Sons of the Living God
Adapted from Michael’s Journal
but against principalities, against powers,
against spiritual wickedness in high places.
~ Ephesians 6:12 (KJV)
Chapter 1
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| The New Canaan 'Merry-Go-Round' |
Putting the finishing touches to my disguise was the hardest part of my transformation. I had a dilettante interest in the tyranny of being in vogue. I threw a black leather trench coat over my black vest and pants – black was de rigueur – and after that completed my disguise with a pair of shiny wing tip loafers. Not too chic, but I felt ready to be debuted to the world as the man, Cătălin Weber.
It was time to get Mish and inform him of his role in his new mission.
There came a time when a pupil must be thrust in a situation to prove if he was able to rise to the challenges of his task and, thus, demonstrate that his skills were equal to, or superseded those of, his superiors. Mishael had arrived at this milestone in his training. I knocked on his door several times before letting myself in.
Mish was sitting up on his bed, a little groggy from excessive slumber, but appearing to be memorizing a passage from the Tenach. He was startled to see me, recoiling on reflex. He leaned against his headboard while he searched briefly for his sword.
“Who are you . . . how did you access this facility?” he demanded. “How were you able to pass security?”
Elated at the success of my disguise, I hushed him. “It’s all right, Mish. It’s me, Michael,” I assured him at the same time.
“Impostor, you had better not be kidding me,” he replied, stretching his arm to reach his Katana, which was leaning against the headboard to his left.
My power proved an effective foil for his intentions. His sword swirled toward my outstretched arm and into my open palm. He gasped.
Gripping his prized weapon, I carefully laid it down on his lectern. I started toward him, shape shifting my face as I did to accord him a brief glimpse of me. I thought it would convince him of my identity. I was mistaken.
“Demon,” he cried instead, getting his brain in gear and putting up his guard. He spun round on the spot, transforming himself. As he rose to his seven feet, I augmented my height and mass as well, ascending above him.
“Michael,” he called out, shifting gear and starting for the open window closest to him. Realizing I could lose him, I stretched out my arms. I shut all six of the windows in his room, throwing another spanner in his intentions.
He gasped again.
I moved toward him, thinking to myself: This is getting ridiculous.
Then, I felt something hot deflect off my shoulder. A fireball!
“All right, son, that’s quite enough,” I chided, directing my power at him.
My son fell back against the wood panel behind him. His reply was a nerve-grating snarl: “Don’t call me that, demon. I’m not your son.”
Unbeknownst to him, I had already enclosed him inside my invisible energy field. He was coursing irresistibly along the energy field toward me. His face had turned extremely pale. As soon as he was within my reach, I grasped him by his waist, pressing him against my chest.
He protested at my effrontery: “Get off me.”
I could too easily harm him with my might. For his sake, for he was thrashing about haphazardly, I set him free. He leapt clear of me, propelling his body back toward a corner of his room.
“The last time I let someone of your breed stand that close to me, he had me demonized,” he sneered, “but not this time. I’m not going to let it happen again.”
I swiftly teleported to where he was. “I’m not Abaddon, Little One,” I told him. “And I’m not a demon.”
“Liar!” he growled, backing up against the wall. His body strained to transmute. “Just stay away from me.”
I was soon standing between him and the wall. I wrapped him in my arms, preventing him from disappearing through the wall.
“Get off me, I said,” he snarled, his body in a dreadful tremor. Then, his wings were all over my face. He was slapping me thoroughly.
I suppose I deserved it for startling him. I was also astonished at how my spontaneous but harmless antic could have so unwittingly degenerated into this mishap. However, I also realized that he was extremely jittery and his preparedness for a return to duty was scant, to put it mildly. It was fitting then, and in accordance with the Lord’s omniscient will, that his newest mission was going to be executed with me as his oversight.
Resolving not to draw out our conflict, I locked his arms behind him. I gently drew him toward my bosom again, the way I had always done whenever he was in a crisis. While he struggled to free himself, I pacified him kindly: “Calm down, son, calm down. Shh.”
I placed one of his arms on my breast. I held his palm firmly there, a pet gesture of his not known by others. For identifying the rhythm of my heartbeat with his sense of touch and hearing was a skill he had fortuitously learned when he was a few days old; when, for an entire week, he was fixated on finding out everything he could about me, about his six-thousand year-old Daddy. His quirky method of auscultation had started as a game for him; it was his version of the ‘doctors and nurses’ game many human children played with their siblings. Over time, he had mastered the skill as a useful self-preservation trick.
Now while I let him listen to the familiar beating of my heart against his palm, I added telepathically: Listen, son, listen to my heartbeat. It’s me – Mika. You know it’s me. You know. And you know that, without your permission, no demon can speak to you in this manner. I’ve told you so. It’s a special gift from the Lord to His angels on earth. If I were a demon, you haven’t given me permission to speak into your mind, have you? Now will you, please, stop slapping my face?
