Cry For Tomorrow

By Paul DeBusschere

In 21st-century America's future, the American dream borders on extinction. Propped up by massive debt, the economy produces no real goods. The rest of the world starves while America stockpiles food. Large cities thrive, but infrastructure crumbles in less populated areas. The government teeters on the brink of insolvency as it mortgages America's posterity.
Like many citizens, cynical ad executive Mark Reardon is too busy to notice the country's decline. Working 100-hour weeks directing ad campaigns for multi-national corporations, Mark has neither the time nor the inclination to take on small clients. Hence, when a religious fringe group, The Society for Truth, comes seeking representation, Mark only meets with them reluctantly. However, he is stunned when offered a $3 billion contract to warn the world of impending disaster. Quickly forgetting his reservations, Mark accepts the deal, but soon finds things are not as they seem.
Before he realizes his peril, Mark's family is missing, his Society contact is dead, and he is in the hands of an ever-watching and all-encompassing enemy known only as The Company. Fighting to escape and locate his wife and daughter, Mark is pursued by clones, betrayed by friends, and tormented by prophetic visions. Not knowing who to trust, Mark bounces between The Company and The Society, eventually facing his past and embracing his destiny as God's final prophet preceding the coming judgment.
"Cry for Tomorrow" is an apocalyptic thriller highlighting the economic and technological factors contributing to societal collapse. While portraying mankind's inability to save himself and his world, the novel explores the dichotomy of spirituality and materialism and the conflict these values create for Mark Reardon and his family.
In this time of uncertainty, "Cry for Tomorrow" points readers toward an eternal and unchanging hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul DeBusschere
• Release date: Dec 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466029019

Paul DeBusschere

Paul is a native of South Florida's Gold Coast and a long-time resident of Georgia's metro Atlanta area. After quitting high school early, he eventually graduated from college with a bachelor's degree in Computer Science and went on to earn an MBA in International Business from Georgia State University. Professionally, Paul has worked in a variety of roles, including software engineering, corporate management, consulting, financial market trading, and real estate. He currently heads up an online startup, cellunation.com, whose goal is to sell mobility enhancing electronics while contributing a significant percentage of profits to select charities. As far as his writing is concerned, Paul gained an interest in creative fiction at an early age, particularly in the areas of science fiction and adventure stories. Early in his twenties, however, he chose to focus on gaining real life experience instead of attempting to write from a platform of ignorance. Thus, Paul spent the next 20-plus years working his way through school, a variety of jobs and raising a family before focusing again on writing. During that time, he engaged in writing essays on politics in the United States, among other topics, many of which can be found on his Pabloggia blog. With his novels, Paul seeks to combine elements of technology, politics, and societal trends while incorporating timeless truths in stories that are compelling and entertaining for readers. In his first complete novel, Cry for Tomorrow, Paul has taken the American Dream and turned it inside out against a backdrop of political intrigue and eventual apocalypse, seeking to expose modern-day fallacies that plague mankind: faith in government and faith in materialism. Paul spends the rest of his time serving his local church, traveling, and cooking meals for his wife, Amy.

Book preview

I am almost certain that a new novel dealing with the subject of the Biblical Apocalypse will be met by Christians and non-Christians alike with some healthy degree of skepticism. Christians may wonder why such a book is worthy of their time, while non-Christians may not even care about the subject matter at all. Personally, I had to convince myself that such a novel was a viable project after being inundated with Left Behind books for almost a decade. However, it was not hard to reach a decision to go forward, for a variety of reasons.

First, but not necessarily foremost, were the critiques of other people regarding Mr. LaHaye's books. To be frank, I have never read them; but, when I heard more than one person cast aspersions on the books merely due to the level of writing, I began to wonder if there was a real need for a tale written on a level literate adults could appreciate. I certainly hope the reader will find the book more challenging than something written on a fifth-grade level, as one friend referred to Mr. LaHaye's books.

Second, there are other, more serious problems with the aforementioned series with regard to eschatological viewpoint (preterists should not get too excited, however, in the hopes of some literary refutation of the dispensational view). Rather, the problems which concern me can be reduced to Mr. LaHaye's orientation towards end-time events within the dispensational framework. These can be divided into two categories: a western-centric orientation and an all-too-literal reading of certain prophetic passages in the Revelation where it is clear the writer is using symbolism. I will not get into specifics on the second category, but I would like to present the reader with a compelling case against western centrism. Such a case should allow the reader to adjust his or her perspective in order to consider very probable alternative scenarios for the unfolding of history's final events.

