The Resurrection File (9 page)

“Let me suggest—a whole new construct for peace. Let me suggest that violent religious differences and cultural differences are not a necessary part of the international equation. People—let me dare to suggest that this pattern of religious and cultural conflict can be changed—it is not just a part of the inevitable. And we all know that religious and cultural conflict between East and West is a matter of grave national security.”

Sharptin then called on the members of the committee who were from the Arab–American Cultural Alliance to comment.

“What can be accomplished through finding common ground between the Arab and OPEC nations on the one hand, and the West on the other, is this,” one member noted. “First, a community of sharing in oil reserves. Second, a chance at expanding democracy in the Middle East. And third, we can achieve what could never be achieved before this. There is a good chance that the Arab nations will give absolute assurances of a willingness to police, and even punish, the terrorists within their borders as long as
the West shows appreciation—and not suspicious denigration—for their religious traditions.”

Colonel Buchingham was clearly irritated.

“So,” the colonel shot out, “if the U.S., England, Canada, if these nations show some respect for Allah, then the OPEC nations are going to keep their oil prices down and their production up—and they will even start arresting the terrorists that are currently roaming at will within their borders? Is this what you are saying? Is that your idea of national security?

“When you geniuses come up with the newest, dumbest idea for national security, then the very first folks who pay the price for it are those kids from your hometown who wear the uniforms,” Buchingham continued. “They're the ones who get turned into hamburger helper because one day you woke up with this really bright idea about national security.”

Sharptin tried to redirect the conversation.

“Colonel, your life has been devoted to the use of military force to protect American interests. And we all are very grateful for that. But now is the time to wage peace, rather than wage war,” Sharptin chided. “Now, the Pentagon may not appreciate the need for the West to respect the traditions of Islam, but here in the State Department, we take that very seriously. This is not a new idea. Both government leaders and nongovernmental groups have been working for years on the issue of reconciliation with the Islamic countries.”

But Colonel Buchingham was not about to be diverted from his course, and he kept charging ahead.

“And what I was about to say was that last, but certainly not least,” the Colonel concluded, “it strikes me that you are talking about getting the U.S. government into the Islam business. Isn't that what you're really talking about here?”

Sharptin jumped in. “Colonel, I'm afraid you have made several flawed assumptions. We are not talking about the United States government officially promoting Islam. We are merely talking about fostering an atmosphere of tolerance toward the cultural traditions of our Muslim partners in peace. After all—who but the Arab nations themselves has the best opportunity to stop the terrorists within their own borders? The only thing the Arab nations lack is the
motivation
to do so. That's what we are talking about here. Simply providing the
motivation
to the Arab nations to do the policing within their own nations that we—as a separate Western nation—could not possibly have the right or the ability to do ourselves.”

Several members of the committee started talking among themselves excitedly.

A question was then raised regarding the nature of the weapon on the rented truck that was stopped the day before.

“Right there is another problem I've got,” Buchingham protested. “Do you realize that this operation is being pulled out of the hands of the military—and has been entirely co-opted by the FBI and the State Department? We have absolutely no intelligence on the nature of the weapon or device in the truck. That vehicle was whisked away before our Pentagon representatives had an opportunity to inspect it. We've been boot-kicked right out of the loop. This whole operation stinks.”

“Thank you for your enlightening comments, Colonel,” Sharptin commented, evoking a few chuckles from the group. “But I think that what we have got to focus on is this: By what means can we create a new way of thinking about the common ground between the rich tapestry of Islamic tradition—and the relatively young, but democratically vibrant traditions of the West? Let's all think on that—let's focus on possible answers to that question for our next meeting.”

The meeting was adjourned. Colonel Buchingham, as the others were leaving the room, leaned over to the center of the large conference table toward the starfish-shaped speakerphone in the middle of the table. He touched the ON button and the green light went on. He touched it again, and the light went off.

“I noticed,” the Colonel growled, “that the green light was off during our meeting. I presume, therefore, that there was no one else listening at the other end.”

“That sounds a little paranoid,” remarked Sharptin curtly.

“Sure,” Buchingham responded. “But a little paranoia builds a lot of national security. By the way, isn't this the same conference room that the Russians were bugging a couple of years ago?”

“You can rest assured that after that incident we had it swept for bugs. And we've doubled our security measures.”

“That'll make me sleep like a baby tonight,” Buchingham said. “It truly will.” Then he donned his cap, grabbed his briefcase, and exited the room.

Sharptin went over to the door of the conference room and locked it and then sat down at the long table and looked through his notes. He glanced at his watch. At exactly fifteen minutes to the hour he pushed the ON button of the speaker phone.

“He will speak to you now,” a female voice said.

“I'm ready,” Sharptin replied.

After two more minutes of silence a man's voice came on.

“Fine meeting, Kenneth, I'm pleased.”

“Thank you, sir. Did everything come through alright?”

“Reception was limited. A little too much echo. That Buchingham's a problem,” the voice said.

“I can handle him,” Sharptin responded, with a sense of bold reassurance.

“I hope so. I'll be in touch.”

“What's the timetable?” Sharptin asked.

“I'll let you know.”

“Things are moving quickly,” Sharptin said, with a little urgency in his voice.

