SUMMATION (22 page)

* * *

           And he told her the story, and more, as the
night went on. But, when she finally dropped off to sleep in his arms, she didn't
dream of nukes. No, no nukes. And when he asked what she
had
dreamed of,
she just blushed, and said she couldn't remember.

           H
e was sitting
on the sofa in his private sitting area, just off his office, leaning forward,
much like a police officer back in the U.S. had been doing, and for the same
reason. The story he was being told was similar to a story he had heard as a
child in the small village in northern Iran where he'd been raised. A story
that had changed a little bit with every telling, much like the party game. Certain
elements were there, even if the story he'd heard as a child had been clouded
by the embellishments.  

           The spaceman coming down with the gift of a star
had been reduced in this story to a found meteorite, even if that meteorite had
been different than most. The princess had, well, that hadn't changed much. His
mother had told about the princess becoming magically powerful after a secret
cult had cut out her heart and replaced it with this stone, but in the story
he
was being told, she had simply absorbed the power of this special stone through
a star symbol, and passed it along her bloodline.

           He wasn't sure which was more difficult to
believe. The stone, or star, or whatever was supposed to be locked away in the
Vatican. Since this was supposedly a natural power, a pagan source of energy,
not of the Judeo-Christian God construct, the early Pope had declared it to be
of the devil. Not difficult to think of what his response would have been had
he seen a modern day Energizer Bunny or a Lithium Battery.  There weren't a lot
of options there, it seemed. You were either with him, or with Satan.

           He was told that this bloodline was still
supposed to be intact, as was the cult of protectors. The two lines were to
have been separated at the initiation, but would be joined together at the end.
 The stone was supposed to make both more powerful, but nothing specifically
said how. He finished the tale with information that this bloodline had become
more powerful and more wealthy with each generation, up to and including the
current one.

           The final sentence given during the report was
cryptic, though clear enough to Zarin that he was left, literally, speechless. As
he tried to comprehend the significance, the amazingly accurate prophecy of
those words, possibilities swirled around his head.

           "I will tell you now the message as it has
been told before. Once each generation the message is passed on. To every
previous generation, it was not the right time, but the message was given. This,
also, may not be the right time, but you will be given the message.  If it is
not the right time, I or my successor will deliver the message to your son, and
your grandson.

           You will not speak of it to them before me; for
it must be delivered at the right time, by the right person. This is as it has
always been. This is as it must always be. This is the message:

"The star of five will rise above the one of six. The
thousand points of the first star will each become a star of its own, with
untold power, and the brightness of a thousand stars will rise from that land
of conflict. As it settles, peace will reign throughout, and the hot desert
shall bring forth cool streams."

           He thought about it. Replayed it in his head. Again.
And again.

           This was it. Confirmation of all he had thought.
It wasn't just him, it wasn't narcissism, as some around him thought. It was
true, he had been chosen. Chosen to lead. The star of five would rise above the
one of six. His birthmark, and those before him, all hidden from others. Often
used, or stolen, as symbols often are, in witchcraft and other pursuits, the
five pointed star encircled, the mark described on the woman in the story, the
mother of his distant father of fathers, the mark hidden beneath his hair,
behind his right ear, it would rise. Rise above the six pointed one. The star
of Israel. He would rise above them! It was
written!
 The brightness of
a thousand stars rising from the land of conflict - that could mean only one
thing. His nuclear launch on Israel would be successful. And when it all
settled, as he had always thought, the other countries would back down. There
would be peace. And with the peace, prosperity. The cool streams of water from
the recovered desert would flow, and in these newly developed farm lands,
prosperity and peace under his rule.

           He stood. He looked at the letter in his hand,
the signatures all aligned, one after the other. Generations of his
predecessors. All in place, all aligned, all their history, just for this
moment. For him.

           "You won't be needing this back," as
he placed it in the top drawer of his desk. "You have been blessed to
deliver the message at the right time. There will be no others. This is the
time."

           The messenger was stunned.

           "I beseech you, sign and return the letter.
This is as it has been done, and as it should be continued. There have been
others, long before you and me, that have mistakenly believed such time was
upon them, and were sorely mistaken. Your father, your grandfather. These men
understood. And they were correct. This is why the message is continued. This
is how the message is continued."

           "You heard me old man. Your message has
been delivered. It is time for you to leave. The letter stays with me. There
will be no others."

           "Hubris! You challenge the very gods above
you, He who has placed you in this position! Please, do not do this. This is
the message that must be delivered until the time has passed.  If it is not, if
there is a mistake, there will be no recourse. The work of generations will
have been for naught."