Most readers from the United States will quite naturally view events from a western perspective. But, even a casual student of the Bible must admit that our present societal and political boundaries, customs, and languages did not even exist when John wrote his letter. A serious student, on the other hand, has to not only acknowledge the above, but must also admit there is no prophecy related to the Americas present in scripture (although a case could be made for John's Babylon representing America, but that is not the tack I have taken, so I won't go into detail to explain it). So, this absence presents a problem for the writer wishing to make America (and Americans) the central part of an apocalyptic novel attempting to explain what happens in the Tribulation. Either the author must engineer some type of extra-biblical plot structure, or the author has to abandon his plan and orientation. The present book, without giving too much away, treats America in a way that aligns with scriptural orientation and with the direction of events occurring shortly after the manuscript was finished (the financial meltdown in the United States and Europe, which, at the time I write this, is still unraveling).

So much for Mr. LaHaye and his books. I can only hope that not too many people have exhausted their capacity for apocalyptic fiction by the time this book is released. I would now like to turn the reader's attention to some features of this book which may seem at odds with norms of Christian fiction (such a term seems, to me, an anachronism in itself).

First, profanity does appear in this book. I have to confess, this was a struggle, not because I have an apprehension about including the vocabulary, but because I knew it would be a source of consternation for some readers. In the end, I chose to include the language because it better reflects the world we live in. Some people like their art sanitized, which is why we have images of Christ which portray him as a sissified freak. I like to believe more people are interested in truth, even if they are reading a novel.

Second, there are two love scenes in the book. Neither is graphic, but both convey clearly what is happening. This will also prove to be a source of concern for some. Again, I sought to provide a realistic picture of how the world is, not how some wish it to be (although a world devoid of sex doesn't seem desirable to me—I have never understood why some people treat the subject as if it were some inherent evil). At any rate, as the reader will eventually find, each of these scenes has later repercussions in the unfolding story. That is, there is nothing gratuitous being presented.

Third, the Christian reader will notice I have not played by conventional rules with regard to the main character's eventual destiny. Again, without giving too much away, the reader should take note of the book's opening quotation. If we are to take scripture seriously, we have to allow for God's sovereignty in areas many of us have considered closed. God may have a different opinion on such matters. Only time will tell.

One additional item I would like to briefly elaborate on is the technology appearing in the book. Mainly, I want to point out that teleporters are, theoretically, possible. Although we are used to seeing them on television shows like Star Trek, not many of us realize they are possible. The scientist Nikola Tesla theorized about teleportation in the early twentieth century and the U.S. Air Force has conducted teleportation experiments (to my knowledge, on a limited scale). Thus, a network of teleportation devices, although technologically advanced, is not inconceivable.

Finally, I would like to thank all those who have steadfastly supported me throughout this project. My wife, Amy, has endured more than a fair share of my writer eccentricities and I wouldn't have finished this book without her constant encouragement. I also thank Eve and Will Rumbaugh for their patience and input while I worked my way through to completing the manuscript's first draft. There are many others who gave encouragement and support and I thank all of you. There is no question that a great many fewer books would be written without the constant affirmation of people such as these.

Canton, Georgia

November, 2011

"In the last days...Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams."

Acts 2:17, The Bible

CRY FOR TOMORROW

Part I

Candy From Strangers

I

Mark pressed his nose and hands to the ice-cold glass of the car’s window. A cross street, mailbox, and light pole zipped past. He jerked his head around and looked at his father, who worked his hands quickly at the steering wheel.

Feeling himself pulled sideways, Mark looked out the window again. The street, mailbox, and light pole sped past once more, the mailbox and pole noticeably closer. Mark looked back over at his father, feeling a rush of fear. He had never been in an out-of-control car until now.

Dad!

POP!

The car’s driver side caved inwards as it smashed into the pole, the impact showering Mark and his father with glass pellets. The boy was yanked toward the center of the vehicle, then back again, his seat belt preventing him from smashing into his father. Dazed from the collision, it took him a moment to realize what had happened. Then he heard something that made his skin crawl.

Mark, his father called, voice gurgling.

