The Light In the Garden: A Haley and Willi Novel

By Larry M. Rosen

Haley, suicidal after Willi’s death, joins a CIA mission, then finds her alive in the hands of slavers. As both face death, his alter ego returns to kill her captors. Then past events intrude. Valen, a Gnostic, forges a letter in Jesus’ name, then Cesare Borgia adapts it. Centuries later, the letter involves John McCone, J. Edgar Hoover, four U.S. Presidents, Judy Garland, and Haley’s CIA mentor, George Durell. In 2000, Pope John Paul II receives the letter, then asks the U.S. for help. But The Order Of The Gnostic Cross, Church Of Triantology, and Raven H2O have their own plans, as does female spy Jasus al-Mara, who enlists the aid of al-Qaeda terrorist Karbala. Meanwhile, the shadowy Cluster pulls everyone’s strings, the unknown Termagant plots to destroy TGC, and a monster carves TINPLUFORPLE on the torsos of little girls. When a letter from George Durell surfaces, Haley and Willi again face violent foes, but this time they have help—serial killers Maxine Kordell and Mena Harling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329579927

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The Light In the Garden: A Haley and Willi Novel

The Light In The Garden: A Haley and Willi Novel

By

Larry M. Rosen

Cover Page

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2011 by Larry M. Rosen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This Book Is

PUBLISHED BY LULU

(www.lulu.com)

First Edition: April 2011

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, companies, other organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN 978-1-329-57992-7

The author and publisher do not have any control over, and do not assume any responsibility for, third-party websites or their content.

Novels By Larry M. Rosen

The Haley And Willi Novels

Joker In The Deck

The Light In The Garden

A Shadow That Passes Away

Seal, Trumpet, And Vial

Cultural Landscapes

The Maxine Kordell Novels

I, Of Limited Mercy

The Nora Kelly Novels

Maranatha

The Emissary Novels

The Elixir Of Fools

Other Novels

Women Don’t Like Me

Acknowledgments

I'd like to acknowledge friends and colleagues whose names I modified and used for several characters — Tom Coker, my first mentor at work and in life, who was best man at my wedding and made me a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan; Ed Urquhart, my neighbor and friend, who saved me from flash floods caused by faulty plumbing, and neutralized the threat of falling Leyland Cypress trees by improving my dubious tree staking methodology; Larry Klapper, who taught me the fundamentals of relational databases, and learned the horrors of eating frozen dinners while his wife, Zenaida, was out of town; Germana Miner, who provided two recipes for dessert pizza, which were used by George Durell as code words for his meeting with Giuseppe Tramantano; Cindy Flint, who learned that when you work half time at a client site, it's an 80 hours per week shift; Barbara Singer Pisarski, who would have been amused — perhaps — at being the inspiration for Haley's mother; John Dutcher, a second mentor and my Tae Kwon Do instructor long ago, who broadened my understanding of many things; AnnaSara Dahlborg Carnahan, a talented and rather cool (her word) analyst and black belt in Tae Kwon Do; Joe Faris, COTR of the long ago Gaps And Barriers In Services To Native American Communities project for the Administration For Native Americans; Georgette Grossman, a nonpareil publications specialist, without whom a certain military logistics group would surely become a Tower Of Babel; Nora Mayers — Willi's namesake and my writing soul mate — who elevates the ethos of each firm at which she works, but is also a woman to be feared, after giving Nora Kelly the recipe for shish kebob; and especially Michelle Kordell, the most dangerous woman on the planet, who has every right to be displeased with my depiction of the eponymous Maxine Kordell's murderous tendencies — Max is not nearly so deadly as MK.

A special thanks to my daughter, Samantha, who provided review and comment on draft versions. And as she did for my first four novels, Sam provided invaluable critiques and suggestions about the dust cover and book layout.

Dedication

To those ecumenical persons who seek to promote mutual understanding and friendship among the world's religions and non-believers, yet do so without compromising their own beliefs.

To the men who have held the Office of President of the United States — able or not, decent or venal — for its responsibilities are staggering, its realities humbling, and its exigencies a wind that blows intended goals and priorities in unanticipated directions.

And, as always, for the two women who moved me to write — Nora Mayers and Michelle Ingrid Williams II.

Author's Note

The fictional characters Micah David, Ethan Duke, Barry Stovall, Jett Glide, Letty House, Travis John, Peighton Kyle, Marion Patterson, Elmer Grantham, Ellen Thom, and Carla Gretch are solely the author's creation. Although some of their personal traits and history are loosely based on, respectively, The Church Of Scientology's David Miscavige, Erik Prince of Blackwater, Lawrence Stowe of the Stowe Biotherapy Medical Oasis, actor Tom Cruise, actress Katie Holmes, actor John Travolta, actress Kelly Preston, religious broadcaster Pat Robertson, evangelist Billy Graham, White House Press Corps member Helen Thomas, and Fox Network's Gretchen Carlson, these characters are all pure fiction. In some instances, their words are portions of direct quotes attributed to their real life counterparts by various Internet sources. In other instances, some of their words are the author's paraphrases of reported quotes. In most instances, the words spoken by these characters are entirely the author's invention.

Valentinus was indeed an early Gnostic teacher, but his ancestor, Valen, is an entirely fictional character created by the author.

Although Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin did work together in February 1962 on one of Judy's CBS Specials, the remainder of their meeting and conversation is pure fiction, and its timing was moved to late 1962. Likewise, Judy's meetings with President John F. Kennedy and Director of Central Intelligence John McCone are solely the author's creation. Some quotes attributed to Judy by Internet sources have been used or paraphrased by the author.

The Camp David meeting between John F. Kennedy and J. Edgar Hoover is solely the author's creation. The Oval Office meeting between Lyndon B. Johnson and J. Edgar Hoover uses or paraphrases several Internet quotes attributed to Johnson, but most of the conversation reflects the author's imagination. The Oval Office meeting between Richard M. Nixon and J. Edgar Hoover is a composite of actual and paraphrased dialog contained in an audio tape recording of a telephone conversation between the men, Nixon quotes from various Internet sources, and the author's imagination. The author moved the timing of part of the telephone conversation from 1971 to 1969.

