The Jesus Seed

By Del Walters

Hitler believed the Lance of Longinius, or the spear used to pierce the side of Jesus while he hung on the cross, would make him immortal. Michael Ude believes it contains the actual DNA of Christ. When that DNA is stolen, the delivery of a single video tape sets the faith based community on its head. The tape claims to contain footage of a woman who is carrying the Jesus Seed, or Christs clone. But that is just the beginning of an all out war on Christianity.

It begins when a suicide fighter pilot files a supersonic jet into the Christ the Redeemer Statue in Brazil. Then a woman named Mary is infected with the deadly Ebola virus under a giant cross in Illinois. Suddenly suicide bombers target Notre Dame, in Paris, the National Cathedral and Mormon Temples in Washington, D.C. But these terrorists arent Islamic. Theyre faithful Christians.

Behind it all, a billionaire bent on revenge and a Catholic Cardinal, both convinced the Apocalypse is already happening. The Jesus Seed is set against a factual backdrop that says human cloning is not only possible, but probably has already happened. The Jesus Seed examines what would happen if science brought about the Apocalypse as called for the in the book of Revelations.

The Jesus Seed is a head on battle between science and faith. Its a life and death race against a centuries old biblical deadlinethe birth of Christ. Will history repeat itself?

Three decades after the cloning of Dolly the Sheep, and Baby Louise Brown, is it really possible to clone Jesus? What role will race play? These are just some of the questions explored in Del Walters explosive follow to The RACE and Wereth, the Black Parade, The Jesus Seed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452062334

Del Walters

Del Walters has written seven books. His first fiction book, The Race, was prominently featured on Hardball with Chris Matthews during the 2008 election, as it accurately predicted the rise of the nation’s first black president. The Holding Room is his sixth work of fiction. He is an Emmy Award winning news anchor, filmmaker and author who lives in the suburbs of Washington, D.C.

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Prologue

Michael Ude prayed for his daughter and for the Pope. His daughter was dying. He wished the same for the Pontiff. As such, his eyes were transfixed by her near lifeless body and the images of the Holy Father flickering across the TV screen. I will bury you and your followers, he uttered in a deep breathy voice that was barely audible. The Pope, he reasoned, was to blame for the impending death of his daughter. He believed, like most Christians, that what was going to happen next…was God’s will. "Your prelates…your policies…your stupid papal communiqués all played a role!"

A massive man, with dark skin and corresponding deep blue suits, Ude more closely resembled the tin horn dictators that the African continent was famous for. Ude barked orders but held no military rank. Instead, he was a titan of post colonial African industry, an oil rich billionaire, who donated millions to the Catholic Church, and whose wealth was unrivaled. With sullen eyes, swollen and yellowed from the stress of the last few days, he towered over the body of his daughter who, by contrast, appeared tiny and shriveled. There was no smile or bellicose laughter which was common in better days. There was only the grimace of a man who cried in private over a world that crumbled around him. Each tear crisscrossed the raised stubble on his face which was badly in need of a razor. His hands, which fumbled with a small wooden beaded rosary, were unmistakably large with fingernails that matched his eyes and were in need of a manicure. Comfortably tucked inside his hands, hers.

Her name was Cassandra. She was his only daughter and she was dying.

The Pontiff is making his way through the square, the announcer intoned pausing momentarily so that the crowd could be heard. This is his first visit to Africa since 1972.

By sharp contrast, the image of the Pope played uninterrupted across the TV screen. The images of the Pontiff’s visit to his beloved Nigeria appeared nonstop for days. Where, Ude wondered, was the Pope when he needed him most? Why is he not here to pray with me now?

It had not always been that way. Ude’s mind raced back to the many pictures that lined the walls of his office. They were the signed photos that signaled his extreme wealth; the two of them smiling side by side, inside the Vatican. May God bless you, Michael, the caption read. It was one of his proudest possessions. The pope wore white and seemed full of life just as he did on the TV screen. In the photo, as was the case today, he was smiling benevolently, giving life and hope to the hopeless. It mattered little to Ude. When he needed the Pope the most, his daughter lay near death in the hospital bed that soon would become her tomb. He needed a miracle. He needed the Pope.

Instead he was surrounded by doctors.

They were white men of letters, in starched white coats, who hours earlier, looked him in his eyes and told him that they could not save his daughter’s unborn baby. Now that baby, her child, his only grandchild, was gone. There would be no play time, or child like nicknames such as PeePap or Poppie. There would be no surprises at Christmas, or anything of the like. Those same doctors told him there would probably be no more grandchildren ever, as now it was the life of his daughter, his Cassandra that was at stake. They said, only prayer would save her.

It was his fault. It was his faith…not hers.

She was raped because he couldn’t persuade her to stay home where it was safe. She was pregnant because he would not allow her to get an abortion. She was dying because he couldn’t make the single two decisions that would have saved her life. She blamed him. He blamed his faith. His faith caused him to first decide that she must keep the child. Abortion, he reasoned, was a sin. That night, as she laid dying, faith again betrayed him. Taking the life of the unborn, he told the doctors, was murder!