Mark was afraid to look. He could tell from the sound of his father’s voice that something was wrong.

Mark, the voice called again, now strangely different.

Mark knew it was his father beside him, but the voice had become someone else’s.

Look at me, Mark.

Mark felt his head turn against his will. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. He tried to close his eyes, but they wouldn’t shut. Instead, they fixed on his father’s body, which was bent over the steering wheel. The head was turned at an odd angle and his father stared blankly, horrifically back at Mark as blood ran down in tiny rivulets over his face from a large gash in his scalp.

Come to me, Mark, came the voice from the open, unmoving mouth.

Mark was paralyzed. Though he couldn't breathe, he could hear his heart continuing to pound furiously.

"Come over here, boy!"

Mark still didn’t move, but his father did. The torso sat up with the head still bent forward at a queer angle. The right arm stretched out for Mark.

No! Mark shouted, suddenly able to react.

He looked around, breathing hard. He was no longer a little boy trapped in a smashed up sedan with his father’s corpse. No, he was sitting upright in his bed with his wife, Gina, sleeping beside him. He looked her way only to see a tousle of red hair amidst the pillows and covers. She hadn’t heard him shout--or if she had, there was no indication of concern on her part. This wouldn't have been the first time Mark had awakened from a dream with a cry; Gina was merely used to it after eight years of marriage.

Catching his breath, Mark watched her for a moment in the rippling light cast by the aquarium from the wall behind the bed, then he sighed and hung his legs over the mattress's edge. He thought about the dream as he ran his hand over his face and up through his dark hair. It was generally the same--his father driving the car, losing control, and dying in the crash--just like it had happened twenty years ago. However, the dream had been more frequent of late and this night's episode contained the macabre ending. That was new, but Mark accounted it to having a bit much to drink the previous evening and shrugged it off. He looked at the clock on his nightstand and rose to his feet. It was five a.m.

Mark thought about the day ahead. His primary concern was that morning's screening of a toothpaste commercial for his company’s largest account, Parker-Continental. Then he had a lunch meeting with a prospective client he knew would be a waste of his time. Mark didn’t know much about The Society for Truth, but he was certain they would not be able to afford to retain his firm, Schulman and Foster, as their advertising agency. He had only reluctantly agreed to meet with the Society’s representatives.

Thirty minutes later, Mark was out the door of his Upper East Side condo and making his way to the Lexington Avenue subway. Gina had never made a sound while he was getting ready. He supposed she was used to it by now--his coming in late and leaving early, or not coming home at all. He momentarily wondered when he had last spoken to her. Then his train arrived and he was off again. If he had only known how long he'd be gone this time, he might have told his family he loved them.

II

At 11:45 a.m., two men entered a small diner south of Central Park, along Seventh Avenue. Both men were less than six feet tall. Both wore dark suits, conservatively cut, with muted ties. Each was clean shaven and had short, dark hair. Nothing about their appearance distinguished them from the rest of the twenty or so people crammed into the entrance and attempting to procure seats. However, their demeanor was markedly reserved. Although they were not noticeably nervous, their manner clearly signaled they were in unfamiliar territory.

Help you, gentlemen? the hostess whined from behind her podium.

The men, slightly bewildered by the bustle of the lunch crowd, gave no reply. They stood two feet in front of the stand, looking around the restaurant.

"Next, please!" the hostess blurted, craning her neck to look past the two men.

Several more people flowed ahead and were seated. Finally, it was their turn again.

"Help you, now?" said the hostess, lifting an eyebrow.

Umm...we’re meeting someone here, stammered the older of the two, gathering his wits.

You have to wait outside under the canopy. I can’t seat you until you’re all here, she said irritably. Next!

The men overcame their paralysis enough to push their way outside and under the canopy shading the diner’s entrance. Even in the shade, it was hot—much too hot for a dark suit on an August day. The younger man checked his watch; it was 11:55 a.m. The man they were to meet wasn’t late for the appointment, they were early. They were certain he would remember. So, they waited.

Brother Joseph, said the younger man, are we in the right place?

Yes, Thomas, Brother Joseph replied, producing a handkerchief from his suit’s breast pocket and patting his forehead with it.