Mish began to calm, to trust me somewhat. With some dare, he pressed his ear against my heart.
I continued, speaking usually: “I didn’t mean to startle you, son, and I apologize; I’ve simply assumed another human form. It’s called shape shifting; you’ve heard this mentioned in training several times. Remember? I’m going to release you now, but I want you to relax and stop trying to run away from me.”
The Little One nodded, gradually relaxing in my affable hold. “Dad,” he said at last, drawing his wings in.
I released him, surrendering my angelic height in favour of my material one. I said: “Didn’t you use to say that the sound of my heartbeat was so distinct as to be inimitable, that no one could pretend to be me to fool you? Recognizing my heartbeat’s a skill you’ve since mastered. Today, it’s proven its merit and served you faithfully.”
“Yes,” he replied, stepping back from me, “but I didn’t think my skill would someday be tested like this. It’s true, then, that everything we experience will have a future purpose and application. But what’s going on, Mika? Why do you look like this?”
“It’s for our new assignment. Your assignment is to accompany me back to New Canaan,” I informed him.
“New Canaan,” he repeated, “and with you.”
I nodded: “Just like we used to, when you were still in training.”
He scoffed: “Well, that’s progress. But I thought I was finished there – in New Canaan, I mean, what with my cover blown.”
I nodded once more. “It’ll be your last assignment there. The Lord has willed to destroy the entire district, now that Ariel’s removed almost all of the Lord’s remaining elect to Petra. Before He does, He has a family He wants saved.
“I’d have let Ariel continue there but, as you may have heard at our briefing this morning, Ariel’s on the lam from the Antichrist’s super soldiers, much like you. Besides, he’s needed right now in Kazakhstan, where his skills are particularly pithy to the circumstances faced by the saints there. Therefore, it’s the Lord’s will that I carry out this operation, and it’s His will that I bring you along, so long as you’re in agreement. He’s given you a choice. If you choose to follow me on this mission, you’ll need to make yourself over before we depart for District 11 – that’s at twenty hundred hours. Now you understand why I had ordered your nap.”
He nodded quietly.
I clasped his neck, surprising him: “Listen to me, son, you have made very good progress and you need to stop belittling yourself. And try to understand why the Lord should purpose that your first assignment back in the field must be with an oversight.”
He nodded once more: “I understand, Mika. I do. And I’m sorry – it’s a bad habit I have.”
“It’s your human nature,” I maintained, adding, “and that’s a weakness you should work on improving. It’s not honest to sell yourself short, if you think about it. It concerns me that you beat yourself up every chance you get. And it must surely grieve the Lord to hear you berating yourself. What do you think? That you were Yah’s grand design that went horribly wrong? That you’re such a damaged good that Yah’s helpless and powerless to do any more for you, that He’s finished with you? Don’t give up on God, beloved; He hasn’t given up on you.”
He apologized again: “But I haven’t been feeling like I’m doing anything honourable, I guess, anything that can be counted worthy of the Lord.”
I looked around his room. I headed for his armoire, asking him: “What’s your worth as an individual dependent on?”
He shrugged. I felt not a bit surprised that he didn’t know the answer.
“Well, think about it,” I advised him. I opened up his armoire. It’s not in here, I thought to myself.
He looked into his armoire, then at me. I ignored his quizzical gaze.
“Now, then, about our mission,” I began, shutting the door of his armoire. “I don’t have a lot of time to talk you through it, so I’ll give you a brief: the Lord’s taken exception to a family of orphaned children, and their aunt, who turns tricks to support them. They’re a twin brother and sister, aged two and a half years old, by the name of Samuel and Samantha Harary. The aunt’s known as Avalin Harary.
“The twins’ parents, that’d be Avalin Harary’s brother, Altir, and his wife, Gila, were killed in an automobile crash a year ago. The police classified it as an accident, but so-called conspiracy theorists maintained it had been a false flag event because of their sympathetic leanings toward the dissidents of Antichrist. You know the drill: rescue the children and their aunt before she’s forced to receive the Mark and lost to the Lord forever.”
Mish put his hand on my face and arms, feeling them. “You have a material body, like mine. It’s different from the body of your manifested form.”
I nodded: “Yes, I have. And, yes, it is. Have you been paying attention to me at all?”
He nodded and, then, repeated my briefing almost verbatim: “I heard you – aunt, Avalin Harary, who’s at risk of forcible acceptance of the Antichrist’s Mark, turns tricks for a living to support her orphaned nephew, Samuel, and, niece, Samantha. She’s all the more susceptible to the Antichrist’s mandate since she has other mouths to feed and wouldn’t want to see her dependants starve because she wasn’t able to buy and sell.”
I nodded, pleased with him. “Excellent; you’ve just scored full marks for listening and synthesis.”
I went to the door. I looked behind it. It’s not hanging from the hook either, I said to myself again. Hmm.
