The Oracle Year(15)

Leuchten looked up, surprised. Halvorsson was already a few steps away; his gait hitched—he clearly didn’t want to leave anymore if the conversation wasn’t quite finished—but it was too late to smoothly turn around in any way that would maintain his dignity.

“You can have two, Jim,” the chief of staff replied.

“Let’s walk,” Franklin said, gesturing toward the end of the South Lawn, even farther away from the retreating Halvorsson. They walked back out, through the trail Anouk had broken, taking a circular path through the snow.

“What’s this about?” Leuchten asked.

Franklin took a deep breath, fervently wishing that he were speaking to the president instead of this access-hoarding toad.

Leuchten was staring at him with undisguised, greedy curiosity.

“There might be another way to find the Oracle,” Franklin said slowly.

Leuchten raised an eyebrow.

“Oh? And yet we can’t discuss it in front of Director Halvorsson?”

Franklin nodded.

“It’s an unusual approach, Tony, and it’s my opinion that you’ll want as few people as possible to know we had this discussion.”

“I see. Are you certain we should have it, then?”

“Yes,” Franklin said flatly. “The truth is, I don’t think we’ll find this guy for you any time soon. He’s smart about the way he’s using technology. The Oracle’s whole system has been designed to not really give us anything to hack. We aren’t the NSA, but my tech people are damn good, and they tell me we just don’t have the technology to crack the Site’s security in a reasonable period of time. Could take years, maybe. We’re working on it, but at this point we don’t even know where the e-mail address goes.

“Now, my crew might get him through pure investigation, but the Oracle would need to make a mistake for us to find him, and it’s all different now that he’s got money. Sometimes that helps—money leaves a trail. But it also lets you hire people who can help you hide your tracks. Either way, detective work takes time. You’ve made it clear that we don’t have that time, and I am inclined to agree.”

Leuchten exhaled, a long plume of breath steaming out in the winter air.

“Explain why I’m still standing here listening to you, Jim. I mean, if I wanted to freeze my balls off, I’d fuck your wife.”

Franklin smiled at Anthony Leuchten. It was a very thin smile.

“I’m getting to it, Tony,” Franklin said, then paused, forcing himself back to calm. “I know someone who could find the Oracle. Maybe.”

Leuchten frowned.

“Alone?”

“Not exactly. There are usually teams of specialists involved.”

Franklin hesitated. He considered, thinking about the rat’s nest his next few words would kick open, deciding whether the Oracle was worth it.

He considered . . . and then he told Leuchten about the Coach.





Chapter 7




Reverend Hosiah Branson sat in his living room, staring moodily at a television displaying footage of his own home.

Jonas Block stood at the entrance to the room, directed there a few moments earlier via a curt sentence or two from Maria Branson. The reverend’s wife normally affected the personality of a cheerful talking animal in a Disney cartoon, but this evening she seemed grayed out, drained. The stresses affecting the Ministry since the Oracle’s prediction three days earlier had clearly made their way home.

Jonas cleared his throat. Branson turned his head, and his expression flipped over completely, surging from morose frustration into a confident, welcoming grin.

Branson stood and walked over to Jonas, clasping his hand and shaking it in welcome. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, his hair was unkempt, and his face was covered with a rough layer of stubble, but his smile . . . it was like the neon cross atop the Ministry headquarters, lit every day at sundown and visible for miles.

“Thank you for coming, Brother Jonas,” the reverend said.

“Of course, sir. I’m just glad you called. We were all very worried. But you should know, we’ve been getting calls from . . . well, everyone. About the Oracle’s prediction. We haven’t been sure what to do.”

Branson gestured at the television, which now featured a reporter breathlessly speculating as to why the reverend’s personal secretary might have been summoned to his home this evening.

“I’m aware of the media’s surge of interest,” Branson said. “It’s abundantly clear every time I look out my front window.”

Jonas nodded.

“Have you been praying on this?” he asked. “Asking for a solution?”

Branson reached for a remote control and clicked off the television.

“In a sense,” he said.

He walked across the living room, passing a large, heavy, wooden door, out of place against the Crate & Barrel chic that characterized the rest of the room, and the vibe of mild, inoffensive comfort that suffused the house in general. It looked like a teleporter accident had partially fused the reverend’s living room with an old English country estate. The door seemed purposely designed to generate inquiry as to what was behind it.

Branson arrived at a side table holding a number of bottles, with glasses and other various drink-making paraphernalia arrayed next to them. He took a decanter filled with an amber liquid and poured two generous portions. He handed one over, then raised his own in a silent toast and took a sip. He raised an eyebrow at the younger man, holding it until Jonas lifted the glass to his own lips.