No more words passed between them as they stood beneath the canopy. They watched the cars and trucks moving up and down Seventh Avenue with great interest. The flow of traffic, including pedestrians, was constant, seemingly endless. The great pulse of New York City life surrounded them, threatening to carry them away. The constant beat of the metropolis, while not wholly unfamiliar to either man, was nearly overwhelming. It had been some time since either of them had visited a large city.

At 12:10 p.m., a taxi on the opposite side of the avenue stopped in mid-traffic, provoking a chorus of horn blasts from the vehicles behind it. After a few seconds, the cab swung left across the oncoming lanes of traffic and stopped in front of the diner. The rear door opened and a tall, dark haired man in a blue pinstripe suit emerged. He walked swiftly into the diner, but came out again after a few seconds. He approached Thomas and Brother Joseph.

Are you gentlemen here for Mark Reardon?

Yes, Brother Joseph answered.

That’s me, Mark said, extending his hand.

Brother Joseph Martin, the older man replied, shaking Mark’s hand. I’m so glad you could meet with us, Mr. Reardon. This is my aide, Thomas Ballard.

My pleasure, said Mark, shaking Thomas’s hand. Are you two ready for some lunch? I’m famished.

Most definitely, Brother Joseph returned.

Well, follow me.

Mark turned and led them back into the diner, which was, by then, packed with more people. Eventually, they were escorted to a dimly lit booth near the back. The table was composed of a beige plastic surface with a chrome edge—the type found in thousands of kitchens across America. The seats were red vinyl, freshly wiped by the busboy. In a word, cheap; which was exactly how Mark wanted to present himself to the two men from the Society. He hoped they would quit pestering him if he treated them to a third-rate lunch. The three of them slid in.

While everyone perused his menu, Mark made small talk. Although he saw little, if any, profit potential in courting such an obscure client, Mark found it difficult to be intentionally condescending. Indeed, professional courtesy required him to adopt a friendly manner in such situations, making it all the harder to put off undesirable prospects. As the food came, he found he was already giving site seeing tips to Brother Joseph and Thomas.

The food was what one should expect from the average New York City diner—generally poor quality for a higher price than one would pay in Middle America. Mark inspected his food. The hamburger appeared adequately cooked, but the accompanying kaiser roll lacked the inviting softness of edible bread. The French fries lying on his teal plastic plate glistened in a coating of grease, while the side salad possessed an undesirable amount of what he called core lettuce. Brother Joseph’s and Thomas’s plates looked just as unappetizing—they had ordered fish and chicken concoctions, respectively. Mark was pleased and assured himself the meal would prove sufficiently revolting to dissuade the men from retaining his services.

He was about to bite into his hamburger when he noticed the two men bow their heads. They were silent for a few moments. Mark went ahead and started eating his meal anyway. Normally, he would respect another’s custom of praying before a meal, but in this instance, Mark wanted to offend as subtly as he could. He could still be rude without being overt. When the men lifted their heads, he crammed several ketchup-smothered fries into his mouth.

So tell me, gentlemen, what can Schulman and Foster do for you? Mark asked, deciding to go through the pretense of understanding the Society's marketing needs.

Well, Mr. Reardon, the Society desires to hire you to conduct a campaign to spread our message to people all over the world, Brother Joseph answered. He had a soft, withered voice, and Mark had to lean forward to listen in the diner’s lunchtime cacophony.

So, you’re telling me the Society wants to put together a worldwide advertising campaign? Brother Joseph, that’s going to require millions of dollars. There are plenty of big corporations spending tens of millions annually on advertising just in the United States alone. As I explained previously to your people, Schulman and Foster really doesn’t handle small clients like you. We like to get a commitment of at least one million before we can even start talking about producing a full blown ad campaign. You’ve heard of Parker Continental? Last year they spent something like twenty million bucks on advertising for various product lines. And then there’s the type of advertising you’re looking to do. Schulman and Foster really doesn’t specialize in the type of message based ads you’re talking about. What I mean is, we’re more commercially oriented. You know, product based.

Mr. Reardon, replied Brother Joseph, we were told you are the best at what you do. We need an experienced man to handle our message.

Mark, for the time being, decided to play along. He was firmly against taking the Society on as a client, but for his amusement wanted to know what they desired to say to the whole world.

"Okay, what exactly is the Society’s message, Brother Joseph?" Mark asked, taking a bite of his hamburger. He hadn’t bothered to read the pamphlets the Society had forwarded to him the previous week.