“Why do you have to shape shift at all?” I heard him ask next. “I mean, what was wrong with your manifested appearance? You were enjoying tremendous success protecting the human race the past few years when you appeared to them as Micah ben Israel. The people in Petra, who’ve come to think you’re a human being, love and respect you as General ben Israel.”
“That’s precisely the problem,” I answered. “Far too many people know Micah ben Israel. I can’t undertake our latest mission in New Canaan if I’m going to be recognized.”
“Why is there a tattoo on your arm?” he asked me, once again feeling my skin.
“It’s just that – a tattoo,” I replied, “to give the impression that I belong in the ’hood. It’s certainly temporal, but it’s absolutely relevant to our assignment in New Canaan. What the uninitiated may not realize is my power emanates from here. Here, observe.”
I raised the arm in question. Simultaneously raising his armchair to the air, I had demonstrated to Mish the basis of my power surge.
“A tattoo that does double duty,” Mish commented. “And all of your angelic power is packed into that little scar. What’s the image on the tattoo? It looks like a gryphon. But why pick a mythical bird?”
I shrugged cryptically: “It’s edgy. Haven’t you noticed? All the birds of the air and the bees, too, are disappearing. The extinction of bees will spell the end of humanity, which can’t survive more than four years without the existence of bees.”
“What?” the child exclaimed, glaring at me as if I had come unhinged. Then, he shook me by my shoulders: “Stop throwing me off with your non sequiturs. Why do you and Gabriel do these things?”
I sighed: “Although incongruous, a based non sequitur helps one concentrate during a discourse; as long as it upholds the theme of the thread. Think about it.”
He nodded: “Well, if that tattoo was a deliberate gaffe, it certainly managed to inject an edge to your image, which suits your agenda; as you’ve stated, you want to look like you’re from the ‘hood.”
“Indeed,” I smiled.
I restored our attention back to my briefing. “The number of earth dwellers forced to worship the Beast is reaching a critical mass,” I informed him.
“Because of their fear of Antichrist’s super soldiers – the new breed of Nephilim,” he said.
I nodded: “Good boy. You’ve been keeping abreast.”
I walked toward his bed.
“I watch the news, of course,” he complained, following me, “with you next to me sometimes. Hrmph! And I thought angels had outstanding memories. In any case, there’s been nothing much else for me to do of late.”
“Yes, son,” I responded, “I hear you and I get it – you don’t appreciate being treated with kid gloves. As for the super soldiers: they’re strong, fast and merciless. We need to be wary of them for it’s possible we may encounter them during the course of our operation. They’re programmed to find and annihilate anyone who opposes Antichrist’s mandate to accept his loyalty marker – his Mark, as he calls it – and that includes you and me.”
Mish was feeling my clothes. And, then, he allowed a scowl to rearrange his delicate facial features: “Why are you dressed this way?”
“It’s part of my disguise to undertake our mission in New Canaan unrecognized,” I replied, with little interest in his disapproval of my wardrobe. “It’s taken me a long time to get the look just right. I’m masquerading as a merchant . . . of sorts.”
I crouched before his bed to search under there. I finally found the very thing I’d been looking for. Ah, here it is, I uttered to myself for the last time, and dragged out his duffel bag.
I handed the duffel to him: “We’ll need a few items of clothing and necessities. We’re travelling light. Pack only what you think you’re going to need for a week and meet me outside. We’re making you over as I mentioned, since your last cover’s been compromised.”
“What sort of a merchant?” he asked.
“You’ll know when the time comes,” I replied. “Now do as you’re told.”
I left him to put my instructions into effect. Not long after, he exited from his bedroom and found me with the angel, Haziel.
“Hey, Haziel,” he greeted.
“Haziel is here to supervise your new training,” I proceeded to explain. “Let’s see how quick an understudy you are in assimilating this new skill.”
“What training?” Mish asked. “What skill?”
“Shape shifting,” Haziel replied.
Turning to me, Haziel asked: “What have you in mind?”
I handed Haziel the underling’s new passport. “Shorter jet black hair and pan-European features. Like most of the citizens you would find in the Trans Siberia, before the continents were divided into the ten sections of Antichrist’s kingdom,” I explained while he studied the photograph in the passport.
Mish was clearing his throat. “Shape shifting’s a skill?” he asked.
“No, harnessing it is a skill,” Haziel replied in his pedantic tone. “But it’s a power latent in all of us until such time as is needed for the Lord’s work, which is when we harness the power innate in us. The skill, I’m training you tonight, is honing and polishing your ability to harness this power so that it’d be an advantage to yourself, to your fellow-warriors and to the ones you’re helping.”
I left Mish with Haziel and returned to my desk to complete the rest of my paper work.