The meeting between Ronald Wilson Reagan and Richard Nixon at Rancho Del Cielo is solely the author's creation. Portions of Reagan's dialogue use or paraphrase quotes attributed to Reagan, Bette Davis, and Humphrey Bogart by various Internet sources.

The meeting between George H. W. Bush and George W. Bush in The Oval Office is solely the author's creation. Portions of Dubya's dialogue use or paraphrase quotes attributed to him by various Internet sources.

The meetings between Osama Bin Laden and various al-Qaeda members are pure fiction, but some of Osama's dialogue uses or paraphrases quotes attributed to him by various Internet sources.

The first meeting in The Oval Office between George W. Bush and Haley and Willi uses or paraphrases quotes attributed to Dubya by various Internet sources.

The various meetings in The Oval Office attended by George W. Bush, Haley and Willi, and some combination of Dick Cheney, Colin Powell, Condoleezza Rice, and Donald Rumsfeld are solely the author's creation, although portions of dialogue involving Bush, Rice, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Powell use or paraphrase quotes attributed to them by various Internet sources.

The meeting between Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Jasus al-Mara is pure fiction, but some of Ahmadinejad's dialogue uses or paraphrases quotes attributed to him by various Internet sources.

The verse quoted by Mena Harling is based on the first six lines of a poem written by Ashlee Kilbourn, which I found on the Internet. The saying quoted by Mena Harling was written by S. Brewer, and also found on the Internet.

The five course French dinner served to The Tracer and The Tiler was based on information provided at the wiseGEEK web site. The Italian gourmet meal they enjoyed is based on a Community Wine Dinner offering by Costa Mesa's Old Vine Café.

Lest I fuel yet another conspiracy theory, let me assure readers that the deaths of Pope John XXIII, Judy Garland, and John McCone were not cleverly disguised murders committed by The Feculent.

Preamble

No one lights a lamp and puts it in a place where it will be hidden, or under a bowl. Instead he puts it on its stand, so that those who come in may see the light.

Jesus, Luke 8:16

For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book. If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book. And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book.

Revelation, 22:18-19

The great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie — deliberate, contrived and dishonest — but the myth — persistent, persuasive and unrealistic.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy

When vexed, go find something and kill it.

Mantra of 3-M

PROLOGUE

2,000 Years Ago

Garden Of Gethsemane

Mount Of Olives

VALEN STOOD ALONE IN THE GARDEN, waiting, thinking, his thoughts consumed by hatred. He had come to the Garden of Gethsemane, located on the Mount of Olives outside the eastern wall of Jerusalem, to kill a man he perceived to be The Messenger of the evil God of the Hebrews.

Valen knelt, unseen, in the shadows of the Garden, his hand on a dagger, waiting for the heretic to come. Jesus. Valen almost spat the name. This rabbi threatened Valen's infant church.

Valen heard footsteps. He saw his target approach alone, then begin praying. Valen waited and watched, trying to find the right moment to strike.

After a time, the rabbi rose, then walked away. Valen listened, barely able to hear the rabbi's voice. The rabbi was berating three disciples for falling asleep, after they'd been told to remain vigilant.

More footsteps, and now, new voices. Valen, still in the shadows, crept closer. A man he knew appeared. Judas, one of the disciples. Accompanying him was a large crowd of men, some of whom he thought might be soldiers and priests, perhaps the Sanhedrin police force.

Then all were gone, the Garden suddenly silent again.

Valen longed to follow, then take his dagger and end the usurper's life. No. Control your rage. Doing so would martyr the man, increase his sway tenfold, perhaps deal a fatal blow to the new religion Valen and his circle wished to inspire. Think long term. Curb your hatred. Be wily. Turn your enemy's gifts against him. Think long term. Always long term.

Valen remembered something else the rabbi had said.

No one lights a lamp and puts it in a place where it will be hidden, or under a bowl. Instead he puts it on its stand, so that those who come in may see the light.

He, Valen, would create a lamp. Its light would illuminate The One Truth, long after the usurper and the Hebrews were dust, and their heresies were no longer even a whisper.

Valen reached into a worn sack he carried, and removed three items — a reed cut to a point, which would serve as a pen; a papyrus scroll; and a small vessel containing a permanent ink compounded from lampblack, glue, and water. He began to write in Aramaic.

100 - 160

Rome, Seat Of The Papacy

Valentinus, born in 100 AD, went on to become an early Christian Gnostic theologian, a rather successful one for a period of time. His teachings spoke of three types of people — spiritual, psychical, and material. Only the truly spiritual — his followers, naturally — could receive the knowledge needed to return to the Pleroma, the totality of all that humans understood to be divine. This knowledge was called the gnosis, hence the derivative words Gnostic and Gnosticism. According to his teachings, psychical people — that is, ordinary Christians — would achieve a lesser form of salvation. People of a materialistic nature — pagans and Jews — would simply perish.

Followers of Valentinus claimed he was a disciple of Theudas, who had earlier followed Saint Paul, nee Saul of Tarsus. Valentinus said Theudas had revealed to him the secret teachings Paul had imparted to his inner circle, which Paul publicly tied to his visionary encounter with the risen Christ.

Over time, Valentinus amassed a large following, his teachings becoming the most widely spread of all forms of Gnosticism. Nevertheless, he was denied the position of bishop, and subsequently left the Catholic Church. The reason commonly given was pique, which he gladly confirmed. Valentinus' motives, however, were quite different.

Valentinus was a descendent of Valen, hence the derivative name. His purpose had always been to start a new church, a Gnostic church, his church. But to accomplish that, he had to discredit, then replace, Catholicism. Valentinus had hoped to reach this goal by subverting the Catholic Church from within, using the position and power of bishop to subtly — and even secretly — sway his flock to embrace a new set of Scriptures, eventually instigating a theological rebellion within the Church.

