The Alexandria Connection (30 page)

The security guards finally managed to reach the protestor, and much to the discomfort of those in his row, they forcibly propelled him toward the aisle.

‘But they know in Poland!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Ask the farmers on the border with Ukraine about using 40 000 gallons of chemicals every time the rocks are fractured. Ask them how much mercury and hydrochloric acid are going into the water table!’

The protestor’s shouting faded as two burly security guards forcibly ejected him from the church.

Rachel made a note to get a copy of his photograph for identification. Whoever he was, he was extraordinarily well briefed.

‘There will always be those who resist change,’ Davis began with a calculated shrug. ‘For the record, I am not in bed with EVRAN, or Big Oil, or anyone else other than my loving wife of twenty-seven years.’ He paused and smiled as the gentle laughter echoed around the auditorium. ‘It’s our twenty-eighth anniversary next month, and I thank God every day for sending her to me.’ Many in the audience nodded approvingly, and a stronger burst of applause echoed off the walls.

‘For those who may not be aware, fracking is a simple process which has been around for a very long time.’ Rachel scrutinised the congregation as Davis continued speaking. From the looks on their faces, it was clear that quite a number had little or no idea of what fracking involved, and they were following the explanation closely.

‘But this is not some hillbilly operation. Drilling for oil and gas is closely regulated by environmental regulations.’

Rachel made yet another note. Davis might get away with that here, or in Montana, but a national debate would require a far more careful answer.

‘As to our friend’s allegations on methane, he’s quite wrong there. This gas occurs naturally. It’s found right across the country. What we need to focus on here are the benefits derived from God’s bountiful gifts. We’ve created over 200 000 jobs already, and many of these are for God-fearing families across this great land.’

Rachel muttered quietly to herself. ‘Jesus Christ, Davis, I said remember your audience, not lay it on with a bloody trowel.’ The remainder of her prepared speech, which focused on jobs and the economy, passed without further incident. Faith-based initiatives that would allow religious organisations like the Hermit Road mega-church to better compete for government funds gained loud applause. Rachel made another note. But then she braced herself for the most dangerous part of the meeting. She’d schooled Davis in every question she could think of, but religion was not her long suit, and this element of the Davis pitch was unscripted.

‘And now my friends,’ Pastor Shipley said, offering Davis a seat at a fake fireside setting on the stage, ‘Governor Davis will be pleased to take questions.’

The first question came from a well-dressed woman in the second row. ‘Governor Davis, we’ve heard a lot about the way Muslims want to introduce Sharia law to the West. Can you explain how you feel about Islam?’

Rachel took a deep breath. This was a curve ball on steroids.

‘I’m not the first to say this,’ Davis began, ‘but there is no doubt that Islam is an evil religion. When Muslims say they want to introduce Sharia law, they mean it. They want to abolish our court system and put camel courts in their place. They want to take over the world, but as your president, I will never ever let that happen. There is only one true religion, and one true God, and that’s the Lord Jesus Christ incarnate as the Son of the Father.’

The applause was stronger now, but Rachel made a note to request research into the Muslim vote. She listened with interest to the rest of the questions and Davis’s responses.

For the last question a portly gentleman in the front, dressed in an expensive suit, got to his feet. ‘Governor Davis, I wonder if you could give us an indication of what you might say to our Lord Jesus Christ when you meet Him in the end times. How are you going to convince Him that you have earned a place in Heaven?’

‘Yes!’ Rachel whispered to herself. She had a track record of being able to predict awkward questions, but it always gave her a kick when she nailed one, particularly when it came to a group like this. For Rachel, these people might just as well have come from another planet.

‘We’re all sinners,’ Davis began, ‘but when you accept Jesus Christ as your personal Saviour, as I have, and you have, then we know – we
know –
that because of His sacrifice,
we
are saved. We are
right with God.
’

Even Rachel was taken aback. The auditorium erupted and the congregation got to their feet, applauding and cheering wildly. ‘Hallelujah! Hallelujah!’ they chanted. ‘Amen! Amen!’

Crowley drained his champagne, flicked off the broadcast, and leaned back in the comfortable office sofa.

‘Your new house comfortable?’

‘Very, Mr Crowley. I can’t thank you enough,’ said Miranda. She put her own glass on the table, nestled back on the couch and again allowed her skirt to ride to the top of her thighs.

‘You and I are going to be spending a lot of time together . . . and when we’re alone, it’s Sheldon,’ he said, letting his hand wander onto her exposed leg.

‘Sheldon it is, then,’ she whispered huskily, her own hand wandering to the inside of Crowley’s thigh. ‘Shall I pour some more champagne?’

‘Oh . . . I think the champagne can wait, don’t you?’ He put his arm around her and explored inside her bra.

‘Let me make that easier,’ Miranda whispered, ‘it undoes at the front.’ She undid the catch, releasing her firm, perky breasts, and felt the inside of Crowley’s thigh and his growing erection.

Crowley unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, releasing his cock. ‘Suck me,’ he said hoarsely, sliding his hand into Miranda’s black lace knickers and fingering her moist, warm clit.