Before attending to my conference call with the elders, Uzziel and Jediael, I informed Mish: “As you may have deduced by now, you can’t return to New Canaan in your human identity as Misha Ben-Rubin anymore. You’re embarking on another rite of passage in your training as the Lord’s warrior – mastering the power of shape shifting to assume a completely new human persona. It’ll be a temporary persona, to assist your presence in New Canaan incognito. I’ll be back for you after your training with Haziel. You’re in very good hands but, of course, you already know this.”
An hour later, Haziel came for me. “He’s ready,” he informed me.
“How does my young pupil fare?” I asked.
“Par for the course,” replied the Chief Tutor of our Specialist Skills Training Division. “He was a little out of sorts getting the finer details down pat, like the eye colour. There were subtleties of hues and tones he’d had to learn to recognize. But he managed to master the intricacies after a couple of faux pas. This child has pedigree, no doubt. I believe his disguise will pass your muster.”
We found Mish waiting in my office. His back was turned to us but, already, I could tell that I was going to be pleased with the colour of his hair. It was raven black, as I had envisaged it.
Mish turned around when he heard me. I inspected his new appearance: it met all my expectations. He was a completely different person, but his eyes had retained Mishael’s soulfulness and innocence. I nodded my approval.
“I’m fairly confident no one will recognize you now,” I opined and, then, asked him: “How did you find the whole learning experience?”
“Empowering,” he said candidly.
Haziel advised my underling on his way out: “Pleasure having you for a student again. But don’t beat yourself up too much. And take heed, Little One: this isn’t a power you use except as the Lord wills it.”
Mish nodded while I pushed my swivel chair toward him. Before I proceeded, he asked me: “Do you desire food now?”
I nodded, “Yes, I do. But that’s by choice. And I happen to enjoy the occasional fine dining experience. Now pay attention.”
“What about sleep?” he continued. “Do you need sleep?”
I shook my head: “No, son, it’s not something I require. I don’t tire. The brethren do not need rest the same way the human race and the kindred need rest for the rejuvenation of their expended energies and regeneration of their cells. But the brethren do shut their eyes and rest, just as the Lord rested from His creative work on the seventh day; it’s for quiet times of meditating and glorifying God for all He’s given them. Now sit down, please, and listen to me very carefully: we’ll be checking into a motel at Samsara Drive, which is where we’re putting up for the duration of our assignment. I don’t see us requiring more than three or four nights to complete this operation.
“I’ll give you the gist now, but more will start to become plain to you in the course of the mission. It’s very important that you follow orders and instructions. That could mean the difference between coming home alive and being Antichrist’s prisoner. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Michael, I understand: follow all orders and instructions.”
I handed him his new passport. “Now, some basic facts you need to remember about our new identities. This is your new passport. You’re not going to need it but, in case anyone stops us and asks for our identity, at least we’ve got this covered. As you can see on this page, your name’s Sasha Alekseev. You’re a talent scout employed with a film company from the European region, and you’re in New Canaan on a tourist’s visa. The company’s involved in a variety of contraband enterprises, including child pornography. You’ve been sent to scout for new faces to be cast in their latest project. This is the reason for your interest in Ms. Harary’s niece and nephew. Oh, and you’re a client of mine.”
I cleared my throat and continued: “I’m Cătălin Weber. I’m originally from Arcadia, a neighbouring district. I’ve recently been informed of the new child slavery racket that’s burgeoning in the New Canaan black market. And, I’m in town to score me some slaves for my own trade. You’re a client, as I told you before, and you’ve hooked me up to assist you with acquiring the twins for yourself.”
“So it’s that kind of a merchant,” he nodded. “I see now why you’re dressed this way.”
“Our chopper’s leaving in an hour, so you should go shower and change,” I instructed him. “There’s a business suit in your closet. You want to look the part of Sasha Alekseev, too.”
“Why don’t we teleport to our destination?” he asked on his way to his quarters.
“We’re going to need our chopper to transport our evacuees to Petra,” I answered, checking the time. “In addition, in case anyone’s spying on us, we want to give the impression that we’re . . . of this world. I think I’ve given you all the information you need for now. You have time to ask a question, but only one.”
He shook his head: “No, no question. I do have a suggestion, however. You want to lose your august deportment if you wish to convince the New Canaanites that you belong in the ’hood.”
I felt my lips automatically purse at my child’s daring impersonation. Mish was always able to exasperate me with his one-upmanship. Just the same, I was quietly appreciating his willingness to be submissive. We parted momentarily to gather our gear together and finalize our preparations for our new mission together.
At the time scheduled for our departure, we met the angel, Jekuthiel, at the hangar. We were in our respective alter egos as Sasha Alekseev and Cătălin Weber.
Jekuthiel had also assumed his human disguise. He was simply ‘Jake, the Pilot’, he informed us.
“Jake?” Mish whispered to me as we loaded our gear into our helicopter.
I smiled at him.
Jekuthiel overheard the child. “It’s simply Jacob abridged,” he explained, settling into the cockpit. He had already started the ignition; the engine could be heard idling in the helicopter.