Quite simply, Mr. Reardon, we want to warn people that the world they live in now is going to change drastically over the next few years.

I don’t think you have to worry about that, Brother. If you're referring to global warming, Al Gore beat you to it, Mark joked as he chewed.

No, I'm not talking about climate change, Mr. Reardon. The Society isn't concerned about one specific problem or even prevention. What we're concerned with is total societal collapse—the end of civilization as we know it. We’re talking about saving lives—and souls.

The end of the world. Doomsday. Mark seriously considered walking out on his two guests, but decided to stay for the added entertainment. The meeting would make a good story at the bar later that night. Meanwhile, Brother Joseph was still talking.

...shirking social responsibility at all, but our main focus is to usher in the kingdom of God....

Mark drifted in and out, more concerned with his own thoughts than Brother Joseph's explanation. He wondered how many doomsdays the world had faced. After every civilization collapsed, life went on, didn't it? People picked up and moved to the next society down the street. They dealt with it.

...a new order more brutal than anything anyone has ever experienced before. Total domination and control of....

It was messy, of course. Civilizations didn’t have neatly packaged endings like fairy stories or romance novels. Ice cream and air conditioning might become history. Indoor plumbing. Birth control. The modern conveniences people took for granted would disappear after the next world collapse.

Life’s a pain in the keister anyway, though, Mark thought.

...budget of $3 billion with a retainer of ten million to get you started. All of the content is developed and approved by the Society, but you handle the art and creative, ad placement, and coordination of resources.

Mark stopped chewing his burger. Brother Joseph finally had his full attention. Regardless of the Society’s nature, he was firmly against turning down large amounts of money from a new client. He quickly swallowed the remaining food in his mouth.

Three billion? Gentlemen, I’m sure Schulman and Foster will do a great job for you and I’m pleased to be at your service.

Mr. Reardon, make no mistake. We want you, not Schulman and Foster, to run this campaign. We want your sole attention and you can’t give us that while employed with another.

Oh, I see.

Mark tried to look as thoughtful as he could before accepting a $3 billion offer to produce ads. He didn’t care what the message was as long as a large paycheck was attached. No one else on Madison Avenue cared either. Just pay the money and if the FCC allowed it on the air, everything was good. That was how monkeys smashing office equipment got to be in stockbroker ads and why automotive commercials failed to contain any details about the vehicles. The clients got what they wanted—but at the expense of everyone's integrity.

What do you say, Mr. Reardon? We would like you to start tomorrow and be on a plane to Tulsa in the morning.

Well, it’s a little short notice, but I think we can work something out. I need to talk to my attorney, though, to draw up a contract and—

We have a contract ready for you to sign right here, Mr. Reardon, Thomas interrupted while pulling a legal document from his briefcase.

I still need to have my lawyer look it over, Mark said while flipping through the contract's pages.

Certainly, Mr. Reardon, Brother Joseph replied. But, we’re confident you’ll find it acceptable. Here is the ticket for the deposit box containing your advance and a plane ticket to Tulsa. If you claim it, we’ll meet you at LaGuardia Airport tomorrow morning.

What if I claim it and don’t show up?

We trust you’re a man of integrity, Mr. Reardon.

You’re right. I wouldn’t do that.

No.

But, I would screw my firm out of the biggest advertising deal in history and then leech off its best employees to work for me. Yeah, I would do that. For three billion, I’d do almost anything, Mark thought as he smiled at Brother Joseph.

Well then, I guess I’d better get going, gentlemen. I need to take care of some business before tomorrow. How do I contact you in the meantime?

We’re staying at the Essex.

Do you have a card with your cell number?

I’m sorry, but we don’t carry cell phones, Mr. Reardon. Here is my card, however.

Right. Here's mine, in case you need to reach me, Mark said, handing a card to Brother Joseph and Thomas. Anyway, I’ll be in touch.

As they got up to leave, Mark left enough cash on the table to cover the meal and tip. He felt strange, not like he ever thought he would feel if someone offered him the deal of a lifetime. When the deal you’ve been waiting for all your life happens, it feels like a dream; it’s not happening to you, but to someone else. You are merely a spectator. You feel good for the person it’s happening to, like watching your favorite team win the World Series—but it’s not you. And then you wake up the next day and remember it did happen to you, but you still can’t believe it.

