The War After Armageddon

“If we’re going to have a conversation, I’ll have to ask you not to take the Lord’s name in vain. In any of His incarnations.”

Harris smiled. “You sound almost like a Hindu, Sim. And to tell you the truth, I could see you as a devotee of Kali.”

“Who might you be, then, Gary? Shiva? I think not. Hanuman, perhaps? The monkey god? The prankster?” He raised a dark eyebrow. “Don’t stumble in front of the Juggernaut.”

“Sim… How can you do it?”

“What?”

“All of it. Specifically, ordering American soldiers to massacre defenseless civilians.”

“Are they defenseless? Or even civilians?”

“They certainly look that way to me.”

“Gary, Gary… Why do you refuse to understand? This isn’t Iraq. You’re not a lieutenant. Multicultural playtime’s over. This is total war. Us or them. The end game.”

“The End of Days?”

“In a sense. Not in the cheap sense.”

“What’s going on, Sim? Really? You’re not stupid. I’ll credit you with a better mind than I possess — not that that’s the world’s highest accolade. So, I ask myself, why would Sim Montfort do exactly what the Jihadis want us to do, what they’ve set up?”

“What’s that? Exactly?”

“Come on, Sim.”

“You’ll have to explain it to me.” Montfort crossed his legs and sat back. He was and had always been a handsome man, but his looks were the lucky kind that photographed better than they fairly should have, the sort of features that made a comprehensive impression that blinded you to the imperfect details. Had he been an actor, he would have disappointed the fan who finally saw him up close.

It struck Harris that the parts didn’t really fit. The jaw was too strong, as if drawn by a cartoonist. The eyes that burned so intensely were too close together when viewed straight on. And Montfort’s forehead, below the widow’s peak of still-black hair, was too low. To Harris, it made the other man look as if his skull were weighted down and sagging into that big jaw. Sarah had noted it, too. Most women saw Montfort as distinguished, but Sarah had labeled him “the Cro-Magnon glamour-boy.”

The others, women or men, never seemed to see Montfort in detail. That was part of the man’s genius, Harris realized. Montfort had undeniable charisma and bulled through life on the strength of the total package he delivered — or, more accurately, the external trappings he constructed and fortified. People reacted to Montfort the way men reacted to women with cascades of long blond hair, falling uncritically for a commonplace.

Montfort was, in short, the most brilliant con Harris had ever encountered.

“All right, Sim. I’ll explain it to you. But first, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve got to reach closure about your attempt to assassinate me.”

“I never—”

“Save it. And with suicide volunteers, too. Good Lord, Sim — what’s to choose between you and our enemies?”

“Between Christ and Mohammed?”

“Save that, too. We may get to it later. Right now, I have an intellectual dilemma to resolve: This shabby little plot to kill me says either that you’re afraid you lack the leverage to have me removed, that your support back in Washington is more tenuous than you thought — watch those casualty figures, Sim — or that you just got impatient. Now, that would worry me. Impatience, I mean. Because it would establish a pattern. Impatient to get to Jerusalem, you throw away so many good Christian lives… Impatient to have your way in every last regard, you arrange a death for me straight from the handbook on how to get rid of African presidents-for-life. Just doesn’t seem like you, Sim. You’ve always played a controlled game. Admirably so… from the standpoint of tactics, if not objectives. So which was it? Eroding political support? Hard to believe, given your chumminess with our vice president, the Reverend Doctor Gui — by the way, will Air Force One go down with the president aboard? Was tonight just a rehearsal for the big game?”

“That’s treasonous.”

“Sim… I don’t think you want to get into a pissing contest with me on the subject of treason.”

“If you really intend to make something of these nonsensical allegations, Gary… file your charges with General Schwach.”

Harris smiled. But said nothing.

“Otherwise,” Montfort went on, “let’s talk strategy. I’m delighted that the report about your helicopter going down proved unfounded. After all, you and I go back a long way. Differences aside.”

“We can’t put those differences aside anymore. And the he li cop — ter did go down. I just didn’t happen to be on it. Your own people betrayed your plot. They’re not all with you at the altar rail, Sim.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“We’ll see.” Harris drew a finger across his nose, banishing an itch. “Maybe it’s both, Sim? Maybe your power base is eroding, and you’re impatient. That would make sense.”

“This is getting us nowhere.”

“Where do you want us to go, Sim?”

“You need to get some sleep. We’re all tired. You’ve had a difficult day.”