“I’ve a perfectly good reason,” he barely elucidated further, “but I’d just as soon you found out why yourself.”
Mish smiled, appreciating the mystery. “And the Seahawk?” he asked next.
Jacob replied: “We’re going to be flying into Antichrist’s airspace. The Seahawk’s not going to rouse too much suspicion.” Our chief pilot, Jekuthiel’s Seahawk had been dispatched to us from a remote satellite town, near the border of New Canaan, called Xierce. She was a plain old thing, our helicopter, free of any logo, insignia or moniker that could conclusively identify her with an affiliation. Our journey to Xierce was going to take a few hours, which was going to include a stop in Tel Aviv to refuel and pick up supplies.
Sometime during the final leg of our flight, I recommenced briefing the underling for his benefit: “The trade in the child slavery ring will be our ruse to rescue the twins and their aunt before she’s forced to receive the Mark. Avalin’s employers are putting up the twins for sale on the black market; in exchange, they’ve promised Avalin they wouldn’t betray her to Antichrist’s junta. They’ve been in negotiation with potential traders from the crime syndicates to sell the twins, but I want to intercept them and outbid them before the twins are sold to these criminals. As soon as the children are safely in our custody, we shall rescue Avalin next.
“Avalin’s pimps worship the mammon of worldly goods more than any ruler, charismatic or not. They’re not going to resist our offer. And they’re likely to be only too glad to dispose of the children quickly, who are a bane to their business, since they have to spring for a babysitter in order that their aunt can continue to be, in their own words, their cash cow. Once we get the young ones and their aunt out of the country and to Petra, they’ll be safe from the Antichrist’s wrath as well as her pimps.”
“It’s critical that Avalin be persuaded to leave New Canaan with us, not only to avoid getting the Mark, but also because New Canaan would soon be destroyed,” Mish commented. “Ariel reckons that it’s going to be Sodom and Gomorrah all over again.”
I nodded: “Yes, the Lord’s angel is about to unleash His judgment on Antichrist’s foremost seat of power. This is His Fifth Bowl judgment, according to His prophetic Word. Darkness will consume the city before she is destroyed with the rest of the world’s cities in phases. Gabriel has reported that scores of people are making plans to flee the city, since receiving the Lord’s warning of her impending destruction. Even if Avalin succeeds in escaping to another city, there’s still the danger of being found by Antichrist’s super soldiers and forced to take the Mark. Except for the caves, there’s no safe place anywhere in the world to hide from Antichrist. So, whether Avalin stays in New Canaan or flees to another place, she still loses. Petra’s the safest place for her to be.”
Mish nodded. He asked next: “How are you planning to get us an appointment with Ms. Harary?”
“Good question,” I replied. “Avalin works in an exclusive club. In addition, she has an exclusive clientele; she doesn’t accept just anyone as her client without her employers’ sanction. There’s a tight security surrounding her and the twins. We’d need to undertake the full rigmarole of making contact with a third party who knows Ms. Harary and obtain the appointment through the third party. What we have at the moment is information of her club, but we can’t just barge into it uninvited, declaring ourselves her clients. We also have a photograph of Ms. Harary and the twins; it was taken by our reconnaissance team led by the angel, Jekuthiel. The photograph will be our first point of reference to secure contact with somebody who’s fairly well acquainted with the family.”
The child opined: “It’s going to be a long shot finding this contact. He’s not going to turn up at our doorstep from the streets.”
“It is going to be a long shot,” I agreed, “but the Lord’s on our side. The more people we solicit in the streets, the higher the odds of finding our contact. As they say in marketing: ‘Every crowd has a silver lining.’”
“You’re so eloquent, Dad,” my son smiled. “But what’ll we use to barter for the children without the Mark as our currency?”
“The Globo,” I replied, “for now, that’s still the accepted global currency. That reminds me. Here, it’s yours; there’s extra for your personal expenses in New Canaan. Try to patronize the underground shops only.”
He nodded, pocketing the green velveteen pouch containing his wages.
I advised: “Don’t expect things not to change very soon. The Globo won’t be the accepted tender for much longer. The whole world will soon come under Antichrist’s financial and monetary system, including those that buy or sell on the black markets and crime syndicates. Even these must soon submit to the Mark.”
Mish nodded again. He opined: “It must be getting increasingly risky to fly anywhere near the New Canaan airspace with the peace accord between Antichrist and Israel broken.”
“Yes, it is,” I replied. “It’s the reason we routinely fly around his airspace. And we are dependent on the Lord to protect us every time we’re on an IDF jet. Although the world’s airspace basically belongs to him, Antichrist can’t afford to shoot down every craft and jet he deems suspicious without alienating his globalist oligarchs. This is why the choppers we use from Xierce are not visibly designated to any specific affiliation.”