Mark experienced just such a feeling of detachment as they left the diner. He saw himself shake the two men’s hands and say goodbye—but he wasn’t the same Mark who had ushered the men into the diner. This was doomsday. This was the end of the world as Mark knew it and himself. Everything had collapsed and been reborn instantly into a gleaming city where nothing could be wrong ever again. Life was suddenly perfect.

Walking down Seventh Avenue, Mark took out his cell phone and dialed Gina.

Baby, you’re not gonna believe what just happened....

III

Mark first went to the bank to make sure the money was there. In his mind, the money was all that mattered. If the money wasn’t in the deposit box, then there would be no need to visit his lawyer’s office or resign from Schulman and Foster. He would go back to work for the rest of the afternoon and still have an interesting story to tell his drinking buddies at the bar that evening.

The bank was an old money institution, concurrently emanating a sense of detachment and suffocation. Marble covered every surface—floors, walls, columns, bathroom stalls, ceilings. The fixtures were of solid brass and appeared to possess the heft appropriate for such a somber environment. A row of mahogany paneled offices to the right of the entrance was visible through large, plate glass windows. People spoke in hushed tones and no one addressed anyone by first name. Mark imagined the employees would adhere to extreme formality, even if on friendly terms.

Good morning, Mr. Stokes.

Good morning, Ms. Clary.

I enjoyed our lovemaking last night, Mr. Stokes.

I too, Ms. Clary.

If they didn’t know your name, they always addressed you as sir or madame.

May I help you, sir?

Yes, I have a ticket for a box, Mark replied as he strode up to the reception desk—which approximated the dimensions and weight of a mid-sized automobile.

Yes, sir. Please follow me.

The girl led Mark to another large desk further back with a man seated behind it.

Mr. Stokes, this man would like access to a safety deposit box.

Thank you, Ms. Clary.

Sir, I’ll need to see some form of identification along with the ticket, Stokes said.

Sure, Mark said as he handed the ticket over and pulled his wallet out of his suit-coat pocket. He found his driver’s license and handed it to Stokes.

Please sit down, Mr. Reardon. I’ll just be a minute.

Rising from his seat, Stokes walked away and disappeared into a portico, which undoubtedly led to more offices. Mark sank into a large leather chair in front of Stokes’s desk and waited.

No introductions. No handshakes. No smiles. Just business. As he looked around the room's basilica-like interior, Mark surmised only a bank with a large number of commercial accounts and an abundance of old money could afford to be so cold with new customers. He also thought it strange there were few people inside the bank at all. Aside from an occasional shuffle of papers or the ding of an elevator bell, the bank had the ambience of a mausoleum. He glanced at Stokes’s desk. Nothing was on it. Stokes was either extremely organized or extremely idle.

What does this guy do all day? Mark wondered. Sit and get paid. Do it long enough and you get to retire. Forty years of boredom for a pension. That’s all some people want in life, if you could call it that.

Not Mark—he was anything but bored at his job. Always faced with intense deadlines and an enormous workload, he spent more time at work than at anything else, including his marriage. He worked long hours for his clients and then spent more long hours recuperating at bars with his friends, who were also from work. There were many nights when he didn’t return home until it was time to get up and go back to work. Gina didn’t seem to mind, though, as long as the money kept rolling in. She seemed to have an infinite capacity to spend whatever he made. So, he worked like a madman, hoping to squirrel away enough for retirement and college tuition for their daughter, Elise. Like so many others, Mark found the American dream was more like a recurring nightmare, and he hoped it would end at some point.

Perhaps it had. It seemed his life was about to change forever, the dream of extreme wealth finally replacing his nightmare of high living and high debt. He could see the prize van everyone hopes to show up in the driveway with a million-dollar check coming right at him. The proverbial brass ring, but for him it was made of gold. Mark expected to work for it, though. He wasn’t the type to slough off because of a big payday. He’d worked his way through college and had worked his tail off for ten years at Schulman and Foster to reach VP. Now he was going to work his tail off for another ten and retire rich to the Hamptons—or maybe Newport. He hadn’t worked out all the details since the lunch meeting, but Mark felt confident he could sock away a decent nest egg with $3 billion to work with—if he could stop Gina from spending it.

If this is all for real, he thought, still struggling to accept the reality of the situation.

Stokes returned just as Mark began mentally calculating how rich he would be in ten years.

