The Illuminati (19 page)

Little did Randall know that his response had saved his career. Already in place was a well-documented connection between Randall and the drug lords, including several millions of dollars deposited into foreign accounts in his name. The Society was taking no chances on having Franklin compromised, even by unprovable allegations.

When Mark Hunt had become president, one of his first actions was to appoint Randall director of the FBI. Randall guessed correctly that it was Jason Franklin who had initiated his promotion. Although he had no knowledge of the Society, except by rumor, Randall became a supporter of Jason Franklin, believing him to be a strong patriot.

Once he became the FBI director, Randall was provided with well-prepared secret documents that detailed a plot within the Constitutional Rights Committee organization to assassinate several government leaders in Washington who had taken positions against religious groups. He had been unsuccessful in tracking down any specific facts on the group, and most of the details had come from informers highly placed within the organization. Randall didn't know that the informers had been recruited and paid by a private organization, one of Franklin's companies.

Rutland, responding to Randall's earlier question about the president's summons, said,“He's read your report on the terrorists and wants more confirmation.”

“Can we show him the Franklin documents?” Randall asked. He had been told that Rutland had access to the documents if necessary.

“No!”Rutland said emphatically.“There are too many lives at risk. He's just likely to spill the information to the press.”Rutland knew that the FBI director was a typical weak-kneed bureaucrat. If Hunt put pressure on him, he would collapse like a punctured balloon.
Well, I'll just have to see that that doesn't happen
, he decided as he dropped the receiver into its cradle.

President Hunt's management style was that of a loner. He wanted to make his own decisions, and even his cabinet members were little more than window dressing to placate Congress. Now that Congress was suspended for the lack of operating capital, Hunt was even more isolated. He had virtually no need for regular press conferences, since his opponents were denied media coverage. That fit well into the Society's plans, and Rutland had been able to convince the president that the CRC terrorists represented a valid threat to his own safety. This further isolated him, so he was rarely seen outside the White House and only then with a multitude of bodyguards.
That may change now
, Rutland decided.
He'll get a lot bolder if he thinks the crisis was contrived. That may work out very well
, he mused, his face twisted into an evil smirk.

The attorney general and FBI director arrived in less than twenty minutes. Hunt was sitting behind his desk, still reading the police reports on the violence caused by the demonstrations when Rutland ushered them in. The report read like something out of the early '60s: Three hundred demonstrators dead, seven hundred wounded, many seriously, including women and children. Against that were sixteen police killed and another sixty-five wounded. Many of the witnesses had similar reports from widely separated areas. The gunfire started in the ranks of the demonstrators, but was always from those well back in the crowd, and apparently only by three to five people at most.

Seems strange
, Hunt thought
, that only three people would pack weapons if the design was to wipe out the opposition. It seems more likely that they were planted to start a riot
.

Siever was the last to arrive, taking his customary place opposite the president's desk.

“Gentlemen, I think we have a problem,” Hunt said sharply, slamming the report down on the desk. “Ben, I want to know why the FBI is making a case against a group of citizens who appear to have done little more than protest some valid discriminations against them—including unlawful arrest and detention.”

“If you're referring to the Constitutional Rights Committee, Mr. President, you signed the executive order yourself,”Randall said nervously.

“You know perfectly well that I did that based on evidence the FBI supplied, linking the leaders of the so-called terrorist group with the assassinations here in Washington.”

“Yes, sir, that's true,” the sweating FBI director acknowledged. “Our evidence . . .”

“Do you mean this garbage?” the president shouted as he threw the reports into the director's lap. “That's trash! There is nothing in that report that would get any one of them convicted for a traffic violation. It's all testimony from a few FBI plants in their groups. There is not one shred of real evidence. Any third-year law student could get this thrown out as hearsay.”

“The riots, Mr. President . . .” Randall started weakly, as he glanced at Cal Rutland.

“The riots,” Hunt shouted again, flinging the other report at the director. “The riots are a lot of garbage. This report reads like the Kent State killings during the protests of the '60s. The only people who brought guns seemed to have been the police.”

“The rioters fired on the police . . .”

“Yes, and according to the police reports they must have been suicidal, since only three or four in each group brought guns, and all the police brought theirs. Don't you think it a little strange that the scenario was identical throughout the country? Especially when the rioters took all the punishment? They were either incredibly stupid or they were set up.”

“Set up?” Randall said more to himself than to the president. “But why?”

Cal Rutland interrupted, “Mr. President, this group has been under surveillance for several months now. Our informers . . .”

“Shut up, Cal!” the president snapped. “I suspect you're more involved with this than anyone else. It was you who convinced me to sign the executive order. Come to think of it, it was also you and Siever who suggested the furlough for the Congress. Just what are you and your Society up to?”

“I'm just trying to serve your best interests, Mr. President,” Rutland said calmly. But his eyes betrayed the hatred boiling up inside.

“I think you'll be able to serve my best interests somewhere else!” the president said with unconcealed anger, his face reddening even as he spoke. “I want you and Siever to pack up and clear out by tomorrow morning. Ben, you may be an innocent victim in this whole thing, but I can't take that chance. I want you to resign effective tomorrow too.”

