One to the 4th Degree: The Marian Conspiracy

Lincoln

Prologue

STANZA ONE

ALEX AVALOV WAS SLEEPING FITFULLY AGAIN. He rolled over in his living room’s red leather chair fighting the same spectacular dreams that had plagued him for weeks. Sweat trickled down the Georgetown professor’s forehead. His pajama tops were already soaking wet. Alex could see that Baal, the powerful Phoenician god, was again in the throes of a heated argument with goddess Alistair.

"You will pleasure me, the King ordered his beautiful Queen. Learn that it is I to whom you owe allegiance."

Alistair replied: I, too, am a god, worthy of your respect.

The muscular Baal stared down at the vulnerable goddess lying bare-breasted on her bed. He thought: I’ve heard stories of your betrayal, my love; you’ve been urging other gods to revolt against me. But, you will learn how much power I possess over you. Do as I say! Baal thundered.

"I will not!"

"You will kneel before me," the man god insisted.

I am a woman, but I, too, am a god, Alistair shot back. I will not let you do this to me.

Any power you possess is because of me, Baal reminded. And I can take back whatever I have given.

You would not dare …

Alex could see that Alistair, now pressing a satin pillow against her chest, was frightened. Baal’s hateful eyes are unforgiving. Alistair waits for a more measured response. But, he’s only getting angrier.

No need for this pretense any longer, Baal bellowed as he strode to a nearby table. After pausing, he swept aside a glass of drugged wine and bowl of poisoned fruit that had been intended for his Queen.

Alistair pleaded for the King to be reasonable. "Why do you feel betrayed by me? You know our enemies! Why would you trust them and not me?"

Baal only looked away.

Who’s that lurking in the shadows of Baal’s regal bedroom? Alex wondered. Suddenly, the hidden figure emerged with a gold dagger in hand to pounce on Alistair from behind.

Watch out, Alistair! Alex groaned loudly. Too late!

The assassin clutched the dagger’s twirled handle and plunged its blade deep into the goddess’ exposed back. Once. Twice. A third time. Then, a fourth.

The slumbering Alex could only watch in horror as Alistair’s sweet breath expired.

I am an impotent witness to this horrible crime …

STANZA TWO

ALEX’S DREAM FAST-FORWARDED as he tugged at his wet clothing.

Aaawwwhhhhh!!! Alex groaned as his back involuntarily arched in a distorted fashion. He was envisioning a soldier holding down a Hebrew Prophet while another drove a nail through his hand.

I know the agony of a nail being driven through my own hand … after being kidnapped last year by the Locust terrorists.

Alex saw the soldiers repeatedly beat their victim with whips and clubs as he lie helpless before them. Just like I was brutalized in that Syrian pit. After raising the Prophet on a four-cornered wooden cross, Alex heard the soldiers mock him. No matter that family and a handful of friends stood nearby.

I remember the spitting, too, Alex murmured. I remember…

When the crucified man shouted something about being abandoned, Alex wanted to rush to his side, remind him you are not alone. But, a sudden, violent thunderstorm engulfed the scene. When the wind and rain stopped, Alex saw the man hanging motionless. He’s breathed his last.

The battered body was quickly lowered by family to the ground and into the arms of a woman dressed in pure white linen. They are calling her Mary. She cries …

When a solitary ray of sunlight broke through the low-hanging clouds, Alex could almost feel himself in the arms of the Lady. Oh, how comforting are her caresses! She embraces me as a mother would a fallen son.

Each tear that dropped onto Alex’s forehead triggered a sensation of exhilarating love, grief, compassion, forgiveness, pride … and relief. When Alex felt her kiss his own pierced hand, he imagined its almost instantaneous healing. Alex wanted to console the Lady, but he was too poured out to speak.

"Do not fear," Alex suddenly heard. He glanced about. Surely, the words had not been uttered by the Lady. Yet, they were similar to the reassuring messages Alex, and before him his Father, had heard at critical times in their lives. Only, what they had come to call The Voice, now sounded feminine, not masculine.