           Zarin pressed a button on the side of his desk. The
door immediately opened, and two security personnel appeared. "Please
escort our guest out. Our meeting is complete." As the man turned, shaking
his head, walking out the door Zarin caught the eye of the Sargent, having him
stay behind. When the other guard and the messenger were out of earshot, he
spoke softly, "That man has very sensitive knowledge, and it must not
leave here. Be quiet, and let no one know, but deal with him as soon as he
leaves the facility. He must speak to no one, not now, not ever."

           The Sargent saluted. "It shall be so, and
none shall be the wiser of the misfortune this poor fool has befallen."

* * *

           And with that final act of barbarism, the chain
was broken, the line completed. This would be the end. He would be the one. There
would be, there
could
be, no others. He
was
The One.

           He felt better than he had in years. He got up,
early, to shower, clean up, and head for work.  This was going to be a great
day at work. His
last
day at work as a nobody. It was working out better
than he could have dreamed. His fantasies were back in high speed mode. The
offer he had been given was all he had hoped for. Well, perhaps not
all
he had hoped for, but most. He had been offered a hundred thousand Euros. Five
thousand in cash, stashed in a box behind some unread books in his apartment for
the time being, and ninety-five thousand more, also cash, on delivery, with the
condition that he deliver it on time, in the proper place, and that he never
speak of it now or later.

           He wasn't stupid. Unspoken was the other side of
that. There was no returning the initial five thousand, there was no asking for
an extension. Only a very, very foolish man would think to speak of it later. It
was all or nothing, and nothing was not an option.

           All he had to do was bring the chest to the
disposal area, and get it through the gate with the rest of the garbage. On the
other side, the dumpsters were in an area not readily visible to security, open
to the street for the trucks to get access. Not exactly a tourist highlight,
but every building had to get rid of garbage, even the Vatican. This was where
the exchange would take place. A car would pull up, and he would trade trash
for a new life.

           Sleep had evaded him most of the night. He
played it out over and over, alternating with plans on spending. True, it was
not millions, but he had always, in reality, known that was never going to
happen. A hundred thousand Euros, tax free. That was enough to clear up his
minor debts, find a better place to live and take a little vacation - he had
more than two weeks coming, but had had no money to spend. By his calculations,
and he was no math wizard, but still, he figured he could split the rest. Put
half into retirement - with his pension, it would be a nice bump up in a few
years - and half he would gradually take a little out of each year, kind of
like a raise. Actually, it would be a pretty significant raise, since it would
all be tax-free.

           It was the most rational, clear, productive
thinking he had done in many years. Looking around him with eyes not blocked by
the haze of alcohol and hate, he realized what a dump he was living in. All
that would change today. He was excited

           For the first time in memory, his uniform was
clean and pressed. He left early. Now that he would have debts gone and a nicer
place, plus a significant 'raise' from then on, and better 'retirement', he
didn't want to screw it up. Suddenly, it wasn't such a bad job.

           As soon as he was able, he made sure he was
assigned to complete the task from the day before. On arrival, the first thing
he did was to run over with a flashlight and check behind the wall.

           It was still there!

           But of course it was. Where would it have gone? His
new life, just sitting there behind the crumbling wall, surrounded by the
mildew of hundreds of years. He wheeled his cart all the way back to the room
containing the chest. Opening the tool chest, he pulled out a chisel and
hammer. He could have used a sledge and been through the wall in minutes, but
there was no reason for him to be seen with a sledge hammer, and he didn't want
to raise any suspicions. Instead, he took his time, loosening just a few,
select bricks.

           It took less than a half hour. Moving the loose
bricks, he now, finally, had access. He carefully slid the box through the
opening he'd made. He was surprised at how heavy it was. Then he remembered
some little piece of trivia from school. Something about meteorites primarily
being composed of iron. That and the lockbox, also of iron. And those locks.
Each one was heavy in its own right. He was surprised that he could just barely
lift it himself. Not something he'd even considered. But manageable.

           He put the chest on the cart, under the trash
bags, covering it in burlap. Now, he just had to wait. He then rolled his bin
slowly up the hall, turning the lights out as he went, picking up where he left
off yesterday. Today, though, he was whistling.

                                                                         *
* *

           Shortly after lunch, according to the schedule
with his new friends, his trash bin was full, or close enough. Normal procedure
was to roll the bins, usually two of them, out to the side security entrance
generally used by the staff. Most of the public came in one of the main
entrances, which were a long ways off. At the entrance, security would check
the bins, and he would roll them outside, around the corner, to the dumpsters.

