Gospel, page 89
“I get your point, Colonel,” said O’Hanrahan. “Where exactly are you taking us?”
He fixed the professor with an oblique smile. “Would you believe The Promised Land?”
* * *
With Thorn at the wheel and Colonel Westin in the passenger’s seat, O’Hanrahan and Lucy in the back, the diplomatic limousine came to a stop on the runway of Ethiopia’s international airport.
“Right on time,” said the colonel as the expected plane loomed above the runway approach. Wordlessly, the foursome watched the plane descend, land, and turn so that the afternoon sun was full upon it. The Boeing 737 jet was gleaming white with a light blue line running its length. On its tailfin was a light blue cross and the initials TPL. Lucy and O’Hanrahan watched it turn from the landing runway and drive across the tarmac toward the terminal. In the berth that was its destination O’Hanrahan noticed a stack of wooden crates set out on the tarmac marked MEDICAL and FOODSTUFFS.
“TPL,” murmured O’Hanrahan. The Promised Land Ministries. “That’s the holy-roller program back in the United States.”
Colonel Westin didn’t say anything.
“You got these Bible-bashers fronting for the CIA, Colonel?” pursued O’Hanrahan.
“Reverend Bullins is a man of God, Patrick,” Colonel Westin said at last.
The four passengers in Westin’s car watched the plane noisily come to a stop in the airport berth, the engines’ pitch dying, octave by octave.
“I saw on ‘Prime Time,’” O’Hanrahan began, “where Reverend Bullins has a personal tax-free fortune of $100 million and the IRS is after him. Not to mention the Interstate Commerce Commission, which is investigating his religious products, and the Postal Service, for mail fraud.”
“Regrettable, really,” said the colonel, staring placidly ahead.
“We used to have people we could depend on,” Thorn sputtered. “You can bet President Reagan wouldn’t have allowed the IRS…” But Colonel Westin with a turn of his head had silenced his assistant.
O’Hanrahan chuckled. “Ah, that’s right. Good ol’ Uncle Ronnie’s administration let those TV Bible boys get by with murder, in return, of course, for a stream of contributions.” O’Hanrahan hoped another round of questioning would this time produce some answers: “What on earth could you want with an old scroll, Colonel?”
“It’s not just any old scroll, of course.” Colonel Westin reared back in the seat, looking very military and confident. “And the time for explanations is not yet at hand. Suffice it to say that this phase of our assignment has virtually come to an end. It was but one of a two-prong operation, the other half being still in an unfolding mode, and still classified—”
“The Flight of the Griffin,” said O’Hanrahan, taking a stab, remembering the rabbi asked about the phrase in Jerusalem.
Colonel Westin did not immediately acknowledge this. “Well, we will have to interrogate you, Patrick, on how you came by this piece of information.”
Not wanting the third-degree, O’Hanrahan explained that Rabbi Hersch had asked him about the phrase, having himself been examined by Mossad agents.
“Make a note of that, Thorn,” babbled Colonel Westin. “Mossad can still be an impediment, though we assumed they were actuality-neutralized as regards this operation, uh, implementation-wise.”
Lucy noticed O’Hanrahan seemed paler than a moment before.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Does this have something to do with Iraq? The Griffin, the wingéd lion of Babylon, in The Book of Daniel.”
“All I can say, professor, is that events, though unexpected, seem to be concurring with our timetable. Since the Iran-Iraq war ended two years ago, we in the West have allowed a steady stream of munitions and ordnances to accumulate in Saddam Hussein’s stockpile, once we identified him for who he was.”
Lucy falteringly asked, “For who he was?”
O’Hanrahan: “Is the CIA involved in the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait? I hope to God that’s not the case, because if it’s true I’ll gladly have you and your people before a Senate subcommittee faster’n you can say Admiral Poindexter!”
“We’ve never even met Poindexter on this,” snapped Colonel Westin unconvincingly. “And as for the invasion of Kuwait, the plan was … well, I mean we figured that he would attack Israel. Perhaps Kuwait is just a distraction for the big push into the Valley of Jizreel. Knock out Tel Aviv, leave Haifa unguarded to the Syrian north, the West Bank and Gaza to the Arabs in the south … Divide and conquer.”
