The Oracle Year(85)

Matt Wyatt was an old friend—they had both attended the same small Christian college in South Carolina and had kept in touch as they found themselves working in the orbit of powerful men. An old friend, certainly, but it was unusual for him to call unprompted. An occasional text, or an e-mail update once or twice a year, but a call out of the blue? Odd.

Jonas tapped the screen to answer the call and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Matt,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Hey, man,” came Wyatt’s voice, sounding excited. “Just listen. I can’t talk long. I know who the Oracle is. The FBI found him, and the president just met with him, down at Quantico. It wasn’t on his itinerary—we were on our way to a campaign speech in South Carolina when we diverted to Virginia. Jim Franklin—he’s the FBI director—called, and after Green hung up, he had us turn around. A briefing sheet came through before the meeting, and I snuck a look at it once he got off the plane.”

“That’s . . . that’s incredible,” Jonas said. “Who is he?”

“His name is Will Dando. He lives in New York.”

Jonas closed his eyes.

Will Dando, he thought, realizing the depth of the choice that had just been laid before him.

“Matt, why are you telling me this? Isn’t it . . . I mean, I’m sure this isn’t the sort of thing the president wants getting out.”

“It’s not,” Wyatt said, “but I’ve been listening to Branson’s sermons. I know the danger the Oracle represents, and how hard you’ve been working to find him. That whole Detectives for Christ initiative you guys set up—it resonated with me, I guess. I think that if anyone should know who he is, it’s the reverend.”

Jonas marveled. Branson’s idiotic idea had, somehow, worked.

“I need to go,” he said. “I need to get this to Branson right away.”

“That’s smart,” Wyatt said. “I’m not the only person who knows the Oracle’s name, and I’m sure word will get out soon. I think Branson should be the one to tell the world, though. He should be first. He deserves it, after everything he’s done.”

Jonas lifted his eyes, to see Branson across the dressing room, powder being applied to his face as he angrily berated the set designers for some small failure.

“Yes,” he said. “He does. I need to go, Matt. Thank you. I owe you.”

Jonas disconnected the call. He watched Branson for a few moments, thinking.

He thought about faith, and whether it was ever anything other than a Hollywood back lot, a beautiful fa?ade with absolutely nothing behind it.

The Oracle was a man named Will Dando.

He lifted his phone again and swiped it on. He checked his e-mail, giving the Oracle one last chance. Jonas noted with absolutely no surprise that there was nothing—no response from the man, Will Dando, who knew the future.

At that moment, for the first time in his long life as a believer, faith suddenly seemed ridiculous—a game for children and idiots. Useless, except as a tool to manipulate other people. A lie.

Branson had told him that, back in his saint-filled study. He had used almost those exact words.

Faith was gone. Faith wouldn’t—couldn’t—help him. Jonas cast around in his soul for something that might replace it and settled on the face of the man who had told him the truth from the very start.

Branson was a liar—but he had never lied to him.

Faith had failed. All he had left was loyalty. Loyalty made sense. Loyalty might actually get you somewhere.

Jonas addressed the makeup artists and set designers and assorted hangers-on clustered around Branson.

“I need you to leave now,” Jonas said.

Branson looked up, surprised.

“What? We’re not finished here, Brother Jonas.”

“Trust me,” he said to Branson, and then “Go,” to the attendants, gesturing at the door.

After an uncertain look at the reverend, looking for some sort of contravention of Jonas’ directive and finding none, they left.

“What is this?” Branson said, sounding annoyed.

“The Oracle’s name is Will Dando,” Jonas said, and then he explained how he knew.

Branson’s face went pale under the stage makeup, then returned to his normal, hearty color as he smiled at his own reflection in the mirror.

“Well,” he said, “thank God for small favors.”





Chapter 34




“Why is she here, Will?” Hamza said, not looking away from the monitor, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

“I promised her an interview,” Will said. “She just went through hell because of me. It’s the least I can do.”

“That’s not my point. I thought we were scrubbing this place before we run. We need to be gone in ten minutes, twenty at most.”

“I still have to finish packing,” Will answered. “I’ll talk to her while I do that.”

Will walked toward his bedroom, glancing into the bathroom as he passed, where Miko was standing over the bathtub, busily stirring a paper-dissolving slurry of water, vinegar, and salt with a broomstick handle. Next to her on the floor stood a large shredder, with a pile of papers—notes on the Site’s plan, printouts of e-mails—sitting on the sink, ready to be consumed.