The God Machine (44 page)

“You felt it yourself,” she said brusquely, looking up. Her eyes were glassy, her pupils dilated. The window behind her flashed white as a lightning bolt burst over
Eleventh Street. “Something missing,” she said, pointing down. A nimbus of light encircled her face from the candles behind her. Here eyes seemed to give off a strange blue-green glow.

Then he realized what she had been doing. She wasn't copying the map. She was
adding
to it. She was rendering her own contribution. He watched as she scribbled—a circle, a rectangle, a few lines to the side.

“Pauli looks in general at the electron shell as a barrier and demarcation point,” she said. “But each fermion is really a stepping-stone.”

“What?” Koster knelt down on the carpet in front of her. She continued to scribble.

“Models of electrons show their movements in harmonious orbits,” she said. “But rarely do we see this in macro manifestations. Indeed, orbital decay—as with planets—and changes in the structure of atoms—carbon decay—suggest that static relationships and sharply defined rules rarely hold up in practice. The exclusion principle ignores natural tendencies toward elasticity, and the large amounts of space within atoms—the nucleus like a fly at the heart of the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine.” She kept scribbling. She kept adding new features to the existing schematics. She weaved the four pieces together.

“Savita,” said Koster. “Savita, look at me!”

“Thomas Kuhn claimed that paradigm shifts occur not through the incremental nature of scientific discovery but through the flaunting of plain common sense. In the Alice in Wonderland world of subatomic physics, space is not the only consideration. Time is, too. And in the space/time continuum, who is to say that only one electron can occupy the same band? Such a non-space is the door to the Monad. The clock rate at the heart of the God machine is the
phi.”
She looked up at Koster.
“Joseph,” she said. Her eyes seemed to focus for an instant. Then they rolled back in her head.

“Savita!” Koster reached out and grabbed her, but as soon as his hands touched her skin, he felt a great shock, a jolt of static electricity, that lifted him up and flung him back toward the couch.

The candles all spluttered at once, and went out. Only the streetlights outside threw an icy pall on the room.

“Savita!” Koster shouted as he crawled back beside her. He was shaking now. His heart raced in his chest.

Sajan lay curled in the fetal position. He pressed a hand to her cheek. Her skin was cold and yet clammy with sweat. He stroked her hair gently, pulled her toward him and said, “Savita. Savita, please talk to me.”

She was still breathing but it was labored and shallow. Koster stretched out her body, wrapping the dress shirt more tightly about her. Then he leaned down and pressed his ear to her chest. He couldn't even pick up a heartbeat. Sajan shivered and he covered her up with his body, desperate to raise her temperature.

“Savita, come back to me, baby,” he whispered. Her eyes fluttered briefly. Without thinking, he bent down and kissed her. Her lips moved; she moaned and then pushed him away, her back arching as she took a great breath. Then she started to cough.

Koster got up on his knees, cradling her head in his lap. “Are you okay? Savita?”

Sajan's eyes opened. “Joseph?” She started to rise but he held her in place.

“Try not to move,” he said. “You fainted, I think. You were in some sort of trance.”

“Trance?” She pushed his hand away and struggled upright.

“What do you remember?”

“I remember us making love.”

“Besides that.”

“I like that memory.”

“Then what?”

“I remember being in bed, watching you fall asleep next to me. Then I fell asleep, too.”

“Nothing else?”

“No,” she replied. “Just the sound of the thunder outside.” She brought her knees to her chest.

“What about this?” Koster said, pulling the writing pad closer.

Sajan glanced down at the intricate drawing. “What's that?” she asked. She stared down at the pad, ran her hand along the line of components. She seemed fascinated by it.

“You don't remember? You drew it.”

“I did?”

“Are you kidding me? You really don't remember?”

Sajan shook her head. “I've never seen it before.” Her eyes remained fixed on the diagram. “But, somehow,” she added, “it seems to make sense.”

Koster picked up the pad. He tore out the sheet. Then he picked up the printout of the other schematics. “Can you walk?”

“Of course, I can walk. Why? Where are we going?”

Koster looked up at the windows. It would be dawn soon. The storm was moving east into Brooklyn. “To see your old lover,” he said. Then he laughed. “My best friend.”

P
ERHAPS BECAUSE IT WAS SO CLOSE TO THE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
, and Vice President Linkletter was late for a meeting, they chose to rendezvous at the Hay-Adams Hotel, on Lafayette Square. Originally designed as a residential hotel in the twenties, the hotel still looked like a private mansion, with more than a hundred and fifty rooms, twenty suites and stunning views of Lafayette Park, St. John's Church and the White House.

And it was one of the few public places that still boasted a passageway that ran directly underneath the South Lawn to the White House.

The Vice President stood on the balcony of the Federal Suite. From here, the Washington Monument—poking up as it did, just beyond the dome of the White House—appeared like a giant white index finger. Things were not going well. Now that the Democrats had retaken the Senate, everything was in turmoil. Each day, the President faced some new scandal. Iraq was an absolute sinkhole and now this new inconvenience. This Evangelical crisis. Linkletter longed for the open prairies
of South Texas, the coolness of morning, the vast panorama of
ceniza
and cottonwood, scrub brush and mesquite.