Upon the return of the whirlwind, Alex found himself looking upon a tomb enclosed by a giant stone. He saw a snow white Angel descend from the sky heralding Good News and, with a bolt of lightning, thrust aside the stone.

But, there’s no body within… The Roman guards freeze as the ground beneath them shakes. The frightened men stare at one another, then, throw down their spears. Look! They stumble away in the rain and muck.

It was not until dusk set in that Alex saw two somber women disciples of the Prophet happen upon the scene carrying oils and fresh burial garments. He understood that both were also named Mary, the same given name of my Georgetown colleague, Maria Angelini. The oldest even looks like Maria.

The Marys had returned to the burial site to perform their faith’s ritual cleansing tasks before the evening sun had fully set. But, the two quickly realized that the horrific experience of crucifixion they had witnessed had taken yet another macabre turn.

Our master’s tomb has been opened! cried the oldest Mary, also called Magdalene. His body is desecrated, too?

As they ran to the entrance and saw no body within, the women exchanged cries of outrage and paced aimlessly about. They hugged to console one another.

It’s ok, Mary, Alex mumbled. It’s ok.

He saw the Angel give a sign of peace to the Marys. Do not be afraid, the spirit said. "I know that you are looking for the crucified Jesus of Nazareth. But, he has risen after three days and is no longer here, just as He said."

What are we to do? Magdalene asked the Angel.

Go tell His disciples the Good News, that their Master has Risen. He will show them his pierced hands and feet. He will eat and drink with them. He will rejoice with them and instruct them.

The women hurried away from the tomb.

STANZA THREE

A QUIET PERIOD GAVE ALEX a measure of rest. But, the respite was momentary. He soon imagined himself in Rome. It was March 15, the Ides of March. The year was 44 B.C.

Caesar is holding court before the Senate …

Alex could see General Mark Antony surrounded by his personal guards outside the Theatre of Pompey, where the Senators were meeting.

Why here? Why now? Will he warn Caesar of the plot to kill him?

But, the general and his men stayed where they were, watching those coming and going, talking in lowered tones. Inside the Senate Chamber, Alex saw Tillius Cimber presenting Caesar with a petition asking for mercy. Would he bring Cimber’s disloyal brother back from exile? As the Senator’s allies gathered around him to express their support, Caesar was not buying any of it. He waived them away. Incensed, Cimber lunged at Caesar and grabbed for his tunic.

Get your hands off me, the dictator demanded.

Man of the people, Cimber scoffed. Ha!

Another conspirator produced a dagger and suddenly stabbed at his target’s exposed neck. Caesar finally understood. Alex realized, too: This is an orchestrated attack by my aristocrat enemies.

You villain, Caesar shouted at Cimber.

What are you waiting for? Cimber asked as he looked about at his co-conspirators. Help me rid Rome of this tyrant! he shouted.

Those in league with the Senator also began wailing their daggers at Caesar.

One blade plunges deep in Caesar’s chest and is withdrawn! His blood is flowing! Alex could see the wounded dictator struggling to push his way past the growing throng about him. But, too many cutting blows have already landed. No one is coming to his rescue!

Eh, tu, Brutus, Caesar cried out upon seeing one of his friends participate in the assault.

Alex cringed as he saw the dictator pull his tunic over his head so as not to witness the most personal of betrayals. Nearly blinded by the blood now pouring down his forehead, Caesar tripped and fell on the portico steps.

He’s defenseless now. More dagger wounds are landing easily, until they total 23. Caesar lies motionless in a pool of blood. Alex looked around at those ogling the fallen leader. Yeah, you all have blood on your hands. He saw Brutus and the other conspirators hurry away to the Capital where they would announce to the people that they were once again free.

But, it’s really the beginning of the Republic’s end … Alex recalled the series of Civil Wars that followed. And, he saw that within two years, Caesar would be the first Roman to be deified posthumously by decree of the Roman Senate. When he saw a comet appear in the sky during games held in Caesar’s honor, Alex knew:

The people will take it as a sign of his divinity.

