He had already traveled far on this holy road, and had learned much. He had to walk the final few miles and see what waited for him at the end of it, no matter how rocky or dangerous the way.
Chapter nine
As it turned out, Barnett was more than happy to see Fortunato and Digger. Fortunato was in fact surprised at how eager he was to see them, as he invited them up to his headquarters after a simple phone call on Digger’s part. Barnett’s penthouse office was located at the top of the Angels’ Bower, at the end of a short corridor guarded by two men in suits and dark glasses. Fortunato didn’t need special power to tell him that they were cops. He’d seen plenty of their type before he’d left the world. Since Barnett was an ex-President, that meant Secret Service. He scanned their minds as Downs gave them their names. They were nats. Competent enough, but nothing more. They knew nothing other than the fact that Barnett was expecting them. Good to know, Fortunato thought, that we aren’t walking into a trap of some kind.
He was still surprised, and a little suspicious, at Barnett’s eagerness to meet with them.
The antechamber to Barnett’s office was like that of many other business offices. The decor lacked the faux Middle East crap that infested the other parts of the Peaceable Kingdom Fortunato had seen. A very decorative blonde sat at the receptionist’s desk. She looked at Fortunato with almost predatory interest and flashed an inviting smile.
“Mr. Fortunato. President Barnett is waiting for you in his office. Please go right in.”
“Fortunato is fine,” he told her. “For future reference.”
“Fortunato.” Her voice caressed his name. Her look promised more.
“Great,” Digger said. “Let’s go.”
The blonde took on an expression of professional regret. “I’m afraid that President Barnett would like to have a few words with Fortunato in private. I’m sure you understand.”
Digger frowned. “Well. Not really. But if I must wait to see the great man, then I must wait.” He perched casually on the corner of the receptionist’s desk. “Have you ever considered a career in modeling?” he asked as Fortunato knocked on the office door.
Fortunato glanced back to see the blonde regard Digger with polite distaste as Barnett called out, “Come in.”
Fortunato entered his office, closing the door behind him. He took a few steps, then stopped, looking all around.
Is everything fake in this place? He was standing in a replica of the White House’s Oval Office, down to the insignia woven into the carpet, the desk, and the draped flags behind it. Sitting at the desk was a handsome, well-preserved man, perhaps in his fifties. Fortunato recognized Barnett, though he had been out of the country during both terms of his presidency. Before his career had turned to politics, Barnett had been a popular conservative evangelical preacher. Fortunato had never been politically active, though he knew that Barnett’s attitude towards wild carders wasn’t exactly benevolent. He could extrapolate further how Barnett felt about mixed-race wild carders who had once pimped women and dealt drugs and were now Buddhist monks.
In the old days Fortunato would have read his mind without a second thought. Now, after the years in the monastery had leeched him of his arrogance and taught him something about humility, he thought about it first, then jumped into his mind anyway. His son’s life was on the line. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Barnett was involved some way in the attempted kidnapping, and this was a sure way to find out. What he read there, though, surprised him.
“Fortunato!” Barnett said, rising from behind his desk and extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure, a real pleasure, to finally meet you.”
Fortunato came forward and guardedly took Barnett’s hand. His handshake was firm and strong. His smile was sincere, as were his words of greeting. Barnett was genuinely glad to see him. “Sit down,” he said.
Fortunato did.
“Drink?” he indicated the cut glass container in easy reach on his desk. “Oh. Can Buddhist monks drink alcohol?”
“Some more than most men,” Fortunato said. “I don’t, however.”
“Fine, fine.” Barnett sat in his own chair and beamed across the desk. “Well. Glad to see that you’ve turned your life around and become a brother of the cloth. So to speak.”
“Forgive me if I seem impatient,” Fortunato said. “But there are some questions I’d like answered.”
“No doubt,” Barnett smiled back. “But couldn’t you read my mind to get your answers?”
I could, Fortunato thought, and I already did, at least partially. “You know that I turned my back on my powers when I left this country.”
“So the story goes,” Barnett said. “But I’ve heard strange things about your recent doings in New York City. People say you came back from the dead and stopped an ace from destroying the Jokertown Clinic. Hell, people are saying you’re still in New York doing all kinds of miracles. Healing the sick. Curing the deaf. Turning baking soda into crack, for all I know.”
“Careful,” Fortunato said. “Your prejudices are showing.”
“Hell, man, the only thing I’m prejudiced against is sin. You know that.”
Fortunato shook his head, as if unconvinced. “Was that your ace who attacked the Jokertown Clinic?”
Barnett laughed out loud. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. All I know is that someone with some very powerful underlings wants me dead, Peregrine dead, and our son dead.”
“That ain’t me,” Barnett said. “That’s the Cardinal’s boys.”
“The Cardinal’s boys?” Fortunato asked.
Barnett nodded affably. “Pay attention, now,” he said. “The boys after you are the Allumbrados, the Enlightened Ones, as they’re so puffed up with pride to call themselves. It’s an ancient and secret office of the Catholic Church. Goes way back. Has ties to another Holy Office that still exists officially, but hasn’t seen much action lately.”
Fortunato frowned. “The Inquisition?”
“That’s the one,” Barnett nodded. “These Papal boys are run by Cardinal Romulus Contarini. Real nasty stuff, actually. They hire all kinds of criminals and scum. Jokers and aces and real people alike—”
“’Real people’?” Barnett was so smooth that Fortunato had to occasionally remind himself not to forget where the evangelist was really coming from.
Barnett shrugged apologetically. “I don’t like to use the term ‘nats.’ It’s demeaning.”
“Uh-huh.”
“All right,” Barnett said. “Just between us, let’s cut the crap. You know that I’ve preached against the wild card, but it’s the virus I’ve preached against, not its victims. The virus has turned its prey into things both lesser and greater than human. They get my pity, my help, and whatever solace I can give them. But the virus—the virus has caused unimaginable misery in this world and it must inevitably be eradicated.”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Fortunato said.
Barnett shook his head. “I haven’t. But the world has. There’s no doubt in my mind that the end days are upon us. The signs are all around. Israel. Moral decay. The wild card itself. The downfall of communism.” He paused and looked seriously at Fortunato. “The boy, John Fortune.”