O’Hanrahan in disbelief: “On the plains of Armageddon. As it is written in Revelations,” O’Hanrahan added somberly. The mix of biblical apocalyptics and covert operations swam before him. “And what’s an old crook like Reverend Bullins got to do with all this?”
Thorn protested. “If you knew Farley Bullins like we do, you wouldn’t repeat these scurrilous charges.”
Both Lucy and O’Hanrahan chilled at the mention of the first name: Farley. Lucy briefly pressed her palm to her forehead. “Uh, Colonel,” she stammered. “Reverend Bullins’s family…”
“Fine people, fine people.”
“Everyone,” smiled Thorn, “knows Lila Mae Bullins.”
Lila Mae Bullins, favorite target of the National Enquirer and People magazine and Johnny Carson’s monologue. A tone-deaf harpie with a mile-high bouffant known for her outlandishly tasteless little-girl frills-and-ribbons ensembles, worn late into her fifties, and her spending habits that put her in a league with Imelda Marcos—her close personal friend, by the way.
“A son and two daughters,” Colonel Westin continued. “Farley Junior will probably one day take over the ministries.”
Lucy closed her eyes tightly. Farley Jr.! Recovering, she turned to O’Hanrahan, who merely muttered, “Great.”
“Although,” added Thorn, “I doubt any of us will be around for that day. Farley Junior will be looking down from the clouds, like the rest of us.”
Lucy was confused. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
O’Hanrahan looked from his window to see two airport maintenance men roll a huge mobile-stairway to the cabin door of the TPL jetliner.
“And we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and thus we shall always be with the Lord,” Thorn said reverently, before the colonel silenced him with another headturn.
O’Hanrahan sank back in his seat. “Mr. Thorn is referring to the Rapture.”
Lucy blurted out, “You mean that born-again nonsense about being taken up before the end of the world?”
Thorn was exercised, despite Colonel Westin’s restraint. “It is not nonsense, Miss Dantan! It would behoove you to read your Bible and see what it promises. There will be a great tribulation such as has not occurred since the beginning of the world until now, nor ever shall!”
“That’s enough, Conrad,” said the colonel, undoing his seat belt, preparing to meet the plane’s passengers.
“Are you telling me the godless CIA has swiped this thing,” O’Hanrahan blurted, half-laughing, “because of the Rapture, Colonel?”
Thorn: “I beg your pardon! The CIA is far from godless. In fact, the founder of Operation Rapture, that saint, that man of God, William Casey—”
Colonel Westin: “That’s enough, Conrad!”
“—William Casey, I heard him many times say the CIA was more than the Central Intelligence Agency, that we should think of ourselves as Christ in Action.”
“Operation Rapture?” checked O’Hanrahan.
“Agent Thorn,” hissed the colonel, “what have I told you about speaking in the open of these things? I swear sometimes…”
O’Hanrahan had the calm to ask, “Are you telling me that that senile nincompoop Ronald Reagan sanctioned a covert operation to oversee the implementation of biblical prophecies concerning the Rapture?”
“I think it is well established,” said the colonel, annoyed and clenched tight with displeasure at his assistant’s big mouth, “that Ronald Reagan believes in the Rapture—”
Thorn: “As do forty percent of Americans, don’t forget that!”
“And with so many of the signs coming into place for these Final Days, the President made his will known concerning the many exigencies contingency-wise for America.” Colonel Westin seemed to overboil the next moment: “I mean, good God, man, if this End Times thing is just around the corner, what leader would want his country to be caught off guard? Make no mistake, it is in the national interest that we prepare for the worst—the Bible itself instructs us to prepare the way of the Second Coming. And we want to make damn sure this is an American apocalypse and we’re not caught with our military and spiritual pants down round our ankles.”
O’Hanrahan almost laughed.
“I assure you, Patrick, the Antichrist and his minions know who they are. Gorbachev, with the mark of the beast on his forehead, and Saddam Hussein…”
O’Hanrahan steadied himself against the dashboard.
Colonel Westin took a long breath through his teeth, and produced his smile again. “It is very difficult to say, Patrick, just what Reagan approved and what he didn’t approve specifically-wise, per se. However, it was quite clear from the directives he signed and the money we’ve had to work with that Operation Rapture has been a top government priority. In Casey’s absence, it was left to me to find the men who believed our greatest spy manual, professor, is the Holy Bible itself.”