STANZA FOUR

NEARLY EXHAUSTED, ALEX’S dream entered another alarming phase. This fourth stanza, however, was set mostly in what seemed to be the near future. I can see the Prophet Ezekiel’s wheel in the middle of a wheel vision warning modern day Americans, rather than the ancient Hebrews.

America, the Last Great Hope of Mankind, must repent for its history of slavery, Alex heard the great Prophet announce. "The loss of a half million men in its Great Civil War was not atonement enough. Too many are still not free. Either America amends its ways, or it will be laid waste by the Four Just Judgments of the Sword, Famine, Pestilence, and Wild Beasts …"

But, how does America suddenly change prejudices that a bloody war couldn’t change 150 years ago? Alex heard himself asking his colleague Maria Angelini as they walked leisurely through the heart of Washington’s Georgetown community.

What’s that Alex?

Oh, nothing, he replied, coming out of his revelry, only to transition into another.

The still slumbering Alex was suddenly feeling content. It was reassuring to be a respected, if controversial, professor of political philosophy at a renowned university. He had just finished the day’s work and was looking forward to simply having a drink with Maria at their favorite pub on the Riverfront.

It’s been an unusually cloudy and cold Spring day, Alex noted as twilight set in. But, I’m guessing it’s going to be a really chilling evening, he added, while blowing on his fingers.

Maria was clearly enjoying this chance to be alone with Alex and share his interest in politics. She sometimes liked to good-naturedly tweak him about his passion for history, especially how numbers in the Scriptures and Ancient Texts had been perceived to influence human affairs. Numbers always pique Alex’s interest, Maria recalled.

"What we need is the first woman President," she now declared.

"What we need is a good President…" Alex countered.

"Even if he is a first she?"

Absolutely.

Alex saw himself and Maria cross the bustling M Street. Their conversation continued, even though Alex thought he had noticed a tall, powerful-looking man dressed in black, following them. He’s had us in his sights for several blocks now…

Alex looked over his shoulder to check again on the tall shadow. This time, he saw only the row of Georgian town homes with their familiar four stairs and front door stoop. No Man in Black.

Can we go the long way? Maria asked. I want to go down the Exorcist Steps.

The fog rolling in from the Potomac was getting thicker and the temperature continued to plunge. As the night crept further onto the scene, Maria was thrilled at the thought of romping down the 75 stone stairs where a Jesuit priest was pushed to his death in The Exorcist.

We did that just a couple of months ago, Alex reminded.

"I know. But, this is the night to do it again. Look around! Spooky, huh?"

As they got nearer to the isolated walk way and empty stone patio defining the stairwell’s entranceway, Alex and Maria did not care that the worsening weather meant few other walkers would be joining them. But, they had second thoughts when, next to the nearby commemorative tourist plaque, they both spotted the Man in Black. Despite the darkened street illuminated poorly by an old fashioned street lamp, the unabashed figure still wore dark sunglasses. A large cross on a thick chain could be seen hanging around his neck. He looked menacingly at the couple. Alex and Maria paused.

The word Brotherhood of something or other appears to be embroidered on the left side of his jacket. The numbers ‘1324’ are visible on the right. A small ‘1 x 4’ tattoo appears on his neck just below the left ear.

The Man in Black snorted, then, started toward the couple.

Do you have a problem? Alex asked.

Without warning, the man lunged at him. Alex caught the assailant, only to be violently pushed headlong down the narrow stairs.

Alex! Maria screamed. Her furtive cry echoed around the abandoned, fog bound street.

Head over heels Alex tumbled. The unforgiving stoned surface ripped into his flesh, drawing blood and battering his bones. Down ten, then, twenty stairs, the velocity of dissent quickened. The only thing helping to slow down the deadly momentum was Alex’s presence of mind to curl into a ball and try to bounce off the walls. Forty four steps from the heights, he finally lay motionless, his eyes wide open, but lifeless.

The Man in Black smiled and turned toward Maria.

Who are you? Why are you doing this? Maria cried. But, the sinister figure gazed into her eyes, then, upon her heaving chest.

What do you want from me? she pleaded.

I want you, Alistair, he whispered. You belong to me.