He nodded and, then, stretched out on several seats. “I’m going to try to get several minutes’ kip,” he said, yawning.
I nodded: “Sure, son, go ahead.”
The child folded his arms while he turned round to face the seats. Unable to doze, because a habitual light sleeper, he sat up again. He looked out of the window. He resigned himself to looking out the window the rest of the flight, at the landscape below him, enjoying his aerial perspective of the continent.
At the break of dawn we were at Xierce. This was the location of our clandestine base in District 11. The base was fronted as a flying school, The Xierce High Fliers. Having logged hundreds of flight hours as a combatant pilot, Jekuthiel dexterously steered our helicopter toward our secret base before making a smooth landing on the helipad. I gave Jacob Thiele some parting words. From thence, our human cabal dispatched Mish and me to our motel at Samsara Drive.
There, we relinquished our transient forms. I drew the drapes to keep out the light of the sun just beginning to spill into the room. I proceeded to inspect the room – the thermostat, cupboards and bathroom, and all the vents and chattels – for any surveillance device. Everything was in order. Satisfied, I assumed my identity as General ben Israel. I unpacked and put on my weekend casuals: a pullover, chinos and anorak. My loafers were substituted for tennis shoes. Last of all, I put on a beanie to conceal most of my head.
Mish had never seemed more relieved than at that moment of being his bona fide self. He playfully wrapped his arms round my torso, sighing: “For a while, Dad, I forgot it was you.”
His body shook slightly. I realized he wasn’t being playful.
“Are you having second thoughts about this mission?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Everything about it bothers me: our disguises, playing the role of a couple of crime kingpins, of all things, and the fact that babies are involved in this mission.”
Then, as though lamenting being that vulnerable, he quickly switched gear. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he smiled before kissing my cheek. “I’m not going to leave you in the lurch.”
My son wasn’t fooling me – I saw through his bravado. I encouraged him: “The Lord will give you strength. God willing, we should accomplish this mission in less than a week.”
He gave an exacting nod as he inspected the twin beds before him. “I’m taking that one,” he stated, pointing to the bed next to the bathroom.
“Just because you probably wouldn’t need to use the latrine except when you’re being Cătălin Weber,” he explained.
He threw his duffel on the bed. He unpacked in preparation for some shut eye. He looked in need of at least a few hours’ sleep.
“Nine o’clock tonight,” I informed him while he was changing into his T-shirt, “we’re going to stake out the ghettos. Our rental car’s already waiting outside.”
“What about the curfew?” he asked, his arms fumbling about the sleeves for the armholes.
I gave him a hand. “This is why most people pull on the sleeves first,” I told him. “As for the curfew, that was lifted two months ago.”
“Really?” he exclaimed in a soft voice. “Hah, I guess some things do change.”
He crawled into his bed. He was snoring softly just as soon as he had sunk his head on his pillow.
It was seven in the morning. While the underling slumbered unimpeded, I decided to reconnoitre the streets on my own. The last time I was in New Canaan for more than an hour’s visit was a little over a year ago. I wanted to see for myself how much had changed. I decided I would learn more if I took a walk and so, I strolled as many of the intersecting streets, lanes and avenues as I had come across. There was a bazaar in one of the lanes and, there, I bought dozens of bread rolls and a lunch box for Mish.
By the time I’d had my fill of the diurnal activities, and of what I perceived were the decadent pursuits of the inhabitants of New Canaan, including the general disintegration of their morals, I became more appreciative of the emotional toll that living and working here, for nearly a year, had had on Mish. I was ready to return to the motel. While tracing my protracted path back to Samsara Drive, I distributed the bread rolls to the scores of vagrants begging for alms in the streets.
In his guise as Sasha Alekseev, Mish was up channel surfing the in-house cable TV. He had ordered room service – I scowled disapprovingly at the grease oozing out of the dough of his pizza. I handed him the boxed meals I had bought for him from the Libyan couple that owned a small business catering to the needs of the Lord’s saints.
“There’s chicken and a lime vinaigrette salad in there – they’re more healthful,” I informed him.
He opened up the polystyrene boxes. Then, looked up at me, smiling.
“I thought you might like the pistachio garnishing, too,” I stated.
He nodded: “I do. Thank you. You got this from Qaasim and Kaaya’s deli, I take it.”
“I did,” I answered, “but their deli was long ago sold as a going concern. They were trading at a street bazaar this morning. It was their last business day. They wanted me to let you know.”
“Are they leaving New Canaan?” he asked.
I nodded: “Yes, they’re being evacuated to Petra with their grandson, Ghayth, in the morning.”
The child nodded, looking both relieved and sad. “It’s all good,” he whispered.
Nine o’clock at night came on apace. I changed into my disguise and we got into our rented Lincoln. The plush leather squished under us.
Preferring to be in the driver’s seat of our operation, I had offered to be our chauffeur. Mish had made no objection. I could tell that something was weighing on his mind.