This was all largely in accordance with Valen's original plan, conceived at Gethsemane, and developed further during Valen's lifetime by what was now the Gnostic movement. But Valen and his early followers had erred badly, grossly underestimating the staying power of the disciples of Christ. They had not withered and died after Jesus' crucifixion at the hands of the Romans, which Valen had assumed to be a given. Rather, despite some desperate moments, Jesus' disciples had not only endured, but had gone forth and spread their heretic Gospels across the Roman Empire. Unchecked, Valentinus understood, this new Christianity would soon convert Rome itself, with its promise of salvation and eternal life in exchange for no more than one's faith in Christ.

Blasphemy, Valentinus thought to himself. And worse, this new theology didn't supplant the evil God of the Hebrews. Rather, it claimed to fulfill the Hebrew prophecies and establish the kingdom of that very God under the resurrected Jesus.

It would be harder now, Valentinus mused, without the cover of the Church. Difficult, however, did not mean impossible. There was still the forged letter — Valen's masterpiece of deceit.

Think long term. Be wily. Use the shadows. Let your presence be felt, though hidden. Think long term. Always long term.

1503 - 1507

Italy And Spain

Roderic Llançol was born on January 1, 1431. Later in life, he was known as Roderic de Borja i Borja, commonly referred to in Italian as Rodrigo Borgia. Rodrigo studied law in Bologna, then, after his uncle was elected pope, served as bishop, cardinal, and vice chancellor of the Catholic Church. On August 11, 1492, Rodrigo became Pope Alexander VI. Seeking to control the Sacred College of Cardinals, Rodrigo created twelve new cardinals, then appointed his son, Cesare, eighteen years old, to one of these positions.

Cesare Borgia's primary life goals were to increase his personal wealth and secular power. During a lifetime of deceit, treachery, and murder, he largely accomplished them.

But Cesare was a pragmatist. He understood his successes had been the fruit of his ability to manipulate, betray, and murder his opponents, creating each time a new cadre of enemies dedicated to his destruction. So sooner or later, no matter his wiles, he would become the vanquished, a rotting corpse no different than the body of Rodrigo, displayed in all its disease-ridden putrescence, so the multitudes could gaze on their dead pope. Cesare shivered at the thought.

He would need something that made men willingly flock to his side, something he could offer, beyond bribes or threats, that they wanted, even needed. He was contemplating his dilemma when he happened to look at the wall, where a painting of Jesus hung.

Cesare had commissioned the painting some years earlier, when the broad outlines of a plan had first occurred to him. The artist, working in strict secrecy, had been instructed to make Jesus closely resemble Cesare. Naturally, the artist was murdered immediately after the painting was completed. Cesare prided himself on never leaving a trail, and besides, the assassin had cost a lot less than the artist's commission.

Cesare also had a letter, purportedly written by Jesus at Gethsemane, actually penned by a man named Valen, then, later, embellished by Valentinus, a Gnostic teacher. Cesare took out a handwritten copy of the letter, read it once more, then looked up at the painting of Jesus again. Cesare became pensive for a long while, then, slowly, he began to smile.

This could be interesting, he said, aloud.

Cesare wrote down his plan, so he could carefully review it, looking for something he might have failed to consider. He always created such a working paper, then, when he was finished, burned it. He had incorporated much of what had been falsely written in the ancient letter. He smiled again at the audacity and intellect behind the original forgery. Not quite up to his standards, of course, but still worthy of a silent tribute.

Outside events, however, interrupted what Cesare believed to be his crowning plot. On his way to Romagna to put down a revolt, Cesare was captured and imprisoned, his lands subsequently taken by the Papal States. In 1504, he was exiled to Spain, but later escaped and came under the protection of his brother-in-law, King John III of Navarre. In 1507, Cesare was killed during the siege of Viana. He was 31 years old.

The draft of Cesare's brilliant plan remained among his possessions, intact and undisturbed, until centuries later, its possibilities appealed to someone perhaps even more devious.

OF PRESIDENTS AND POPES

From The Pontiff To Jack

1962

The White House

Washington, D.C.

PRESIDENT JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY wasn't sure he should be livid or terrified. He'd been livid about the Bay Of Pigs fiasco, although he'd survived it politically. He'd been terrified, though outwardly calm, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, as he faced down the Russians and brought the world back from the brink of nuclear war. But this was different, would tear the country apart, and probably Europe as well — if it was true. He reread the English translation again. His mind tried to reject what was before him, but the source was unimpeachable, if, indeed, the source had truly written the contents contained in the document.

Jack Kennedy had received a telephone call from Francis Joseph Cardinal Spellman, Archbishop of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York, a position he had held since 1939. JFK had taken the call with some trepidation, since Spellman had supported Richard Nixon in the 1960 General Election. Spellman had been close with JFK's father for years, and had even presided over the weddings of Robert and Ted Kennedy. Nevertheless, Spellman had backed Nixon over the Catholic Kennedy, largely because JFK opposed federal aid for parochial schools, and opposed appointing an ambassador to the Holy See. JFK was surprised, therefore, to find the Archbishop warmly cordial, as he told the President he had couriered a message from the Pope, along with a letter. Both were solely for JFK's eyes only. Even Spellman had been forbidden to read either missive.

The courier had delivered a sealed package to The White House, where it was expected, so it was delivered to JFK within minutes of its arrival. JFK had removed the contents, then carried them to his private quarters, where he could comfortably read the documents without fear of being disturbed.

Kennedy read both documents, then reread them. His emotions wavered between anger and panic.

President Kennedy read, for a third time, the Pope's message to him.

President Kennedy,

I hope this note finds you in good health and good spirits. I fear this will no longer be so, once you have read the remainder of my note and the enclosed letter.

A month ago, a letter was couriered to me from a friend and priest. The priest was approached by a beggar while he was strolling in a local park. The beggar gave him a sealed package containing a letter, told him not to open it, insisted it be sent to me for my eyes only, then promised to murder the priest and his entire family should he either open the sealed package or fail to deliver it to me. The priest did as the beggar demanded, alerting me about what had happened, after which I had the letter studied, translated, copied, and later couriered to Cardinal Spellman.

The letter — the fragile original written in Aramaic on papyrus and stored in a sealed container — is signed by Jesus. The container, Papyrus, syntax, and phrasing were thoroughly reviewed in secret by several Biblical and historical scholars, whose loyalty to me is beyond question. They were unable to conclude that the letter was a forgery, or unequivocally certify its authenticity.