What? My name is Maria.

Your name is Betrayer. You will do as I say, he commanded.

But, who has betrayed you?

Come and kneel before me.

No. I will not.

Seeing utter defiance added to the fear in Maria’s eyes, the Man in Black produced a golden dagger from under his jacket. He clutched the twirled handle and pounded it four times on his open hand.

Maria tried to scream, but her voice failed. She looked about frantically for another’s help, but all the windows in the surrounding buildings were darkened. There’s no one. Maria glanced over her shoulder. Running’s not an option. Unless? Retreat down the stone steps where Alex lay …

Raising the dagger as he closed in on Maria, the Man in Black laughed: "Do not think you are the only one. I want The First … The Fourth … The One and the Last. "

Eh, tu, Brutus! she heard someone, or something, cry out.

As the glittering blade descended on its downward arc toward Maria, the dreaming Alex saw 1 x 4 and 1324 emblazoned on the twirled handle. He jumped to his feet.

It took several seconds to realize he had awakened.

CHAPTER 1: June 4 - June 6

THE INITIATE SAT QUIETLY on the courtyard bench in the shadow of the hilltop university’s towering twin spires.

How quickly the Brotherhood of the Holy Trinity has given me an important mission, he thought.

Only two months earlier, the Georgetown undergrad had been told that he was a perfect fit for the society. During the sacred initiation rites, there had been warnings that achieving its 33 degrees of knowledge would be a long slog. But, the Initiate was assured that his journey would be worth it.

This secret, yet ancient protector of the most fundamental of Church Doctrines, the Supervisor had said, has a long and proud history of its members doing God’s work. We expect you to carry on that tradition. You must carry out every assignment with zeal and without questioning.

"I will die for the Brotherhood, if necessary," the Initiate dutifully promised.

He now fixated on the thought of having managed a B grade point average in the university’s political science curriculum. The professors have yet to recognize my talent. That the other students considered him somewhat of a misfit was also grating. The wrap on me is that I have crazy ideas.

The Initiate did not consider that his often argumentative talk in the classroom had branded him as a compulsive troublemaker. Nor of any help were his contentious visits to Holy Trinity Church across from the university’s grey stone Administration Building. A priest there, Father Martin, had patiently tried counseling the youth. The two even had fun debating theology well into some nights. But, the Initiate eventually soured on the priest when it was suggested his ideas weren’t always consistent with Church doctrine. It got around campus that the Initiate berated the popular priest one day over some vague complaint about being brainwashed. The incident brought snickers and raised eyebrows.

They think they have all the answers. Well, I have some answers, too. The Initiate’s thoughts turned to the following day’s mission at this same noon hour. That’s when four presidential hopefuls in the retiring President’s party would be holding a televised news conference. Imagine. Just 30 feet away from here. In front of the founder’s statue.

Already he had planted a specially-crafted golden dagger under a rock at the foot of the courtyard wall that ran the length of Prospect Street and the university’s entranceway. I can do this. As a volunteer student usher, the Initiate would pass through tightened security without a full shake down. He’d even be given priority access to the candidates.

That dagger will make me famous.

GEORGETOWN PROFESSOR ALEXANDER AVALOV surveyed the hectic scene unfolding before him while seated in a front row aisle seat reserved for faculty. He ran his fingers through a head of moist light brown hair on what was turning into a hot, steamy, cloudless day.

Two dozen also sweaty newspaper reporters were jockeying for position nearest the several presidential candidates seated on either side of a central podium. Even more aggressive, Alex noticed, were the nearby photographers struggling to capture the best candid shot for the next day’s front page.

Corralling this over-heated bunch into a roped off area, Alex decided, only seems to worsen the race for space. Alex saw one woman freelancer kick a male competitor in the shin after he had elbowed her to create enough distance to take a picture he wanted. A mini-cam technician dressed down two other reporters who fell into him after tripping on a trailing wire.