“I don't like repeating myself. I said that I will be in touch.”

With that the voice was gone from the speakerphone. Sharptin sat for a minute at the conference table. He relished it all. And he particularly enjoyed the thought that he had confidential access to perhaps the most powerful man in the world.

Sharptin made his way back to his office. There was a letter lying on his desk that had been couriered to him from the White House Chief of Staff while he was in his committee meeting. Sharptin smiled. Perhaps things were moving faster than he had thought. The convention was twelve months away. The vice-president's colon cancer had come at an opportune time. He had been assured that he was on a short list of consideration by the President and the party leaders for the vice-presidential slot. The only downside had been his lack of name recognition. Yet he was confident that, too, was being remedied.

His years in Washington had taught him that two kinds of people could engender power in Washington—the feared and the revered.

Yes,
Kenneth Sharptin thought to himself.
And very soon, I shall be both.

9

W
ILL
C
HAMBERS ARRIVED AT THE OFFICE
a few minutes ahead of his conference time with Angus MacCameron so he could talk with his secretary.

Betty was there waiting for him, sitting at the reception desk with her arms crossed in front of her.

He had barely closed the door when Betty started in.

“I don't want any loss of benefits. No salary cut. Same hours. I want my financial package to be exactly the same as it was when I was being paid by the firm.”

“No argument from me,” Will replied, trying to be cheery.

“No offense, but are you going to be able to afford me?”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Will said, keeping up his usual confidence.

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“As I'm sure you noticed, the firm took our law clerk and our paralegal. They were put back in the Richmond office. I trust you are going to be taking on extra help. Because I am
not
going to double as a paralegal as well as a secretary, and whatever else.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“And just one more thing,” Betty said, her eyebrow slightly raised.

“What is it?”

“Well,” she said, “you're a connected guy. Tell me something.”

“Yeah?”

“Are we all going to be blown off the face of the earth?”

“Well, no, I don't think so. But this thing is scary, huh?”

“I was telling Teddy last night as we sat there watching the news, ‘Teddy, honey, we've had a good life together. But I don't want it to end in some kind of nuclear explosion.'”

“No, I know what you mean,” Will replied. “Nothing like being melted into the concrete to ruin your whole day.”

Just then Angus MacCameron walked in through the door. His daughter Fiona was with him.

Will stood looking at Fiona as she smoothed her hair back slightly. He searched momentarily for something to say, but failed. He wondered whether he had met her before. Yet he knew that could not be true. Whatever the connection was that he felt, he couldn't put his finger on it. He struggled to say something witty, but failed again, and only managed a wide smile.

“I hope you don't mind that I brought my daughter, Fiona, with me. Bob, her business manager, couldn't make it,” MacCameron said, looking for a response from Will.

Will was still studying Fiona when Betty chimed in.

“Please pardon the state of the office. They've taken the old lobby furniture away. We are…in the process of doing some reorganizing.”

“Refurnishing,” Will added.

“Well, shall we sit down and have a chat?” MacCameron said. “Somewhere where there is a chair?”

“Sure. Let's have a…chat.” Will replied smiling, and led them into the conference room.

He shook hands formally there. Fiona had small hands, but a firm grip. When he introduced himself to “Ms. MacCameron,” she smiled brightly. Will noticed that when Fiona smiled she had little dimples in both cheeks.

“MacCameron was my family name,” Fiona remarked. “But when I started performing I decided to take my Scottish clan name—Cameron. I go by Fiona Cameron.”

“That was my idea,” Reverend MacCameron interjected, smiling broadly at his daughter.

When they were settled in, Will led his client through the initial questioning. He started with his personal and family background. Then Will moved on to interrogate him a little more thoroughly about his professional credentials.

Will learned that MacCameron had been born in Glasgow, Scotland, to working class parents. He gave a little background on why the family, some two-hundred-fifty years before, had changed the family name from Cameron to MacCameron—to avoid retaliation by the English, who were at war with Scottish patriots at the time.

He was educated at Aberdeen University. He received further schooling, in archaeology, at the University of Edinburgh, where he did
some teaching while he was pursuing his graduate degree. He did not complete his studies—moving instead to the United States. Once in America he received both a master's in Biblical Archaeology and a Master of Divinity from the College of the Piedmont in West Virginia. Later he became an assistant pastor of a small church in Pennsylvania, but after only a few years he left there and did some teaching and a little freelance writing for a few religious periodicals.

Then he founded his own archaeological magazine,
Digging for Truth
. It had started on a shoestring budget, but slowly he built up a following. Later he was able to move to Israel, where he and his wife settled into a small apartment in Jerusalem. MacCameron would scurry around to various digs and report back to his readers on them. He openly admitted that he was not well-received by the other archaeologists in Israel. And he was even less well-received by the academics back in the United States.

The only notable exception was a close friendship with a noted expert in Semitic languages and Middle Eastern history by the name of Dr. Richard Hunter. Hunter had worked for the British Museum but spent a considerable amount of time in Israel and the surrounding countries. MacCameron and Hunter had become good friends while they were students at the University of Edinburgh. They had remained close right up to the time of Hunter's death, which had occurred within the last year. Hunter had been found, shot in the head, in his tiny field office in Jerusalem.