The letter's contents are rather extraordinary, and, whether real or a forgery, pose a major threat to the Church, other religions, and perhaps even world peace. You know me not to be a man given to hyperbole or flights of fancy. So believe me when I tell you these are very deep waters.

Read the letter, Mister President, then try to determine its legitimacy, who sent it, and for what purpose. You are far better suited to do this than the Vatican. I will assist you in any way I can.

From The Vatican, 9 November, 1962

John XXIII

JFK pondered the letter for quite some time. His options, it seemed to him, were limited. He was stuck. The CIA was in the best position to do what was necessary, but Kennedy didn't trust the agency, and had been seriously considering dismantling it after the Bay Of Pigs fiasco.

I want to splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces, and scatter it into the winds, JFK recalled saying.

Still, Kennedy decided, it was bad form, possibly even incompetence, to sully an entire agency for the poor judgment exercised by some of its leadership. Kennedy understood that many of the top men at the CIA had served during World War II, a war of survival, where you did what was necessary to win. There were few true friends during that war, except perhaps the British. There were only alliances. The U.S. had even bailed out the Soviets, then praised their leader, Josef Stalin, a mass murderer whose body count greatly exceeded the prolific Adolf Hitler. Uncle Joe, the U.S. had called the monster. When the war ended, Uncle Joe expanded the Soviet Empire using the same tool as the Nazis — the jackboot, then stole the Atomic Bomb. The world had been on the brink ever since.

The CIA elders had matured in a time when you had to do what was expedient, if you wanted to survive. If that meant supporting dictators like Stalin, you did it. Long term strategy was for academics. Short term thinking was in vogue, if you wanted to survive to enjoy the luxury of thinking long term.

But the world had changed. The clarity of World War II was a relic of history. JFK thought about the assassination of Admiral Yamamoto, soon after the Japanese code had been cracked. That had been lauded as a major wartime accomplishment, robbing the Japanese of a talented military leader. Today, JFK mused, the ACLU and others would decry such a tactic.

So Kennedy believed he understood the CIA ancients and their methods, even their subservience to the goals of their masters in industry. And he largely did. His father, Joseph Kennedy, was one of them, a willful, strong, and sometimes vengeful man, with a world view JFK generally shared, if perhaps less dogmatically.

Quite suddenly, President Kennedy found himself thinking about the recent CIA leadership.

Allen Welsh Dulles had been Director of the CIA for almost nine years. He was an icon in the intelligence community. Dulles had been appointed by the legendary William Wild Bill Donovan to serve as head of operations in New York for the Coordinator Of Information (COI), located in Room 3603 at Rockefeller Center, which had earlier housed Britain's MI6. COI later became the Office Of Strategic Services — OSS, which later morphed into the CIA. In February 1953, Dulles became the first civilian CIA Director, appointed by newly elected President, Dwight David Eisenhower.

During JFK's early years, Dulles became the focus of much criticism, after the Bay Of Pigs, the failed assassination of Fidel Castro using CIA operatives recruited from the Mafia, and his endorsement of corrupt regimes the CIA had installed in Iran and Guatemala, although each regime was decidedly pro-American. In September 1961, Dulles was forced to resign.

In November 1961, JFK appointed John Alex McCone as Director Of Central Intelligence. Kennedy selected McCone, a Republican, partly because of his detailed knowledge of nuclear weapons issues. McCone, correctly suspicious of Soviet intentions to deploy missiles in Cuba, showed his independence from the CIA party line when he disparaged optimistic CIA intelligence assessments in this regard.

Despite his general antipathy towards the CIA, JFK decided to place his trust in McCone's agency. The problem was whom to entrust to serve as liaison. The material was potentially inflammatory, and its theological ramifications might even lead some to betray him. Using Bobby was definitely a non-starter. Robert Kennedy flat out distrusted the CIA and FBI, and was often at rather harsh odds with the heads of the two agencies. Kenneth O'Donnell, a Special Adviser and Appointments Secretary to JFK, was just too busy, serving as de facto Chief Of Staff. Ted Sorenson, co-author of JFK's Profiles In Courage, served as Special Counselor and Adviser, and was JFK's principal speech writer. Likewise, too much on his plate.

But even more important was the need for secrecy, something JFK had already learned was often impossible in a town that thrived on leaks and gossip. The appearance of a White House insider at CIA Headquarters would draw unwanted attention, as would a high ranking CIA official's presence in The Oval Office. And The White House kept a log of everyone visiting. So meetings would have to be held outside The White House and away from Langley, unless there was a plausible reason for the liaison to be there.

And the liaison couldn't be irresponsible or an egomaniac, seeing the mission as an opportunity for some form of immortality. Above all, the liaison had to be trustworthy, a quality in scarce supply. Betrayers weren't always venal. Some believed their treachery actually served the President's and nation's best interest. So JFK tried to find a person who was unquestionably loyal to him, wouldn't go off on an ego trip, wouldn't arouse suspicion if visiting Langley or The White House, and wasn't undependable.

Undependable. An idea struck the President. JFK laughed out loud, then. It felt good to laugh. He had found the perfect liaison, someone who could plausibly visit The Oval Office and CIA Headquarters without raising suspicion among journalists, politicos, or spies. But JFK also knew the person he planned to recruit was often quite undependable, so there'd be a decided risk. JFK laughed again. Bobby would be furious at the idea, but Teddy, well, he'd find it hilarious.

Good Old, Undependable Judy

Television City

Hollywood, California

FRANK SINATRA, STANDING IN THE center of a soundstage, was in a happy mood, not an insignificant thing for a manic depressive who could suddenly turn angry at the slightest provocation or change in the weather. And why not. He was in good voice, and felt like singing. Dean Martin would soon join him at rehearsal, too, so it promised to be a fun day.

They were there for one of Judy Garland's CBS TV specials, aired after her Carnegie Hall triumph. There were even rumors Judy might soon get her own CBS variety show. Frank hoped so. Heaven knows, Judy needed a break. Her so-called managers had stolen most of the money she made on her recent concert tour, so she was broke again. Judy was always broke. Frank's mood suddenly darkened. If the bastards had done that to him, one call to Momo and the two managers would have been floaters in the Hoboken River. Since Frank had been born in Hoboken, the fuckers in the biz would have gotten the message.