Over a thousand miles to the north, in Montana, Abigail had also been watching the live broadcast. Her disbelief turned to white-hot anger. ‘You bastard! You hypocritical, lying bastard!’ she swore at the television screen.

A month before, a knock on her door had come in the early evening. She had been reluctant at first, but $200 000 was a lot of money. Abigail had eventually accepted that the governor had powerful friends who simply wanted to ensure his reputation was safe, and she signed the agreement to keep silent. The governor’s reputation would have been safe with her anyway – up until now. ‘No one mentioned anything about you running for the White House, you bastard! What about
me
? Is that bitch of a wife of yours going to be First Lady now?’ she fumed.

Back in Pastor Shipley’s office, Rachel flicked on CNC’s analysis of the announcement.

‘In breaking news,’ Walter Cronkwell intoned, ‘Governor Carter Davis has announced his intention to run for the Republican nomination for president, and we cross to our political correspondent, Susan Murkowski, who joins us from outside the Hermit Road mega-church in Dallas. A dark horse, and a surprise late addition to the field, Susan?’ The vision faded to Murkowski standing on the wide steps of the church.

‘Indeed it is, Walter. Governor Davis had given no previous indication he might run, but he’s certainly energised a flagging Republican campaign, and if the reception he’s received here is anything to go by, Governor Davis might prove to be more than a dark horse. Here’s what one couple, clearly ecstatic about the prospect of a God-fearing president, had to say.’

The vision changed again to a grey-haired white couple in their late sixties.

‘And what did you think of Governor Davis’s announcement?’ Murkowski asked, moving her microphone toward the woman.

‘I think God has finally intervened,’ the woman replied in her deep southern drawl. ‘Just as He intervened to ensure George W. Bush was elected, God is going to bless America with Governor Davis. To be honest, before Governor Davis entered this election, I was at a loss to know who to vote for, but God is giving America one last chance before the end times for us to repent of our sins, and I know Governor Davis will provide us with that moral compass.’

Murkowski turned to the woman’s husband who was nodding vigorously. ‘And you, sir? What did you think?’

‘Ruby and I don’t always agree,’ the man said with a smile, ‘but she’s right. The race is now on in earnest, and we’ll be urging Christians right across the United States to get behind Governor Carter Davis, because you can tell he’s one of us.’

‘Forgive me, but how can you tell that?’

‘By the way he speaks.’

‘It’s that simple?’

‘A non-Christian wouldn’t understand,’ the parishioner said, his smile vanishing, ‘but Governor Davis has asked for our prayers, and he’s going to get them in spades, because he’s God’s man in the White House, and through President Davis, God will direct America.’

‘So far, so good,’ said Rachel, flicking off the broadcast, ‘but we’ve got a long way to run, so let’s not get carried away. By and large, your answers were fine, Carter, but you have to stay on message. And when we get to the wider audiences, you’ll need to go easy on the God stuff. And don’t say you’re
not
in bed with EVRAN. That might come back to bite us, so vague that up. Tell them you’re your own man. That way, they can’t accuse you of misleading anyone.’

Davis listened grudgingly.

‘And don’t insist that fracking’s covered by environmental regulations. That might play well for conservative audiences in the primaries, but it’s bullshit and when we come up against Hailey Campbell, she’ll tear you apart if you try that one.’

‘How?’

Oh Christ, Rachel thought. We’re okay with dot points, but push it past what’s on the page in front of him, and he’s fucked. Stay calm, she reminded herself.

‘We don’t want to touch that argument with a barge pole, because that protestor and others like him know that Republicans have approved exemptions in the Clean Water Act, the Clean Air Act, and introduced a host of other legislation specifically designed to allow the oil industry exemptions, and Campbell will hit you over the head. We need to concentrate on the jobs and economy angle, because that’s the one that will play well with Middle America.’

Davis looked at Rachel quizzically.

Up in Montana, Abigail switched off the direct broadcast, her tears fuelling her anger. ‘You bastard! You absolute fucking bastard!’

On the second Tuesday of each month, Pastor Matthias Shipley made the three hundred mile trip from Dallas to Little Rock in Arkansas. If anyone called the Hermit Road office, the staff would respond very politely as they’d been instructed: that Pastor Shipley was interstate, winning souls for Christ.

Far less well known in Arkansas than he was in Texas, Pastor Shipley nevertheless always ensured that he arrived at Christian’s apartment after dark.

‘Matty . . . come on in. Make yourself comfortable. Glass of wine? Tonight I have some chablis, or a cab sav?’

‘Cab sav, thank you,’ Pastor Shipley said, leaving $800 on the sideboard. It was the usual fee for an all-night stay. Matthias couldn’t explain it, but even after six years, he was still nervous every time he visited, and that in itself was a turn-on. Christian was everything he wanted in a man. Young, fit and athletic. Tonight, Christian was wearing cargo shorts and topless. Matthias ran his eyes over Christian’s brown, rippling torso and broad shoulders. Christian’s fabulously fit body never failed to arouse him.