Actually, this is getting to be a circus. A celebrity political theorist and numerologist, Alex was familiar with such media feeding frenzies. While this one in early June might have the appearance of a political hailstorm brewing, he knew it was a very new kind of wind coming from a whole new direction. What was it the New York Times editors wrote this morning? Never before had three minorities been in strong contention for their party’s nomination after the state primary elections had been held?

The President’s party may have no choice but to choose, the newspaper had observed, between a white female Senator and former Secretary of State from New England, a Southern Latino Governor, and an African American male Reverend hailing from the Midwest.

The Times made much of the fact that a fourth candidate, John Schmidt, another white male Senator, only from the West Coast, has put on an effective ‘Keep the Economic Recovery Rolling’ campaign." His speeches were so smooth, in fact, that Schmidt claimed to have finally taken a razor-thin lead in committed delegates.

Still, Alex recalled the newspaper reminding that, while the three-term Schmidt could continue to campaign on his role in passing economic stimulus legislation, the country is still struggling to emerge from a long economic recession; prices for essential commodities are up, while workers’ real income is still down. Moreover, Mary Alistair Fairchild appears to be the President’s choice to succeed him. As a result, the Times editors predicted, the race between him and Fairchild, still very much a first term Senator, is still too close to call. As Fairchild’s brain trust insists, there are hundreds of uncommitted Super delegates still to account for. And, her unmatched expertise in foreign affairs may very well be viewed by them as outweighing any domestic policy short falls.

Sounds to me like the Times also likes Fairchild over Schmidt. But, newspapers don’t vote. In the end, two or more of these minority candidates will likely need to cut a deal in the days leading up to the party’s national convention in mid-July … to pool their delegates … so that one of them has a chance of locking up the nomination before the convention even takes place.

Then again, the opposing party can be counted on to prime the dissension pump before then. Geez. Its own national nominating convention was purposely scheduled in early July. That’s going to force the President’s party to deal early and often with the fact that it has serious ethnic and racial divides within its ranks.

The Times credited the outgoing President with coming up with the idea of bringing the four candidates together in an unprecedented post-primary press conference. The national networks bit on the bait and were airing the spectacle.

This can only help all of you as well as the party in November, the President had reportedly told the four hopefuls in getting them to go along with the gambit. Alex mused: What a testament to the President’s intuition and power of persuasion. A loud curse from the press corps jogged him back to the present.

Hey! Don’t get too close, Morgenthau, Alex yelled to one of the journalists he recognized, then, teased when the man looked over his shoulder: You’re more likely to catch a cold, Joe, than a story on your own.

Say, professor, do you have any more half-baked tips for me to report on? the Times reporter gamely shot back, an unlit cigar gripped firmly between his teeth.

Alex had just learned that Joe Morgenthau won the Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the Locust terrorist plot the year before. Good for you, Joe. Your stories documented like no other how the nation’s security community had thwarted the Locust nerve gas attacks the year before on New York, Washington, London, and the Vatican.

In fact, Morgnethau’s writings were often based on the behind-the-scenes exploits of Alex -- as well as younger brother Jonathan, a Secret Service Agent normally assigned to the White House; sister Alyssia, a State Department Attaché; and sister Jenavieve, an NSA cryptologist. Even a promising young chemist, Maria Angelina, had been mentioned as a player. Together, Morgenthau had rightly noted, the Avalovs plus one had combined to help the U.S. intelligence teams expose the terrorists’ plot. A friendship had continued to grow out of that shared experience.

Alex’s eyes turned to the podium and its formidable microphone bank. He saw Jonathan now standing behind his charge, Senator Fairchild, a good-looking, yet hardened politician. She was seated with legs crossed in the chair immediately to the left of the podium. Subtely sexy pose. Next to her was Senator Schmidt, whose Secret Service protector, Jane Frontiere, was vying with Jonathan for the department’s karate championship.

Jon might be ripped, but it looks like he’s got his hands full going up against that game brunette. Still, maybe he’s got the break that counts. He could have been assigned to guard Schmidt, Mr. Boring.

Alex sized up the other two party candidates seated on the opposite side: the Reverend Jackson Pollard, and Governor Jesse Hernandez.