Well, Mr. Reardon, everything seems to be in order. There’s just one more check we need to perform before granting access.

Certainly.

Stokes pulled out a small electronic device from his desk and placed it on the desktop in front of Mark.

This is a scanner for your thumb print. It will verify your identity by checking against the state’s electronic file. Just put your right thumb on the pad.

Mark extended his right arm and pressed his thumb down on the pad.

Alright, Mr. Reardon. You can take your thumb off now. This only takes a few seconds to verify. It’s quite amazing, isn’t it?

What’s that?

How they can have everything linked up like this. It makes everything much safer.

Yes, I suppose it does, Mark said, not really caring for the small talk.

Ah, there we are, Stokes said, looking at his computer monitor. You’re all set.

Great.

Follow me, please.

They walked back through the same portico Stokes had entered previously. To the left was a guard seated on a stool in front of a grate of steel bars running across the hallway from floor to ceiling. Between the guard and the gated entry was another scanner suspended waist high on a rod jutting up from the floor. Mark always wondered what would happen if someone were to trip and impale himself on such a contraption. He was certain it could happen at any time. He wondered why he didn’t regularly hear about accidental impalements in the news. He envisioned the headlines: Woman impales self on fingerprint scanner. Man impales self on mop handle. He was sure it happened all the time.

You have to scan again, I’m afraid, Stokes said as they reached the gate.

No problem, Mark replied and stuck his thumb on the pad. After a few seconds a light at the top of the pad turned green. The guard nodded and Mark followed Stokes through the gate.

The marble-lined area behind the gate had one set of elevator doors. Stokes slid an access card into a slot in the wall and the doors opened. They stepped into a richly appointed car lined in mahogany and brass. Mark noticed only one button on the control panel as the doors shut.

He felt the elevator rapidly ascend and after a few seconds the doors reopened into another marble-lined chamber. As he stepped out, he saw two guards fronting another steel-barred grate running across the room, also from floor to ceiling. Behind the grate, rows of safety deposit boxes lined the left and back walls of the room. To the right were mahogany booths with frosted glass windows where the boxes could be opened privately. Down the center of the vault ran a row of tables, also of mahogany.

You have to scan again to open the box, Stokes said as they approached the gate. As they passed through, one of the guards followed.

The scanner was located on top of another rod rising from the floor and centered at the end of the first table. Mark scanned his thumb again and heard a beep from somewhere in the vault. About halfway down the room, on the bottom row, he saw a large box jut out from the wall. Then another box slid out. Then another. And another.

I’ll get the cart, said the guard and he disappeared around a corner in the back of the room.

Hey, is this right?

Absolutely, Mr. Reardon. There were four boxes assigned to you, Stokes replied.

The guard returned with the cart, rolling it up to the boxes.

Hey, Stan. Give me a hand here, he called to the other guard.

Sure thing, Stan said, walking back.

Geez! These are heavy, Stan grunted while putting the boxes on the cart.

Presently, they wheeled the cart to one of the booths, where it was just small enough to fit through the door. The guards went back to the front of the vault and Mark stepped inside the booth.

I’ll just be outside here, Stokes said.

Thanks.

Mark shut the door and paused to look down at the boxes. Whatever was in them, it wasn’t just a cashier’s check and a plane ticket. He reached down and lifted the cover to one of the boxes and exhaled abruptly in disbelief. Quickly, he opened the remaining boxes and laughed quietly to himself.

Even in New York City there are things one doesn’t see every day and most of those aren’t anything one would want to see. What Mark found in the boxes was an exception. The prize van coming up the driveway to him didn’t have a check in it at all. It was loaded up with 100-ounce bars of gold.

Gold—perhaps the oldest and most coveted medium of exchange in the world. People died to mine it. Wars were fought for it. For those who possessed it, gold emanated a sense of wealth and security like nothing else. It was power to sway the hearts of men and gain favor with kings. As he stared down at the bars, the light from overhead reflecting in a yellow gleam on his face, Mark's heart was definitely swayed.

Okay, what now? he thought. The Society could certainly pay the retainer, but what about the rest of the $3 billion? He reasoned he could walk away if they didn’t meet their obligations. The retainer was so large it would keep him and whoever he hired financed for quite some time.

Then, for the first time since his lunch meeting, he considered the logistics of setting up a