Frank brightened again. Judy always made him laugh. They were two of a kind. And, like Dean and he, Judy hated to rehearse. They were red light performers. When it counted, they delivered what Judy called Pow.

Hello, pally, a tanned and healthy looking Dean Martin said, smiling broadly at his buddy.

You look terrible, Frank said, playfully.

Only because I haven't taken my vitamins yet, Dean said.

Dean feigned a sick expression, lit a cigarette, pulled out a small flask, then took a quick swallow.

Oh, yeah, Dean chirped, breaking Frank up.

Must be watermelon juice from Sam, Frank said.

Fermented by Jilly, Dean replied.

Who we'll be seeing in New York in the wee small hours, Frank said, drawing out the last three words.

What about that new movie you mentioned? Dean asked. Get the green light yet?

Almost there, Frank said.

You called it a Damon Runyan type gig, Dean recalled.

Pretty good memory for a soused bum in a thousand dollar suit. Yeah. We'll be playing Chicago hoods, who get double crossed by a broad.

Perfect script for a musical, Dean joked.

You'll love it. If all goes smooth, Sam'll be in it. And Bing, too.

Uh, nothin' for Peter? Dean asked, nervously.

No, Frank said, his eyes going cold.

Dean knew better than to pursue the topic.

Hey, gorgeous, Frank said, brightening as Judy appeared. You're lookin' good for an old broad.

Judy beamed at the back handed compliment. Judy always beamed at praise, even if faint. She hugged Frank, kissing him on the mouth. She did the same for Dean.

What are we doin' first? Frank asked.

The opening number, Judy said. A medley of Let There Be Love and You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You.

Judith, can I tell the audience that Dean looks terrible? Frank asked.

Why Francis, you know I'll let you do anything, Judy said, feigning a lascivious expression.

That's why I love you, Frances, Frank said. And you are looking good. You've lost weight.

About a hundred pounds, Judy exaggerated. Two hundred more to go.

How are your kidneys these days? Frank asked, suddenly serious.

I'm okay, Frank. And now my weight's gonna melt away, since I'm not sick anymore.

Will you be able to booze it up again? Frank asked.

Only with you and Dean.

Then here's a little present, Frank said, motioning to an aid sitting in a corner of the sound stage, who quickly brought over a large gift wrapped box.

It's heavy, Judy said, her 4'11 frame having difficulty lifting the box. Must be a fat inflatable nighttime companion, with my face on it."

Frank laughed, then nodded to the aid, who immediately opened the box.

A case of Liebfraumilch, Judy squealed. My favorite. You remembered.

You're my best girl, Judith. Well, you and Marilyn.

How is she?

Up and down.

Just like me, Judy said. I'll call her.

Yeah, Frank said, no longer smiling. Uh, how 'bout we start the number before Dino falls asleep.

Let me get Mort, then we'll do it, Judy said.

Judy was just walking off when a telephone sounded, then a young guy ran in to tell her there was a call. He told her she could take it right there, indicating a phone off to the side. Judy picked up, listened, mentioned she was with Frank and Dean, laughed several times, then began singing Over The Rainbow.

That can only be Chickee Baby, Frank said, smiling broadly. He's always asking Judy to sing that.

Jack sends his regards, Judy said, rejoining them. He said he'd see both of you soon, in the sauna.

Frank and Dean broke up.

If Nixon had used a sauna, he'd be President, Dean said.

Republicans don't get laid, Frank said. They have discourse, followed by no recourse, followed by intercourse.

Of course, Dean said.

Frank broke up again, then leaned on Dean, both his hands on Dean's shoulder.

Let's go, Judy said, her tone suddenly all business.

The White House

Washington, D.C.

You made it, JFK said, and on time.

Good old, undependable Judy did something right. What a shock.

How are the kids?

Lorna and Joey are still my babies. Liza's growing up fast — too fast. She may wind up like her Doctor Frankenstein mom. Still, she's my annuity, you know.

Still berating yourself, then trying to cover it up with self-deprecating humor.

You doubt my Boris Karloff tendencies, Judy said, twisting her arm in a weird way while making a grotesque face.

JFK burst out laughing at her antics.

I owe Frank and you a lot, the President said. It was a very close election, and the campaigning you both did for me helped.

We love you, Jack. You know that. Any time, any place. You name it, we'll be there. Besides, who would want Nixon, when you can have a sex symbol named Chickee Baby carrying that black box with the red button into a sauna.

Frank has been talking again, Kennedy said, laughing. Imagine if Everett Dirksen learned of this. Imagine if Nixon or J. Edgar found out. Well, Edgar probably already knows.

Hoover's an ass, Judy said. It was preposterous to accuse Frank Sinatra of being a communist.

Frank loves expensive suits too much to ever be a commie. But Edgar doesn't like Frank's support of civil rights. And the Sam and May Britt thing drives Edgar up a wall.

Hoover probably drives to the wall wearing an Edith Head gown.

So you know about that, JFK said, again laughing.

MGM had more agents than the FBI. Mister Mayer knew everything about anybody who had power or money.

Still calling him Mister. He's been out as MGM head for what, a decade, and he's been dead for five years.

I spent half my life there, Jack. I can still hear that s-o-b calling me his little hunchback.

In a hundred years, nobody will recall who Louis B. Mayer was, Judy. But they'll still remember you.

Really, Jack? You think so?

People of all ages love you, Judy.

That's the Dorothy and Toto thing. If they ever make a successful remake, I'll be stashed in mothballs.

"Judy, it's more than Oz. It's your incredible voice. It's Meet Me In St. Louis, The Clock, and even Andy Hardy. For guys in foxholes during World War II, you and those idyllic films about home meant a lot."

Those guys were thinking about screwing Lana Turner, not Judy the Munchkin.

Those guys were hanging on to those wonderful images of you on the trolley. That's what they were fighting for.