O’Hanrahan: “Does President Bush know about you guys?”
Colonel Westin winced pleasantly again, “Well, I believe the former Vice President was … out of the loop.”
O’Hanrahan looked at the gangway, now at the door of the plane. Then Underwood appeared, his comb-over immediately blown to the side, and both hands darting up to sculpt his arrangement back into place.
“The gang’s all here,” growled O’Hanrahan.
“That Underwood fellow’s a royal pain in the butt,” said Westin, shaking his head.
“I thought you were working together,” O’Hanrahan prompted.
“I suppose we are. I just wanted this to be an all-Company operation and then Merriwether starts poking around.”
Thorn: “Mr. Merriwether has been a generous contributor to our operations…” Agent Thorn turned on his superior, who was sulking. “That’s no secret. I can tell him that, can’t I?”
“Conrad, I swear…” The colonel then asked for everyone to get out of the car, in preparation for the great man of God.
Lucy and O’Hanrahan leaned against the government limousine, viewing the TV-familiar girth of Reverend Bullins emerge from the plane. Reverend Bullins stayed put as two video cameramen in light blue warm-up suits, TPL and a white cross emblazoned on the back like a team logo, ran down the gangway to record Bullins’s dramatic arrival in Ethiopia. Moments after him, there appeared Lila Mae. An attendant followed before the cameras began filming to spray down her big silver-white dome of hair, a light-blue foot-wide ribbon supported in the tresses.
At the base of the stairs, one of the cameramen led two young Ethiopian children toward the welcoming red carpet. Action. Farley and his wife, waving as if to a large crowd, made their way down the stairs and scooped up the spindly black children in their arms. Reverend, yelled a cameraman, let’s have you and the boy and the lollipop. As the kid made pleading, imploring eyes at the laughing, broad-faced Southerner, Reverend Bullins made a great tease out of offering a lollipop, taking it away, giving it back. The boy greedily put it in his mouth, wrapper and all.
“There’s your friend,” said O’Hanrahan.
Lucy looked to the top of the stairs to see Farley Jr. waving frantically, trying to get her attention. He was wearing a robin’s-egg blue pastel suit, white ruffled shirt, and string tie that would befit a country & western star.
Both Lucy and O’Hanrahan noted the Man in the Cheap Suit stick his head out right behind, say something to Farley Jr. before both retreated inside. Then Underwood, holding his hair together from the swirl of jet engines, left the videotaping area and crossed the tarmac all smiles, his hand held out in anticipation of being shaken: “Howdy, folks!”
Neither Lucy nor O’Hanrahan extended hands.
“Awww, now don’t be like that. I’m the one who oughta be sore. You stuck me with the wrong scroll.” He handed O’Hanrahan the cardboard tube with the Contendings of Andrew within, while Thorn and Colonel Westin audibly snickered at Underwood’s imbecility.
All heads turned to see Reverend Bullins wrapping up his video spot, surrounded now by five Ethiopian children, raising his voice, praising Jeeeeezus, arms outstretched and face heavenward. Farley Jr., standing to his daddy’s side, waved at Lucy.
“Sickening,” she breathed.
“I think you’ll really get to like Reverend Bullins,” Thorn predicted. “He’s a scholar, like yourself, professor. Oh, don’t let his fiery preaching put you off, he’s a real showman, yes indeed, but first and foremost he’s a living Christian example of charity.”
O’Hanrahan scoffed, observing Bullins being filmed before the crates marked MEDICAL and FOODSTUFFS, holding the Ethiopian boy and girl shoulder-high.
“Those crates were there before the plane landed,” noted O’Hanrahan drily.
“Well, that’s just for, you know, the cameras,” said Underwood. “The real stuff is on the plane.”
No one, however, was unloading anything from the plane. Lucy noticed that the one mechanic was refueling the jet.
When she turned back to the ceremonious Reverend Bullins, she saw that filming had stopped and he was crossing the tarmac to greet them. Bullins, all grins, approached and grasped O’Hanrahan’s hand: “Greetings and God bless!” he called out, his trademark opening of each Promised Land Bible Hour. “So you’re Patrick O’Hanrahan. My my, it’s good to meet you at last, following your adventures secondhand these many weeks.”
