The Oracle Year(84)

He pointed at the camcorder.

“I’ve got something to say to him,” Dando said. “To him. Not to you. And it’s something he wants to hear. Believe me. The Oracle doesn’t lie.”

Leuchten didn’t move. Across the table, the Oracle seemed completely relaxed.

Cool as a cuke, Leuchten thought, feeling sweat run down his back.

“You’ve got ten seconds,” Dando said, “or I’ll say this thing out loud, right here in this room. He’ll hear it, but so will everyone in here.”

He gestured at the marines and Secret Service agents in the room and began to count backward from ten.

“Son,” Leuchten said, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’re in no position to make threats. It’s just you and me. No one is watching.”

The Oracle paused in his count and gave Leuchten a sour look.

“If you call me son one more fucking time,” he said. “Five.”

What is he going to say? Leuchten thought.

“Four.”

What the fuck is he going to say? I . . . I can have the marines knock him out, or gag him, or . . . shoot him, for God’s sake. I can keep him from talking. I can still stop him.

“Three.”

Leuchten recognized, far too late, that this was indeed a moment of destiny, here in this dingy conference room deep inside a Virginia military base. The future would emerge from this moment, shaped into some new configuration.

“Two.”

He was present. He would witness it. All his choices, all his sacrifices . . . they’d bought him that much. But ultimately . . . the future belonged to the Oracle.

Leuchten reached forward and pressed a button on the speakerphone in the center of the table.

“Sir, there’s someone out here who wants to speak with you.”

A pause. A long, thick pause.

“Send him in,” the president said through the speaker, his voice icy. “By himself.”

The Oracle stood up from the table, a satisfied look on his face. Two of the Secret Service men walked to stand on either side of him. Leuchten watched as the agents escorted Will Dando from the room.

Leuchten stayed where he was. The marines were still in the room—they probably didn’t know what to do either—but he had no interest in talking to them. Five long, silent minutes passed.

The door opened, and the Oracle returned to the conference room, followed by Daniel Green, the president of the United States. Leuchten rose to his feet.

“Sir, are you all right?” he said.

Green did not look good, not good at all. He usually glowed with ruddy good health. Now, though, his skin showed a waxy under-pallor, and the wrinkles on his face stood out as deep canyons etched into his forehead and cheeks. His eyes stared, unfocused.

“Let them go,” the president said, his voice distant. “Take them home and leave them alone.”

“Sir . . . are you sure?” Leuchten said. “We can’t do that. This isn’t the plan, Mr. President. You know that . . .”

“Let them go, goddammit!” Green roared. The dead look had left his face, replaced by an expression of rage and despair. Leuchten had never seen him so uncontrolled before, not even in private moments, behind closed doors. He glanced at the Oracle, who was standing to one side, his arms crossed, looking very self-satisfied.

“Well,” Will Dando said. “I guess that’s that.”





Chapter 33




Jonas Block watched from a seat in the corner of the dressing room as Reverend Branson dismissed the fourth centerpiece option presented to him by the preternaturally patient set designers working to help create the visual presentation for the big dinner broadcast planned for the twenty-third of August.

A number of ideas had been considered—run it as a banquet, with Branson surrounded by family and friends. Or perhaps a more intimate affair, with only a few guests—theologians and politicians and significant men of business, to underscore the importance of the great man on this day that he would demonstrate his power over the false prophet.

Ultimately, Branson had decided that he would be the only person onstage, eating his meal while delivering a sermon on the power of personal choice and every individual’s capacity to resist the pernicious influence of evil—demonstrated viscerally, once and for all, when he declined to allow pepper anywhere near his steak.

A huge PR campaign was in full swing for the big event—donations were up, for the first time in months. Of course, the cost of promoting the dinner was in danger of outstripping any gains they’d seen, but from what Jonas could tell, Branson didn’t care at all. This was his moment—his line in the sand. He would spend any amount to win. Beating the Oracle was everything, and it had to be done in public, with the world watching, or there would still be room for doubt.

Never mind that every other prediction had come true. Never mind that Branson was trying to convince the world that the Oracle was a liar, when from all appearances the Oracle had only ever told the truth.

A fifth centerpiece was set aside, the professionally plastic smiles on the designers’ faces beginning to waver.

Jonas’ cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

Matthew Wyatt? he thought. That is unexpected.

Wyatt worked in DC—in the White House, in fact. Jonas knew that political types, especially of the less senior variety, liked to exaggerate their access. Wyatt was the real deal, though, an aide to the chief of staff. He worked directly with the hundreds of lobbyists who constantly attempted to push their agendas into the Oval Office, determining which, if any, might merit the attention of Anthony Leuchten, and then, possibly, be placed on the desk of the president.