Chapter One
In a clear blue sky, a blimp drifted slowly, high above a crowded football stadium in Arkansas. The pilot said to his co-pilot: “Man, I ain’t seen so many people here before!”
“It’s crazy! Who is this guy anyway?”
“Some zany preacher, they’re sayin’”
In the centre of the stadium a stage had been set up, up-on which stood a tall, white, handsome man, mid-30s; a hint of grey at the temples. He was wearing a long open black jacket, plain black shirt and black pants, no tie. His name was John Baptiste. He was surrounded by a massive crowd of people in the stands and on the football ground itself, all listening to him in rapture. He was coming to the end of his speech:
“... There has never been a time in history where the people of the world could live as one.
There has never been a time in history when all the people of the world could learn as one.
There has never been a time in history when the people of the world could be free.
That time has come!”
A thunderous roar of voices and clapping broke out around the stadium. John bestowed upon them a gentle smile and waited until the crowd fell silent again. It was a smile that warmed men’s hearts and made women swoon.
“It is time for all races to join together in harmony.
It is time for all religions not to let bigotry and hatred rule, but to love each other for our differences.
It is time for all governments of the world to take re-sponsibility, not only for this generation, but for all gener-ations to come.
To leave the world a better place for our children and our children’s children.
Greed and power can no longer serve the people of the world. There must be a time of reckoning.
That time is now!”
John began to wind up his address:
“… and so, my brothers and sisters, go in peace, but speak to your politicians. Thank you and goodbye.”
John Baptiste’s sister, Maria, who had kept a quiet vigil at the back of the stage, now joined him and together they moved to the steps of the stage. The audience erupted with wild applause. John smiled at them. The applause grew louder. They stepped down from the stage and were mobbed by the crowd as they made their slow way off the field, with the help of half-a-dozen minders.
The crowd went wild with their applause. The roar of two-hundred-thousand voices soared into the air, reaching the blimp, where even over the noise of the engines the pilot and co-pilot could hear.
“Well, hell, that guy must be some kinda speaker!” said the co-pilot.
“You got that right!” the pilot replied.
Two cameramen and a soundman were busy at the slop-ing windows, filming the action below. Suddenly, the crowd in the centre began to move outward from the stage. From this height, it looked like a bubble forming. The cameras zoomed in to reveal John Baptiste and Maria de-scending from the stage and followed them as they headed to an exit, leaving a trail of people in their wake.
Washington DC
The White House was bathed in sunshine. Green lawns and ornate flower beds adorned the forefront. Squirrels ran about, or climbed trees; some stopped abruptly and looked around to see what wonders beheld their interests. Butter-flies fluttered by. Bees hovered over flower heads before descending to load their legs with pollen. Small birds dart-ed here and there, looking for insects. It was a scene of tranquillity on a warm, sunny morning at 1600 Pennsylva-nia Avenue, Washington DC.
In the Oval Office, the President, Lionel Jansen, late fif-ties, balding, creased face, and his secretary, Mary Master-son, forties, streaked hair, wild glasses, big earrings, watched John’s telecast on a large flat-screen television.
The President laughed “He’s good. Who’s his speech-writer? I could use him!”
“I believe he writes his own, Mister President,”
“Talented, too! Do you believe all that stuff, Mary?
“Well, sir, he does make a lot of sense...”
George Kransky, the White House Chief of Staff, fifty years old, with the face of a boxer and the air of a pugna-cious bulldog, knocked on the door and entered the office.
“Hi, George,” said the president. “You been watching this?
“Yes, Mister President,” Kransky replied.
“What do you think of him? Mary, here, seems to think he’s pretty special.”
Mary demurred.
“Naive hogwash, if you ask me, sir. Another do-gooder who knows nothing about how the world is run.”
Mary frowned with annoyance.
“Ah, democracy in action!” said the president, then turned to Mary. “Tell him I’d like to meet him.”
“You might have to get on a waiting list, Mister Presi-dent.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, sir. He’s always flying off somewhere...”
The television now showed a retrospective of John Baptiste’s travels around the world. The President and Mary watched with differing degrees of interest. Kransky looked sceptical.
Tehran - Mehrabad/Qualeh Morgeh airport – Iran.
The footage showed John being greeted at the foot of the stairs of the plane by Irani dignitaries. He was smiling and bowing to everyone to whom he was introduced.
Along the main thoroughfares of Tehran, a motorcade carrying John travelled slowly past vast crowds, as the en-thusiastic people lined the streets to welcome him. He was smiling and waving to them.
Mary said: “They loved him in Iran, sir.”
“How come we haven’t seen him before?”
“Well, we have, actually, sir. He’s been preaching his word for years. It’s just now that he seems to have struck a nerve with people all over the world.”
The President turned to Kransky. “Could he be trou-ble?”
“Don’t know, yet, sir. The Secret Service has put a watch on him. Top Priority.”
Mary frowned again at Kransky.
“He was in China last month, sir,” she said, in faint hopes of finding support from her boss. “Oh, look, it’s on China now.”
China - Beijing - Tiananmen Square
The television footage showed John surrounded by adoring followers. Surly armed soldiers watched close by.
“They went crazy for him there,” said Mary.
“Where were the tanks?” said Kransky, with a smirk on his face.
The telecast still played in the background.
Mary said to Kransky: “Perhaps words are more pow-erful, sir.”
“Touché! Got him there, Mary,” said the president.
“He could turn out to be a headache for us, Mister Pres-ident.”
“Oh, come on, George! You’re overreacting.”
“Not at all, sir. He could undermine many of the foreign programmes we’ve got planned.”
“Nonsense! He’s just another bible-basher. He’s harm-less.”
All three continued to watch the telecast.
“He did a tour of Israel, as you can see,” said Mary.
Jerusalem
John walking among crowds of followers through the ancient city.
“They almost crushed him with their excitement, sir,” Mary continued.
The coverage on the television now changed.
River Ganges, India
John, knee-deep in the river, talking to thousands of In-dian pilgrims, pressing his palms together and bowing to each person he meets.
“ ... and they practically adopted him as one of their own in India.”
Kransky was underwhelmed. The President was amused to be in the middle of the other two, like an egger-on with two combatants.
Mary persisted with her running commentary. “Every-where he goes, Africa, Europe, Russia, South America, they all love him. Some say he’s the reincarnation of John the Baptist…”
Kransky couldn’t contain himself any longer. “That’s just plain stupid! How can you believe this rubbish, Mary?”
“Well, sir, wait and see.”
The President now frowned. “He sure got under my ra-dar.”
“I believe he’s off to the Vatican next week,” Mary pressed on.
Kransky was downright surly now. “Who’s giving an audience to whom?”
The President laughed. Mary ignored the remark.
“... and then he’s off to Nepal, sir.”
“Where’s he get the money for all this?” Kransky asked.
“Donations, sir.”
“I knew it! Just like all those other tele-evangelists, eh? Make a fortune from the gullible, is that it?”
“No, sir, he donates everything other than his expenses to charities all over the world.”
Kransky was frustrated. The President, disturbed now, looked at the image of John on the screen. His summit meeting with the Russian president and the British prime minister was looming and maybe this would be a good time to bring up the case of the rampant preacher.