I still think they were dreaming about boinking Lana, although I'll grant you there's a helluva lot more legroom in the back of a trolley than a Ford.

Kennedy laughed again.

You touch people when you sing, Judy. Some of my PT Boat crew used to get rather lewd about what they'd do with Lana. They never talked that way about you. They'd say you were beautiful, and a genuine talent.

Really, Jack?

Really, Judy.

That's only because, when their fantasies about doing Lana had reached a climax, they wanted to hear The Boy Next Door during afterglow.

You're incorrigible, JFK said, laughing. But maybe you're right. After all, what do I know. The Japs sank my boat.

Judy gave out her loud throaty laugh, then waited for the President to continue.

Judy, I asked you here because I need your help.

Another fund raising concert?

No. I have an important mission I'd like you to undertake, one that involves national security.

Good old, pill addicted, alcohol abusing Judy. You're really scraping the bottom of the barrel.

You're perfect for this, Judy.

"I suppose you want me to enchant Nikita Khrushchev, though I doubt he's ever seen The Wizard Of Oz, or could tell me from Marlene Dietrich. Or do you plan to have me justify my reputation as The Mouth That Roared by seducing Nicky Baby and stealing the secret formula for Borscht?"

God, I've missed you, JFK said, breaking up.

Thank you, Judy said, beaming.

And Nicky Baby knows the difference between Marlene and you.

"Not after I did that German accent that got me another Oscar loss for Judgment At Nuremburg."

You wuz robbed — again, JFK said, doing a horrible Brooklyn accent.

"You think I should have gotten it? Rita Moreno was terrific in West Side Story, and heaven knows she's paid her dues, after years of playing Apache squaws kidnapped from Puerto Rico at age eight."

It belonged to you, Kennedy said, chuckling, "as well as one for Esther Blodgett in A Star Is Born."

Really? Judy asked, beaming.

Really, Esther, JFK said. "You were Esther in Meet Me In St. Louis, too. Esther's a Biblical name."

Unfortunately, I attended Our Mother Of Holmsby Hills, where most of my dates preferred guys. My God, I wanted to marry Ty Power, and did marry Vincente Minnelli. Even my dad may have had a thing for boys, or so I've been told.

Maybe you have more in common with J. Edgar than you thought.

Judy gave out her full throaty laugh again.

Mentioning that Esther is a Biblical name was my attempt to segue into the mission I'd like you to undertake, JFK said, his tone now serious.

Okay, Mister President, Judy said, somewhat stunned by Kennedy's sudden transformation.

Over the next half hour, Kennedy told Judy about the letter he'd received from the Vatican, and what he wanted from her.

You trust me to do this? Judy asked.

I trust you period, Judy. You're a patriot. I remember you entertaining the troops, even when you were ill. And I saw Robert Stack choking back tears when he spoke of how you always rearranged your schedule to keep him company when he was home on leave.

I didn't know anybody remembered that.

Like I said, there are a lot of people who love you, Judy, apart from Dorothy. Now your visit today will be explained as part of a benefit The White House will be sponsoring for the families of intelligence officers killed on duty. Since the names of those families are secret, there'll be no one for any interested press to interview. Also, the concert you'll do will be held at Langley, so any visits there will seem plausible. This sort of believable cover is one of the reasons I picked you, Judy. Oh, I'll probably get some bad press from cynics over this, as some will see it as a lame attempt by me to gain favor with the CIA after dumping Allen Dulles. If anybody presses you on that score, just say you're here to honor patriots, and you stay out of politics, except when you're campaigning for me during an election.

I'm overwhelmed by your trust, Jack, a now teary-eyed Judy said. Thank you.

Thank you, Judy. For your friendship, and for the music and memories. You're an icon, and for me and many others, a national treasure.

So Baby Gumm didn't fare so poorly after all, Judy said.

No, she didn't. Now go give the CIA Pow.

CIA Headquarters

McLean, Virginia

John Alex McCone was sitting behind his large desk in his enormous office. Impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, white dress shirt, and blue tie, McCone, 60 years old, with perfectly styled short white hair, looked every bit the successful man his resume suggested. A mechanical engineer, courtesy of the University of California, Berkeley, McCone had risen quickly in the steel industry, becoming an Executive Vice President of the Consolidated Steel Corporation at age 27. McCone had been chairman of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission in the years before he was appointed as Director of Central Intelligence.

God, he looks like a trim Louis B. Mayer, without the ethnic nose, Judy Garland thought to herself, as she walked towards his imposing desk. Mayer had also sat behind a huge desk, better to intimidate his MGM minions.

Wonderful to finally meet you, Judy, McCone said, getting up and offering his hand, which Judy shook before sitting down on a large leather chair.

No Hollywood hug, Judy mused, as McCone sat in a similar chair next to her. So he might not be a phony, and only guilty of Republican stiffness. She'd been briefed on McCone's background, and knew he was born in San Francisco. Hmnn. San Francisco. Maybe the stiffness was feigned, and he actually played for the other team. Judy almost broke up at the thought. Focus, Frances. Pretend it's some untalented producer you're trying to convince that you're not too fat for the part.

Director McCone, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. It's not often I get to meet an engineer, steel magnate, and nuclear expert, all in the same man.

I see you've read my resume, Judy. It's a lot duller than the dossier Dzerzhinsky Square keeps about me.

My private life has been a tad livelier than the bios MGM used to release, too.

So I've learned, Judy. I read up on you before our meeting. By the time I finished, I was ready to sanction Louis B. Mayer. Of course, he's already dead, and besides, we're not supposed to involve ourselves in any domestic activities.

Where were you when Dore Schary threw my 28 year old widening butt out the MGM revolving door?

"One of my greatest disappointments, Judy, was never getting to see you in Annie Get Your Gun. Betty Hutton's vocal talents were rather limited. With you in the role, it would have been another MGM musical masterpiece."

Thank you, Judy replied, instantly beaming. During that time period, I fluctuated between looking like Edith Piaf and Hattie McDaniel.

"Well, I've got your Judy At Carnegie Hall album, so that's some solace."

Thanks. That concert and album revived my career.