He remained taciturn on our ride to our destination.
“You’re thinking about the late Dr. Montagna’s children,” I said during the hour-long drive.
He nodded. “Almost everyone I know in New Canaan’s gone,” he said softly. “All the Lord’s saints have been martyred or evacuated. Talking about Mr. Qaasim’s family reminded me of Luc’s children – of Achante and Actaeon. My heart’s travailed about them. I don’t know what’s happened to them, if they’re even still alive.”
I shook my head: “We’ll find out one day. Beloved, whatever has befallen them will not have been your fault. They chose to accept the Mark. Free will has been given to mankind and God will not violate it.”
Assisted by the GPS on the dashboard, we reached the CBD without incident. There had been no incident at the city turnpike as well. I was sure this had been owing to the Lord’s providence.
I parked under an onerous looking billboard. It’s the Mark of Your Life. The slogan maintained. Happy and healthy families wearing the Antichrist’s Mark were featured in the advertisement in a gimmicky affront on reality.
Mish’s eyelids batted at the outrage.
As we dislodged from the car, we glared up at the Antichrist’s Senate building, standing out like a luminescent bull’s-eye amid the agglomeration of skyscrapers. I declared in a grim tone: “Behold: Mystery Babylon.”
“Mother of harlots,” Mish added, digging his hands into the pockets of his bespoke navy worsted coat. Then, he took his time to study the environs: the neon signs, the clutter and the urban sprawl. They were all too familiar to him.
“Welcome to the New Canaan merry-go-round,” he imparted with a wry smile.
I led the way to the Square, just a stone’s throw away from the parking lot. On the way, we passed a Town Directory perched between the kerb and a bus stand. Behind the deserted bus stand stretched a large brick wall scarred by street art and circulars. A Most Wanted poster that featured Global Unity’s most dangerous fugitives was plastered over a portion of the graffiti and surrounding it were several smaller handbills highlighting their offenses. Mish glared at one of the handbills. Then, he approached it.
“Whoa,” he whispered, his index finger pressed against the head shot on the handbill. “That’s me. Let’s see now: ‘Misha Ben-Rubin, aged twenty-four, five-eleven; yada, yada, yada; wanted for sedition, subversive activities, treason, yada, yada.’ That’s quite a list of offenses.”
My eyes skimmed over all the handbills. I pointed at several other head shots. “And that’s Ariel . . . and Jekuthiel, too ,” I said.
“Mm,” he sighed. “‘Ari Ben-Rubin, aged twenty-seven, six feet half; one-seventy-seven pounds; light brown hair, green eyes; wanted for sedition, inciting rebellion, treason, yada, yada.’
“And what have we here? ‘Global Unity Most Wanted, Jacob Thiele: aged thirty-two, six-two; two hundred pounds; dark brown hair, blue eyes; wanted for sedition, public disturbance, rebellion and treason.’
“Nice. Well, we’re famous.”
 |
| Jacob Thiele Wanted for sedition, rebellion ... treason ... |
My son stepped back unhappily from the wall. He proceeded to kick the pavement, stubbing the toecaps of his oxford shoes against the kerbstones.
“Ari doesn’t deserve this,” he snarled. “And neither does Jacob. How in the world did Jekuthiel get compromised anyway?”
I replied: “It makes little difference now how any of you got compromised; what matters is safely operating anywhere in the world. That’s where your shape shifting skills are advantageous as they aid you in your disguises, wherever you go . . . even if the disguise is ad interim.”
“This was the mystery Jacob was referring to?” he wondered.
I nodded: “Had to be.”
I peeled off the handbills. I set them alight with my finger. The bills disintegrated into ashes, which floated onto the pavement, scattering their debris around an anonymous tagger’s used spray can. I waved my hand over the debris and it dissolved into the pavement, leaving not a trace of its fragments anywhere to be seen.
“Okay,” Mish stated, dragging out his word. He smiled, looking slightly impressed: “You surprise me, Dad. That’s got to be a felony.”
“Hardly . . . it’s Antichrist who’s the felon,” I responded, dusting my hands off against each other. “Are you feeling better now?”
My son nodded. He replied, smiling: “Welcome back to New Canaan.”
New Canaan was a hive of activity, especially at night, for the city never slept. Once upon a time the pinnacle of wealth and civilization, she had been the centre of international finance, trade and commerce. Today, the capital of the Global Unity had evolved into a nexus for breeding Antichrist’s super soldiers, the gargantuan race of transhuman entities that were the Nephilim regenerated. She was also the hub of Lucifer’s indefatigable agenda for world domination that was progressing along unhindered on the cogs of Antichrist’s totalitarian machine, which had established its government and parliament in her CBD. His pawn, the False Prophet, always complicit toward his agenda to consolidate his single-party despotic rule, had established the Headquarters of his harlot ecumenical religious system in his Senate as well. Thence had New Canaan come full circle; from the time she became known as Babel, she’d been the Mother of all the harlot religions of the world.