“Lucy!” called out Farley Jr., running to her side.
“Son,” said Farley Sr., “this must be Miss Lucy, yes ma’am,” he exhaled, forcing a blast of Southern charm. “Why don’t you take Miss Lucy and her bags and the professor’s … Colonel, would you help us here? Into the plane, that’s right. We’ll be leaving for New Orleans tonight.”
O’Hanrahan was severe. “Leaving for where?”
“For The Promised Land, my friend. It’s a thirteen-hour flight to New Orleans, with a fueling stop in Accra, I think they told me. Then we’ll drive on from there. Plenty of time, plenty of time.”
Mr. Cheap Suit held out his hand to the professor. “Good to finally meetcha, sir,” he said with a twang. “John Smith, the name.”
Something caught in O’Hanrahan’s mind.
“Yes,” said Smith, “I hate to bring it up, but if I could have Mr. Merriwether’s credit card back? The one we sent you for your travels?”
O’Hanrahan fumblingly reached into his wallet. John Smith, Treasurer. It was his real name.
Lucy asked Farley Jr., “You said you were named after Farley Bullins, the minister. Why, Farley, didn’t you tell me you were his actual son?”
He shuffled and shrugged. “Well shucks … Didn’t want you, you know, to think I was braggin’ or nothin’.”
Lucy was speechless.
“You know,” Farley said, “I do the Bible Study segment on the telecast back in Philadelphia, Louisiana, and people treat me different, in stores and shops and stuff, and I just … just wanted you to like me for who I was.”
Before Lucy could protest, Reverend Bullins was taking O’Hanrahan by the arm and leading him away: “Miss Lucy,” the minister said, “we have some refreshment in the lounge on board, if you’d like. I would enjoy a word with Dr. O’Hanrahan here.”
As the others scattered, Reverend Bullins put his arm around O’Hanrahan’s shoulder, man to man. “Good to meet you at last, sir. I consider it a blessing, a blessing indeed. A scholar of your reputation. I tried to find out about you. I went to the library to check out your books, but it doesn’t seem you’ve written any, heh heh heh … You’re like me! You’re a talker. A preacher. And a helluva translator, I understand. The best. Oh, we shopped around and checked out lots of alternates, like your friend Philip Beaufoix at American University in Cairo, but you’re the man for the job.”
“What job?”
“Translating this antigospel.” Here Bullins paused, savoring the details deliciously. “The second our scouts heard tell of a First-Century gospel on the market, well, you can bet we naturally wanted to get our hands on it! Bob Jones, Oral Roberts—had to beat ’em to the punch! I am sure you will bear out our contention that the Gospel of Matthias is the False Prophecy that is foretold. The tool of Antichrist himself, and his minion, the False Prophet. We assume, of course, the False Prophet will be the pope, but there’s still room to move on this thing. We’ll know better when more of the signs manifest themselves.”
O’Hanrahan tried to be reasonable with the man. “Look, Reverend, heretical gospels have come to light before. Several this century. What makes this scroll the False Prophecy of Revelations?”
“What else could it be? The fathers of the Church condemned the Matthias gospel as heretical and dangerous. You’re telling me it’s a coincidence that 1900 years pass by and then now, just now, when so many of the signs are in place, when Babylon is on the ascendancy and the Jews have returned to Israel, that just now this wicked manuscript returns to us. Oh no, Dr. O’Hanrahan—this is Satan’s final ploy, his program for the minds of the faithless!”
It took all of his courage for O’Hanrahan to utter fearfully, “And you want to destroy this gospel?”
Reverend Bullins took a step back from the professor, staring at him oddly as if trying to recognize a stranger. And he said with an unnerving quiet: “No. On the contrary. Would I stand in the way of the Coming of Jesus?” The reverend seemed strained with emotion: “Oh it will be a horrible thing, really it will. To see so many of my own congregation perhaps, my own extended family, turn away, fall away into doubt and apostasy. But many will turn away before the Rapture. So many…” Reverend Bullins was genuinely moved by their plight: “… so many otherwise good people, left behind. Left to the Tribulations.”