           This routine had been followed every morning and
every afternoon for years. Rain or shine, every work day, like clockwork,
before lunch, and before the end of the day, the trash went out. By the same
guy. Using the same bins. Through the same entrance. Past the same guards. Who
didn't want any smelly garbage on their uniforms.

           Needless to say, inspections had long since become
very lax - normally, he was waved through. Occasionally, a guard would peak
into the top, or poke at it with a stick, but that was it. Even if the corporal
of the guard was around, inspecting the garbage was more of a show. The only
way it would ever actually be inspected, which would not be a good thing, would
be if the Commander of the Guard was coming around on an inspection tour, or if
the plain clothes inspector, whom everyone knew, was checking up. Both were
sticklers, and would make sure the inspection was complete. If caught, he
couldn't imagine what would happen. Not only would he not get paid and be in
some deep shit with his two visitors, but at the very least, he'd lose his job
and pension.

           Still, that wasn't likely. Neither the commander
nor the inspector ever came by this entrance. He couldn't remember the last
time either had. He wasn't concerned.

           He pushed the door open with his bin. The door
latched behind him, and he headed across the lot toward the gate. He saw the
regular guards, the same ones there this morning. The same ones there every
morning. One standing outside by the chain link gate, the other inside the
guardhouse. As he approached, he noticed he couldn't hear the football game,
normally loud enough for both guards to hear. That was a little odd. Then he
saw why.

           The Commander was inside the guardhouse.

           He was
never
at this gate.

           But the Commander was in the guardhouse.

           He was too far from the building to return with
the trash. That would have really looked suspicious. Plus they had already seen
him come out. No one takes trash from the
outside
back
into
the
building.

           He couldn't go back. And he didn't want to go
forward. But he had no choice. There was no option. He would have to take his
chances. Again, not that he had any choice. He heard the door open behind him,
and a man stepped out, closing it behind him.

           The Inspector!

           And then it hit him. A cold shiver went down his
spine, and his knees became rubbery. He could hardly push the bin.
Damn it,
somehow they knew
. They knew!

           But how? Clearly, he had been followed. Somehow,
someone must have heard what was going on. He was now stuck between the two men
who could and would happily have him arrested. Both guards were making a show
of how securely they did their jobs, as if the Pope himself was walking through
in a few minutes. The guard checked another employee a ways ahead. He went
through everything, the Commander looking over his shoulder. He could see the
man being checked, patted down, briefcase opened.

           Bad. Very bad.

           He looked at the Commander. The Commander wasn't
looking at him. Not directly, anyway. Probably didn't want to raise suspicions.
He glanced back at the Inspector, who, catching up to him, took a wide berth
around him, apparently trying to get to the gate ahead of Frankie, but trying
not to make it too obvious.

           The inspector never looked at him.

           Damn them, they were playing it so cool. He knew
they were just waiting, just waiting to catch him red handed. Just waiting to
pounce on him and get all their glory. They made him sick. They were really
enjoying this. And he would lose everything. Everything.

           He slowed his walk. He was dead. There was no
way he was getting through that gate. And no way to turn around. All that
money, gone. Job, gone. Probably jail. He felt sick. He kept walking. Dead man
walking. One foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Left foot. Right foot. The
inspector walked past him with a curt nod and "
Buongiorno
''. Frank
nodded. He was feeling worse. And this time, maybe for the first time, not
related to his drinking.

           He was next. Both the Commander and Inspector
were standing at the doorway, along with the guards. He felt really sick now. His
stomach was turning.

           "Good morning, Frank." It was the
guard at the gate.
They knew. Damn it, somehow, they knew.

           It was too much. The stress, his history of
drinking, the stress of getting caught - his stomach launched everything he had
onto the bin, the guard, the inspector, and ground around them. His stomach
tried again, but nothing was left, so he wretched nothing but some drops of
bile. He was greener than the fluid he tossed.

           Both the inspector and guard tried to jump out
of the way when he launched his first assault. Neither made it. Putrid, acidic
remainders of breakfast, and few items from last night were now additional
decorations on the guard, and formed a streak running across the coat, shirt,
and tie of the inspector.

           Both quickly tried to brush it off, immediately
regretting it, trying to wipe their hands on their pants and jackets. The
Commander ran out of the guard house, fawning over the inspector.

           "Dammit, Frank, what a mess. We're supposed
to meet a group coming in a few minutes through this gate, and now this."