A modern Sodom and Gomorrah, if ever there was one, New Canaan was due for judgment, and the Lord was going to pour forth His wrath upon this city that could be the simulacrum of that which He had poured out on her predecessor. As Gabriel had warned her inhabitants two and a half months ago in a message from the Lord, as soon as the Lord’s angels had removed all His remnants from here, He was going to destroy her with His judgment plague.
It was inevitable.
“Did you lose something, son?” I asked.
My son was scanning the pavement for something. He shook his head: “I appreciate the gesture, Dad, but you do realize, don’t you, that burning a couple of flyers isn’t going to expunge us or erase our unsavoury reputation from memory? I’m sure there are multiple circulars plastered around the city, around the globe.”
I nodded: “Don’t be troubled about what man thinks of you. And there’s not going to be much of this city left to remind anyone of anything here, let alone your reputation, when the Lord consumes her with His plague of darkness.”
Mish nodded. He looked toward the Square: “Let’s do this, Dad. We have a mission to accomplish.”
We went on our way, cutting through the Square. Mish pointed at the scaffolding mounted on a section of the Square.
“Looks like they’re building something new there,” he stated. “Check out the size of that scaffolding and the volume of the construction materials.”
“That would be the monument to Antichrist,” I replied. “It’s been in the news.”
My son nodded: “I remember now. And that must be his statue under that tarp.”
I nodded.
“Nothing’s being spared for the monument, it seems,” he maintained.
I smiled: “It’s the Global Unity’s notion of City Beautification. Yes, a lot of planning’s gone into the project to pronounce New Canaan the seat of Antichrist’s power and the official capital of the G.U.”
“The city councillors must be very proud,” my son stated. “Can we say sycophants?”
I opined quietly: “Being in Antichrist’s favour ensures their coffers are full.”
“When’s the official unveiling of the monument?” he asked.
“The second Saturday next month,” I answered. “That day will henceforth be a public holiday.”
“Sounds like it’s going to be a big deal,” he opined.
I nodded. We bypassed the City Council’s preparations for the grand largesse, turning at length into a well-lit boardwalk. Traffic was building up even as loud music and promotional spiels gushed out of the cornucopia of enterprises competing with one another for customers.
“We should start here,” I informed my son, speaking aloud over the brouhaha.
Our mission commenced. We wound our way through several streets that interlaced the perimeters of the Square, streets of notoriety dotted with watering holes that were well-known dens of iniquity. We dissected the pubs, bars and clubs where drug dealing and vice were routine, in fact, were an accepted social pastime. After that, we visited the gambling halls, brothels and inns, storefront axioms of postmodern impropriety where sexual debauchery was open and habitual, the salacious indulgences of their patrons habitually exceeding our imagination.
Surely, New Canaan was the Devil’s playground, which accorded her inhabitants limitless opportunities for an exciting but licentious life. We were in the CBD until the last of the drinking holes closed its doors for the night. Mish had drawn the line on the bath house. His sense of propriety objected to exhibiting himself to other men clad in just a bath towel. It didn’t matter that he was disguised as Sasha Alekseev, he had reasoned. I deferred to his feelings. The costs of compromising my son’s code of ethics and integrity, which outweighed its benefit, obviated his role in this part of the mission. I left him to sup at a bistro opposite the bath house while I entered it alone. There was no refuting the bath’s relevance to our mission: the worst of the city’s pederasts and other predators were gathered here. I did what I had to do, all in just under an hour.
That ended the night’s operation. Mish and I had fulfilled our objective tonight: we had dropped hints of our agenda on everyone we met that had the time to engage with us, in the hope that someone on the black market would get wind of us and come knocking. This person did come knocking, the very next day.
That turned out to be a red herring. Our potential contact had shown up at our prearranged meeting place to prospect a file sharing venture on Internet child pornography. Mish was positively gelid at the barefaced hucksterism.
“If anyone else thinks I’m going to be hoodwinked again, he has another think coming,” Mish had vowed on the way back to our motel. “But I shouldn’t be surprised that we would attract the attention of predators. It’s in the fait accompli of our mission. We ought to move on to Plan B. We do have a contingency plan, don’t we, Dad?”
I shook my head: “Patience, Little One.”
Back at the motel, my child settled his emotions in front of the television. He picked up a couple of DVDs from the TV console. “We can watch Romeo and Juliet or Romeo and Juliet,” he informed me. “Call it: Baz Luhrmann or Franco Zeffirelli?”
“Zeffirelli,” I replied.
Then, my cell phone notified me of an incoming message. “That’s our lead at last,” I stated optimistically.
“Let’s not be too quick to fall for the wiles of another trickster,” he cautioned with a scowl.
I shook my head: “It seems legitimate. He’s left a number to contact him.” I called the number.
