Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(22)

“And you’re not? Oh my God—”

“Hush up. Now—let’s get our little toys and act like Field Ops, shall we? I don’t want to be training forever, you know. Fun though it is,” she said, and winked at me.



I was seeing history here. Or I would be, if I didn’t do my job.

You got a god taking up residence. The area would have an atmosphere, a sense of presence to it. Not everyone would feel it, but enough would pick up on the vibe to give the place a reputation, and others would be drawn there, and some would feel the influence, and some would maybe suffer visions or hallucinations, and word would get around. Soon the place would turn into a shrine. Then a temple or a church. Wait around a year or two, and watch it happen. As in ancient times, so too today.

I kept on glancing at the reader. The figures wavered, fluctuated, but one thing was apparent, straight off: as we made for the main tent, they were going up.

There was singing. Sounded like a proper choir in there. Drums too. There were big signs up for a Reverend Richard Cleary (God’s Word—tonite!!!). We didn’t even try to go inside. In the growing dusk, we slipped around the outside, stepping over guy-lines, sticking to the shadows.

I’d have thought the source-point would be somewhere in the tent. That made sense. But the readings didn’t indicate that.

We went on.

Behind the tent there was a pond. It had been partially fenced off, round much of the far side, which struck me as a strange thing, like someone had begun the job and never finished it. The pond was large and circular, big enough to have a jetty, where a couple of rowing boats were moored. Some trees rose up behind it, and further still, I got a glimpse of streetlights.

The gospel chorus roared out through the canvas, and I knew already: it was going to be the pond.

I didn’t want that. But I knew it, anyway: it had to be the pond. The tent backed onto it. The tent went right up to the water’s edge. I waved my reader at the water. Then I stopped.

There was somebody in front of me.

He stepped out of the shadows, a black guy, heavy-built, a little paunchy, but big across the shoulders, big in the hands, and done up in some very fancy couture: a beautiful, pale blue suit, a yellow waistcoat, pink tie on a light blue shirt. His head was shaved, his gray moustache neatly trimmed. He was about fifty, I suppose, and despite his age and dress sense it was obvious why he was there. A bouncer is a bouncer, no matter how you dress him up.

“Can I help you people?”

“I hope you can, sir.” I was going for a direct approach but Angel, behind me, piped up, “Is the Reverend about, sir? See, we really need to see him. Soonest possible.”

She’d made her voice all high and awestruck, like a little girl who’s just seen her first Disney flick. It seemed to work, though. The big guy visibly relaxed.

“Now,” he said, “at present, Brother Clear-eye is in prayer and meditation. Readying himself for the meeting. He is with the Lord, asking for guidance, and you know I can’t disturb him during that. When those two get to talking, I swear—they could just go on all night sometimes.” He smiled in an avuncular way. “Still got some seats inside. You want to hear what the Lord’s got to say by him, you go on in.” He gestured back the way we’d come. “After, you want to see the Reverend, he’ll make himself available. That’s how it goes.”

“But we’ve come so far,” she said. She whined, which wasn’t her at all, and she clasped her hands, practically pleading with the guy. It was an impressive act.

“After,” said the man, more firmly now.

We took the hint.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered to me, as we made off. “These things are fun. If you don’t take them too seriously.”

I said, “They’ve fenced the local fishing pond. And why don’t they want us going there?”

“You,” she said, “have a suspicious mind.”





Chapter 20

An Unexpected Rendezvous




It was a beautiful illusion. Outside, a tent; inside, soft light seeped out from behind banks of flowers that lined the walls. The air was thick with perfume. There were flowers around the tent poles, flowers at the entranceway, and flowers taped to a proscenium arch, framing the stage with color.

It must have been the world’s worst place for hay fever.

What really made it, though—what really got me—was the choir.

The choir was glorious. They rocked. There was a drummer and a guy with a keyboard and a bass player, all lurking in the background. The choir was over to the left, all dressed in white with sky-blue sashes, and they swayed to the beat, and their voices were a solid thing—truly a wall of sound. A fat woman in front of us jumped to her feet and stood there, swinging like a pendulum. A man raised his arms into the air, his hands twisting ecstatically. A voice behind yelled “Hallelujah!” and I almost wanted to join in.

“Place is buzzing,” I said.

“Listen to the harmony!” Angel was leaning forward in her seat. “Listen how they change it every verse!” She put her head on one side, lips moving, trying to find the notes. “These guys are good!”

We’d been there just a few minutes when Richard Cleary made his entrance.

There was no fanfare, no announcement, yet instantly, the whole place was aware of him. Faces in the choir turned, someone in the row ahead of us was craning up, and you could see the ripple run around the congregation. There was fever here, excitement—