"Your career was still alive and kicking before that. I also have your Judy, That's Entertainment, Miss Show Business, and Judy In Love albums."

So you are a fan, Mister Director.

Well, Judy, I had to listen to something while those sheet metal workers were pounding steel with hammers. Ella Fitzgerald wasn't loud enough, and Ethel Merman sounded like nails screeching on a chalkboard.

Judy gave out her full throaty laugh.

Judy, The White House asked me to personally meet with you about a benefit for CIA families. Since they normally coordinate such affairs internally, it's obvious you're here for something else. We've exchanged pleasantries, and you now know I'm a fan. So let's get to the real reason Jack sent you over here.

So much for my believing I had you fooled, Judy said, her expression indicating she knew better.

Judy filled McCone in on the relevant background, then opened her handbag, gave him the note from Pope John XXIII, then a copy of the letter ostensibly written by Jesus. Judy lit a Menthol cigarette, then leaned back in the leather chair, waiting for the CIA Director to finish reading.

The last thing we needed to deal with, McCone muttered. Judy, did Jack say I was free to bring in other CIA personnel on this?

He said you were to have complete discretion about how to handle the matter. He said you should keep him informed through me, using the benefit as a cover. After all, nobody would suspect good old, undependable Judy.

If you worked for us, Judy, the Kremlin would have fallen years ago.

"Of course, since I'm the only midget who can drink any commissar under the table while singing Song Of The Volga Boatmen."

You're a riot, McCone said, laughing heartily.

A laugh a minute. That's good old Judy.

The CIA Director picked up a phone, dialed a number, then asked the person on the line to join them.

I want you to meet the man who'll head up this, uh, effort for me. He's a young guy, who recently joined us. It's about time he got his feet wet.

A few minutes later, a tall man entered the Director's office.

Judy Garland, meet George Durell.

What Am I Doing In Rome?

Lago Di Martignano

Near Rome, Italy

GEORGE DURELL — APPROACHING THIRTY, almost 6'3", with a thick head of black hair — lived in McLean, Virginia, on a large wooded estate that backed up against the George Washington Parkway. It had been his family's home for over twenty years, and he had played on its hilly lawns as a boy, when he'd first dreamed of a life as a clandestine servant of his country.

His family was wealthy, and Durell's talents and their connections ensured him a place at the Yale Law School. But the realities of a law practice first bored and later offended him, so he returned to the dreams of his youth, and became an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. His intelligence, athleticism, and conservative politics immediately led him to clandestine operations, as the line separating the nation's friends and enemies blurred.

Since his teens, Durell had lived in or visited Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Argentina, and Nicaragua. He was comfortable in those places, where his fluency in Spanish and Portuguese, and his love for the people and customs of those lands, made the Southern Hemisphere his second home.

So what was he doing in Rome? This was madness. His Italian was first-time-in-Italy-tourist, despite a CIA crash course, and he wasn't even Catholic. He was also certain that if any local maschio dared pinch his butt, he'd blow his cover and use his CIA unarmed combat training for the first time.

Still, orders were orders. Hopefully, his unsuitability for this mission wouldn't get him killed right out of the box. Director McCone had told him it was time to get his feet wet. Well, he'd surely have wet feet if he was a corpse floating in the Lago di Martignano, a small lake in an extinct crater located northwest of Rome.

Durell had arrived at the lake in mid-afternoon — a half hour earlier — to reconnoiter the area. Now he was waiting there for his contact to appear, hidden in a copse of perhaps twelve tall trees bordering a section of the lake. At about a 45 degree angle to the copse, two parallel irregular dirt paths, separated by some 20 feet, made their way down to the tree line.

Durell saw a figure appear on the inner dirt path, perhaps 100 feet away. As the figure approached, Durell could see it was a short, squat man, dressed in a simple black priest's hat and tunic. The man reached the tree line, than nervously began looking around. Durell waited for a solid two minutes, then stepped out of the trees.

I'd like to eat a dessert pizza that uses white chocolate slivers instead of shredded mozzarella, the newcomer said.

Personally, I prefer powdered sugar spoonfuls for the mozzarella, Durell replied, completing the code sequence.

Mister Gumm, I'm happy to meet you, the priest said, in heavily accented English. I'm Don Giuseppe Tramantano. Please call me Gus.

Alright, Gus. I'm Jude Gumm. Call me Jay.

Pope John and I were boyhood friends, Tramantano began. He gave me permission to meet you here and talk, as you requested.

Thank you for coming, Gus. Why don't we walk together and talk, like two normal people out for a stroll.

I understand, Jay.

The men began walking east, along the tree line.

I've been asked to help the Catholic Church learn about the package you were given by the beggar who approached you in the park, Durell said. But it's best, Gus, that you don't learn the contents of the package.

I'll tell you what I know, the priest replied.

What can you tell me about the beggar? Height, weight, identifying marks, voice, way of walking, hair color, mannerisms. Are you certain the beggar was a man? Did the beggar speak to you in Italian, and did that seem to be his native tongue?

He was a tall man, like you But his physique was not broad, as yours is. He wore a battered hat, so I could not see his hair style or color. Likewise, he wore very shabby clothes that covered his entire body, so I could not see any identifying marks. His hat cast a shadow over his face, too, so nothing for me to note there. He did speak to me in Italian, but though it was quite good, I would guess that was not his primary language. His choice of words lacked a colloquial flavor.

Any guess what his true language might be?

It would only be gross conjecture.

Go ahead and guess anyway.

He might have been a Spaniard. Italian and Spanish are both romance languages, with Latin roots. So if I had to guess, I'd say a Spaniard trying to pretend he was an Italian.

I was told the beggar threatened to kill you and your entire family, if you didn't follow his instructions. Tell me about that.

He scared me. As a priest, I obviously have neither wife nor children. But I have two brothers and four sisters, all married with children, although my mother and father are gone.

What scared you?

Although he remained calm when he said he would kill them, his voice seemed to rise an octave, as though he was excited about the prospect. I had no doubt he meant what he said.

Would you say he was an educated man, or more like a waterfront thug?

Definitely educated, the priest answered.

Anything else? Durell pressed.

