing is disarmed..." He pushed in on the chrome latch slowly three times, "...and the lid is opened."
He smiled nervously, relieved the task was accomplished, and pleased at the fact that possibly he, alone, knew the exact combination that had allowed it to be done.
Two leather pouches, one 1-inch box, and one 2-inch-thick box, measuring perhaps seven-inches-square, lay before him in the occasional light, which continued to sweep the hedges and grounds. No time to examine the materials; he must find a place for them.
When the explosive blue box was shut it would be rearmed. He closed it and carefully placed it back in the attache', then opened the cuffs with the key and snapped them shut again around his left wrist. The leather pouches fit nicely into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The two boxes were more cumbersome, impossible to stuff into the jacket's side pockets. He pulled the back of his shirt out of his pants, placed the boxes against his back, one on top of the other, then tucked the shirt back in the trousers and let the suit coat drape over them. Uncomfortable, but, with the coat left unbuttoned, it was workable.
Jacob hurried through the tunnel, stopping several times to listen for activity ahead. Nothing. Not even scurrying rats. He reached the three-rung ladder attached to the concrete wall just below the manhole. As quietly as possible, he stepped upward to have a look around the high-grassed field. Satisfied with his reconnaissance, he struggled through the opening and crawled for the first ten feet on hands and knees. He had made it!
The car was where he had hidden it. No sign anyone had discovered it, so he moved to beneath the heavy foliage and fished the keys from his pants pocket before quietly opening the door and sitting behind the wheel.
The interior light was out! It had not been out when he opened the door, before leaving the car earlier. Coincidence, too great!
"Put your hands on the wheel, Mr. Zen... Please." The facetiously polite voice from the rear seat was detached in tone. The cold, blunt muzzle of the automatic pistol against the mastoid bone behind his right ear gave the request its authority.