Rutland said nothing. From the look on his face it was impossible to tell if he had even heard the president. If Mark Hunt could have read Rutland's mind, he would have seen a black hole developing. Rutland was a man possessed by one thought: Promote the Society. Now Hunt represented a stumbling block to his plans.

“Pat,” the president said to the attorney general, “I want Elder and his people released immediately . . . and that means immediately! If you can't do it, I'll get someone who can. Where are they being held?”

“I'm not really sure, Mr. President,” the shaken attorney general said. “The FBI has them.”

“Well, you find out this morning!” Hunt ordered. “In fact, I'm appointing you temporary director of the Bureau—effective right now. Get those people released! And Pat, I want this witch hunt for the demonstrators called off.”

The attorney general looked over to Rutland, who showed no visible signs of reaction. He sat motionless, like a cobra poised to strike.

“Cal, your last official act is to call a press conference for two o'clock today. I want representatives from all the media there. I'm going to lay this deception out for all America to see. Oh, yes, I'm also going to restore Congress' funds and shut down this electronic funds thing before it goes any further. I know where Data-Net is headed now, and I plan to nip it in the bud. You can tell Franklin, and anyone else involved with the Society's plans, that I'm the president and the American public is my boss.”

With that, Hunt dismissed the group like so many school children held over for detention. Randall left looking like a whipped puppy. He knew his career was over once the word got out; he would be lucky if he weren't brought up on charges of civil rights violations when the Congress got wind of what he had allowed.

Patrick McMillan had a thousand questions going through his mind. Had they really railroaded an innocent group of citizens? He realized that he had relied heavily on the reports from the FBI in making decisions. He was determined to find the facts for himself.

Only Rutland left the meeting with a full grasp of what Hunt had discovered: that a secret organization had manipulated the top echelons of the government to accomplish their hidden agenda, and that Jason Franklin was part of it.

As soon as the meeting with the president was over, Rutland called Franklin and told him what had happened. “It means we'll have to move the schedule up,” he said. “Siever says that the new file is ready at Data-Net. He activated it immediately after the riots. Our next move is to deal with Hunt.”

“Right,” Franklin agreed. “Maybe this is better. Can you get a look at his notes before the conference?”

“I can do better than that,”Rutland said.“Leave it to me. Our beloved leader is going to present the best speech of his life.”

Rutland spent the next hour calling press organizations announcing the unscheduled conference. The reporters were measurably shocked that the reclusive president was scheduling another press conference.

Randall White, manager of WNN's Atlanta office, asked, “Does this have anything to do with the suspension of Congress and the recent riots?”

Rutland, in untypical fashion, responded, “The president has decided to take direct action to resolve the crisis facing our nation. That's all I can say. The conference is scheduled for two o'clock.”
It should be quite a show
, he added silently.
I personally wouldn't miss it for anything
.

Within an hour after the riots, Randy Cross had loaded his family into their car and headed away from Atlanta, toward his parents' home in Jacksonville. Even as he was preparing to leave, the FBI had issued an alert to local authorities to apprehend the organizers of the demonstration-turned riot. The Atlanta police received a bulletin with Randy Cross' name at the top. The fax from the FBI office in Washington was carried to the local magistrate's office and warrants were issued for the arrests of those involved.

The local television stations carried the pictures and names of the suspects, supplied by the FBI. In a matter of less than two hours from the time the warrants were issued, calls flooded into the police with information on the whereabouts of Christian leaders under suspicion. This same scene was being repeated all over the country as ex-friends and neighbors turned against church leaders.

Randy had driven less than fifty miles when he told Harriet, “We're low on gas. I'm going to stop at the next exit. Do you and Matthew want anything?”

“I just need to use the rest room,” she replied, still upset over the riots and having to flee her home.

Randy exited the interstate, pulled up at the pumps at a large Texaco station, and filled the gas tank while Harriet and Matthew used the rest rooms. After checking the oil and tires, he handed the attendant his credit card.

The attendant ran the card through the Data-Net verifier twice, then said, “Sorry, mister, the machine won't take your card.”

“What do you mean?” Randy said as his heart skipped a beat. Inside he had a terrifying feeling that he knew exactly what it meant.

“It just won't go through. Sometimes it does that when you've charged too much on your card.”

“I pay my cards off every month,” Randy said in a defensive tone.

“Listen, mister, I don't make the rules. If your card won't go through, it won't go through. You got any other credit cards?”

“Yes, I have my bank debit card,” Randy replied, his hand shaking as he reached for his wallet again. He handed the bank card to the attendant as Harriet walked up.

“What's wrong?” she asked. “You look pale.”

“The card won't go through,” he whispered under his breath so the attendant couldn't hear. “He's trying the debit card now.”

“This one don't work either, mister,” the attendant said. “I ain't never seen anything like it. It don't say ‘rejected.' It just don't do nothin'.”

Fear swept over Randy as he realized that somehow access to his bank account and credit had been stopped.
No cash and no credit!
he reasoned.
They've cut off our means of support!
“Is the station owner here?” he asked with confidence he wasn't feeling.

“Yeah, he's in the bay workin' on a car.”

“I'll go see him,” Randy called back over his shoulder as he went through the door to the shop area. As he entered the bay, he saw a large man working under a car on the grease rack.