Jay, you asked me about his way of walking. I first noticed his walk as he was leaving, his back turned to me. His movements were very fluid.

Like an athlete?

No. There was something almost, uh, what's the word ... hmnn, almost lyrical about his walk.

Lyrical. I don't understand. ... Wait a minute, do you mean musical?

Yes, Tramantano replied. Musical. That's it.

Was his walk like that of a dancer?

Yes, Jay. That's it. I'm sure of it. He walked like a dancer.

The two men continued their stroll, conversing about life in Italy, particularly the performing arts. After a time, Durell asked Tramantano about Flamenco dancing in Rome.

*     *     *     *     *

Soon we will have our traitor, the assassin said. He was speaking to his companion, a young priest serving in the Vatican. The two men were secluded in a grove of trees on a hill, some 200 feet from where George Durell had met Giuseppe Tramantano. The assassin had been watching Durell with a powerful set of binoculars.

I have no head for these sorts of intrigues, the young priest said. I do as I am told by my superiors in the Church.

And you have done it well. Alerting us when the pope contacted Tramantano allowed us to learn of this meeting. Soon, we will know the identity of this tall man who walks with Don Giuseppe, and the identity of the traitor.

May I return to the Vatican now?

No. A man who would betray the pope might also betray us. So your next destination is Hell.

The assassin, known as The Feculent, pulled out a silenced Beretta .22 long rifle semi-automatic pistol, shot the priest in the heart, then again in the temple. The first hollow point's massive exit wound made the second shot redundant, but The Feculent believed in always being thorough.

Rome, Italy

George Durell and Giuseppe Tramantano were walking west on Via Giustiniani, in the late afternoon. Up ahead, at the intersection with Via della Dogama Vecchia, the street name changed to Via del Salvatore. As they neared the intersection, they saw the dance studio they were seeking — Invito Alla Danza Flamenco.

Gus, I'm really violating Occam's Razor here, Durell said. I've compounded quite a few assumptions. Your guess that the beggar was a Spaniard, our mutual guess that the man is a dancer, another wild stab that the man favors Flamenco, yet another that he works at a Flamenco dance studio, then the final leap of faith that it's this studio.

If he is what we guess, Jay, then this is the place he will be, Tramantano replied. Flamenco dancing has not yet been accepted by Roma as a legitimate or popular art form, so this studio is the lone center for that small dance community.

As they started towards the studio, the priest tugged on Durell's arm.

What is it you expect to happen here, Jay?

If our man works here, I'm hoping the sight of you will make him bolt, or at least do something strange that we'll notice. I'm winging it here, Gus.

Winging it?

An American colloquialism, one I've just stupidly used, which, in other circumstances, might have blown my cover. It means making it up as I go. Actually, a more apropos phrase would have been, hoofing it.

Both men laughed, then walked inside the studio.

The building housing Invito Alla Danza Flamenco was a narrow but deep two story structure, with a business office just inside the front door. The remainder of the first floor was dedicated to a large dance area mirrored on three sides, with what looked like a linoleum floor. A handwritten sign next to a narrow staircase off to the right, which Tramantano translated for Durell, informed students that lockers, showers, and restrooms were located on the second floor.

Let's try the office first, Durell suggested.

They walked into a 10' x 12' room that housed a small writing desk without drawers, a chair behind the desk, and two chairs on the other side. A small filing cabinet was in one corner near the desk. A small, low end table was in the opposite corner, and on it, a coffee pot, a sugar bowl, and powdered cream in a chipped soup plate.

Seated behind the desk was a balding, mustachioed man, wearing a blue dress shirt and a loosely knotted red striped tie. He was looking at a men's magazine, which he'd opened to the centerfold. A jacket was draped over one of the chairs opposite the desk. Seeing Durell and Tramantano walking towards him, he closed the magazine, put it under some papers on the desk, rose, tightened his tie, then walked around the desk and donned the jacket.

Buonasera, the man said.

Buon giorno, the priest replied. Mi chiamo Don Giuseppe Tramantano. Parli inglese?

Yes, the man said, suddenly nervous. Why?

My friend is an American, and has just moved to Rome. His wife was born and raised in Madrid, and she wishes their son and daughter to learn the Flamenco, as part of her efforts to make them aware of their heritage.

You have come to right place, the man said, extending his hand, which both men shook. I am Alberto Britto, manager of this studio. Welcome to Invito Alla Danza Flamenco.

Will you be kind enough to show us around? the priest asked.

For a priest of the Church, anything, Britto replied. Come. Follow me.

Britto led them into the dance area, where a class was underway. As they walked around the periphery of the room, Durell looked at the students and instructors, hoping to see some sign of recognition. Durell also glanced at Tramantano, to see if someone caught his eye. Nothing.

Durell and Tramantano watched the dance class for several minutes, pretending to be interested, even asking Britto questions about student to instructor ratios and class schedules.

May we see the upstairs facilities? Durell asked.

Certainly, Britto replied, motioning them towards the stairs. I'll be in my office.

The two men ascended the staircase, whose steps squeaked and groaned under their feet. At the top, they saw a large locker area, with long thin benches parallel to each row of lockers. At the other end of the area were two doors — one for men, one for women — that led to showers and toilets.

Just outside the restrooms, a man and woman, in their early twenties, were flirting. The man wore a tight fitting black outfit, the woman an ornate Flamenco gown. They were probably instructors readying themselves for the next class. Neither took any note of Durell or Tramantano, and the priest showed no sign of recognizing either of them.

So much for wild conjecture and violating Occam's Razor, Durell whispered to the priest.

I'm much more concerned about violating my kidneys, Tramantano replied. Give me a minute to use the restroom.

Not a bad idea, Durell agreed.

The two dance instructors walked down the stairs, as Durell and the priest walked towards the door leading to the men's facilities. As Tramantano reached for the door, it swung in, and a man walked out of the restroom.

Mi scusi, the man said, not really looking at Durell or the priest.

Buona giornata! Tramantano replied.

The man took a step, then, shocked, looked hard at the priest. Tramantano also evinced a knowing expression.

The man was fast. He punched Tramantano with his right hand, sending the priest staggering backward against a wall. The man spun, then