A buzzer sounded and the Vice President shivered. There was something detestable about Michael Rose. More than his drug addictions. More than his fondness for underage girls. And more than the nauseating hypocrisy that both of these weaknesses signaled. It was something palpably physical. And yet it was subtle, like the absence of odor. A kind of… transparency. The buzzer sounded again.

Linkletter waited for Bobby, his Secret Service shadow, to answer the door. When he heard Michael's voice, the Vice President turned on his heels, slipped through the French doors of the balcony and stepped back inside.

It was a luxurious suite, with a large formal dining area, two full baths and that spectacular view of Lafayette Square. The chairs in the sitting area were armless and seductively round. They were appointed in green. The color of money. So were the brocaded silk curtains, the carpet and the lampshades. It was like living at the top of a tree.

Rose stood by the entrance as Bobby wanded him down. Six feet four inches, with the shoulders of a pro linebacker, Bobby made Michael appear hunched over and flabby. To Linkletter, Michael brought to mind some Nazi Youth Leaguer—grown-up and gone to seed, with his cherry red lips, his washed-out blue eyes and that flap of pale hair.

“You're late. And I don't have much time,” the Vice President added. “What's so damned urgent that you had to drag me away from my office?”

“I want you to arrest Joseph Koster and Savita Sajan.”

Linkletter scowled. “I warned you. I told you, but nooo,” he said, shaking his head. “You wanted to hold off, to see where they'd lead you. Well, where did they lead
you? Answer me, Michael. Except into deeper dog shit.” He started to pace. “What about your spy? What happened to him?”

“Our informant's been compromised. Too closely watched now.”

Linkletter stopped. “As if the new Attorney General doesn't have enough on his plate.” He bobbed his head like a hen. “God almighty! Alder's going to go nuts.” He turned on his heel. “Arrest them? On what grounds? Based on what I've been told, it's your people doing all the killing. What exactly happened to Lacey?” The Vice President plopped himself down on the overstuffed sofa. “And why doesn't Thaddeus answer my calls?”

At these words, Michael Rose finally stopped fidgeting. He glared down at Linkletter.

The Vice President crossed his legs. “How about it?” he said.

Without warning, Michael took a step closer. He towered over Linkletter in such a threatening manner that Bobby dashed in from the side. It was as if he had anticipated the move. The Secret Service agent lunged forward, his hand out. “Back away, Pastor Rose,” he said tightly.

Michael moved away from the sofa. He stared down at Linkletter, who sat motionless now.

“Don't get carried away,” the Vice President said.

“This is an issue of national and not just spiritual security,” said Michael. “They went to the Edison estate.”

“So I read.”

“They found another piece of the map.”

“Apparently.”

“Remember Ohio, David.”

Linkletter smiled. He had been preparing for this. He and President Alder had covered that territory. The truth was, though Alder felt grateful to the Heart of the Family Research Council for their help during the
last presidential election, though the President subscribed to Michael's Evangelical faith, both he and Linkletter were becoming increasingly wary of young Michael Rose. He was becoming erratic, unpredictable. He scratched at himself like a junkie. Meanwhile, his old man, Pastor Thaddeus, had failed to return any of Linkletter's calls. President Alder himself planned to phone him. Per haps Thaddeus, too, was distancing himself from his son. Michael looked like a man who was desperate, who would do practically anything to achieve what he wanted. The GOP needed the Christian Right vote, but could Michael deliver it? Had a split occurred in the Rose tree?

“The President's not running again,” the Vice President concluded. “And neither am I. Thank goodness. That old decoy needs a fresh coat of paint.”

“Have you forgotten your party?”

“The Democrats will self-destruct once again. Let Hillary and Obama slug it out. The election's still a long way away, and—”

“I meant the one in Nevada.”

Linkletter sat perfectly still. Michael Rose lifted a hand and pointed out the window. “You see how close we are to the White House? The vantage point? I hear the Hay-Adams is the most bugged hotel in the city.” He waved his right arm like a Vegas magician. “Nothing goes on here that somebody's not listening to, or watching. Just because I'm from Arizona doesn't mean I'm a hick.”

Michael sat down directly across from Linkletter. He pulled his chair closer. Then, he leaned forward, hooking his fingers together, and said in a whisper, “Wouldn't you think that the Worldwide Church of Christ and the Heart of the Family Research Council would maintain at least the same set of security standards as this broken-down old hotel?” He motioned toward Linkletter. The Vice President slid to the edge of the sofa, until their
heads were practically touching. “The night of the poker party,” Michael continued. “What was that boy's name again? Kevin. Yeah, that was it. You know what I'm talking about. You give me what I want… Even trade. Call out the Seals, the Rangers, whatever. CIA. NSA. IRS. I don't care. As long as we find out what happened at Glenmont. Where's the Gospel of Judas? And what went wrong with the God machine? Do we understand one another?”

Linkletter leaned back in the sofa. He pulled at the tip of his chin. Then, he said, “We should go hunting together again. I like the way you shoot.” His voice was as cold as a clear mountain stream.

“As long as you're standing in front of me, Mr. Vice President.”