Good men. But, can they muster enough support nationally to snatch the party’s nomination at the 11th hour? Both the civil rights activist and governor, he noted, also had their Secret Service guardians immediately behind them.

It’s not even 120 days before the November election. And, the taxpayers are already paying for these candidates’ protection? By law, Alex knew, Secret Service protection cannot be given to hopefuls until they are nominated by their parties. But, as was his right, the incumbent President had just issued a directive to advance that timetable; and the Department of Homeland Security quickly made the necessary arrangements for the major candidates in each party.

Let’s just hope Jonathan and his buddies are never needed…

WITH THE PROGRAM’S START minutes away, Alex saw the University’s volunteer IT people still scrambling to get the audio equipment working right. Meanwhile, the network camera crews continued to test their satellite video feeds. Their commentator colleagues silently went over their prepared scripts; some mumbled their words, other fidgeted mindlessly. Only the student ushers had an air of calm about them as they guided the more than 300 attendees to their seats; the Initiate was one of the coolest, having just retrieved the hidden goods he expected to deliver soon.

Alex exchanged the usual pleasantries with the several professors he recognized taking their seats nearby. His mentor, Chancellor Robert Jones, sat next to him.

It’s my understanding that each of these candidates are going to lay out their campaign theme today, Jones said.

Pretty much like a New Hampshire town meeting, only it’s airing nationally, Alex quipped.

The game plan is for each candidate to give a three to four minute address making the case for their candidacy. Those speeches will be followed by a 45 minute open question session with the reporters.

How the hell did you get the President to hold the press conference here?

I used some of the President’s own political logic, Jones explained. I didn’t have to tell him … but, I did … that religious issues, both domestic and foreign, had dominated much of the discussion during the mud-slinging primaries. I asked him: ‘What better place to sell the party faithful ‘unity’ than in the walled courtyard of a leading Roman Catholic institution?

Ok, I get it. But, I’m hearing rumors that the Vice President is doing a slow burn. Notice? He’s not here.

"I’ve heard that rumor, too. It seems the VP has thrown his support behind Schmidt and wanted to introduce him to the delegates at the convention. That makes sense because both are leaders in the party’s conservative wing. But, it’s also no secret that the liberal President favors Fairchild. She was his top diplomat at the State Department during his first term. He owes the former-Secretary a lot. Personally? I think he might have set this whole media spectacle up to give her a nationally-televised chance at upstaging her closest competitor."

I wouldn’t put it past the President. She’s by far the better speaker … prettier, too.

You know, Alex, the President insisted the four candidates draw straws to decide who speaks first. And, Senator Fairchild won the lottery.

Schmidt must have been pissed. He’s got seniority in the Senate. He had a right to expect to go first.

Have you picked a favorite yet?

Fairchild’s been the most interesting to me. And you?

Same here. She sure isn’t ducking any of the tough issues…

"Hey, Avalov, what are you doing here?" suddenly came a familiar heckling voice from another Poli Sci colleague two rows back.

When he glanced back to acknowledge the good-natured ribbing from Simon, Alex’s more than six foot frame allowed his eyes to catch instead an usher standing in the aisle several rows away. The student was dressed entirely in black, except for the tri-color arm band that had marked him as an event volunteer.

Who wears all black on a 94 degree day in June?

SENATOR FAIRCHILD HAD PROMISED reporters that her speech would be a rip roaring indictment of the established order: Very different from what you’ll hear from Senator Schmidt. She was clad in a hot red, tailored dress that carefully covered her to the neckline and was accented by a white pearl necklace.

Alex sat forward in his chair as Fairchild approached the podium. Many others did, too.

Our President has forged a balanced foreign policy during his two terms, she began, and I have proudly supported his military interventions in the Middle East to protect our vital national security interests. But, what I want to make clear to you now is that, when elected, I intend to extend that commitment to protecting the human rights of all those peoples and nations least able to protect themselves …

A noticeable number of cheers went up from the crowd.

Simply put, my New World Order envisions a world free of tyrants and their enablers …

More cheers of approval were evoked. Fairchild regally waved her right hand to express her appreciation.

"…and with the United States of America