It was her life, but his test. It was his trial, he believed, and so he prayed.

He was her father.

She was his daughter.

He was supposed to protect her.

He failed.

Why couldn’t I decide? he mumbled as he nervously paced the room fighting back tears. Why couldn’t I decide between saving her life, or that of the child? Such decisions, he reasoned, are left up to God. No man should be forced to choose between saving the life of his daughter, or his grandchild. He needed more time to decide but the child died in the fleeting seconds of indecision. Now doctors told him neither life could be saved. His daughter, his precious Cassandra, they said, was already dead!

He chose not to believe.

Instead he believed that God would deliver a miracle through prayer and the Pope.

It was his test, his trial, he believed and so he prayed.

As he prayed, the face of Jesus looked down from the corner of the room. Like the doctor who told him his daughter was dying, the Jesus he prayed to was white with flowing brown hair and an angelic expression of calm on his face. White Jesus looked upwards toward the heavens and Ude looked upward toward him. Over and over again, he asked but one simple question, why?

It was Cassandra’s decision to travel to the Sudan. She believed in Africa’s cause, he did not. She believed in saving the world one precious soul at a time. He believed his money would buy her safety and his salvation, and so he sent his emissaries to the Sudan, men with suitcases stuffed with his money, to bribe the local tribal leaders. She was not to be touched! he instructed. Most accepted the money and the mandate. One group of rebel soldiers did not. She returned home raped, broken, and pregnant. She needed her father. He needed his faith, and so he prayed. He was in the chapel when she went into labor. When he returned, it was already too late. There were moments; precious seconds to make the decisions a lifetime of thought could not produce. God failed him. He failed Cassandra.

Mr. Ude, the doctor began, It’s time.

Get me the Cardinal, Ude demanded. It can wait until then, he added.

The Cardinal is in the waiting room as you instructed, the doctor replied. Standing there stoically, he waited for Ude’s next instruction.

Then bring him in now!

Moments later, Sese Cardinal Obote entered the room. Wearing the red robes of a man of faith, he brushed past the others and took a position standing directly by Ude’s side. Clutching a rosary he began to pray softly, even as he listened.

The Pope?

I’m sorry dear friend, Obote said, as he paused his prayers. Trying not to make direct contact with the taller Ude, he continued. The Pontiff sends his regrets, but this was not scheduled! he said apologetically. You must understand….

I must understand nothing! Ude fired back, the anger rising in his voice. I have given millions to the church. The hospital in Lagos bears his name. The least the arrogant son-of-a-bitch can do is to be here by my side as we pray for Cassandra! Now bring him to me!

I’m sorry, Mr. Ude, the Cardinal answered. Getting an audience with the Holy Father on such short notice is not that easy. I spoke directly to those closest to him and he wants you to know that he prays with you, but he cannot be here right now. The Cardinal clutched the rosary even more tightly. Yes, the Holy Father understands what you have done, and the role that you have played financially. That is why he sent me. Together we will pray for your daughter. Together we will pray for a miracle. Obote then began to walk ever closer to Ude reaching out to grab his hand so that they might pray together.

Mr. Ude, the doctor interrupted. It is time. We cannot wait any longer. Like Obote, the doctor could see that he would need more than his talents; he would need a miracle if Cassandra was to be saved. The truth was, she was too far gone. Mr. Ude, he began cautiously, lowering his voice to sound more sympathetic and fidgeting with his stethoscope, we have had this conversation before….

And we will have it again…and again…and again…until you understand that I will not give up on my daughter! Ude shot back angrily. This is my test…this is my trial…and I will not fail. I will not fail my daughter…and if I do not fail her, God will not fail me. Was it not you, my dear Cardinal, who told me that Jesus brought back the dead?

Obote said nothing.

The doctor mimicked the moment.

Silence…followed by more silence…and the sound of a heart monitor attached to a machine that caused Cassandra’s heart to beat. More silence until it became deafening.

The Pope mobile is making its way through the streets of Lagos, the announcer could be heard saying in the background. The crowd is reveling in one of the first visits by the Holy Father to Africa, which is home to 130 million Catholics, he continued. See how the faithful worship him, and fall to his feet, he said as the camera panned to a shot of Nigeria’s Catholics waiving palm branches as he passed.

Turn it off! Ude shouted his rage increasing. "If he can’t be here to pray with me, then to hell with him…and his precious Catholic Church…I will pray alone!" he bellowed.

"I am here for you, Cardinal Obote interjected. I will pray with you," he added.

But you are not the Pope…I paid for the Pope! he said, the rage filling his face.

Then the doctor walked slowly over to the Cassandra’s bedside and asked the Cardinal to join him. Grasping Ude by the hand, he pulled the two together. Whatever it is that God needs to do, let him do it now, he said softly. Slowly he turned and faced Ude. When you are ready…

Ude saw the life of his precious Cassandra, his only child, pass before his eyes. In that single moment a father, a man of wealth laid bare by that which money could not buy, realized that there would be no miracle. His test, his trial was over. In the split second between sanity and madness he made the decision that would change his life forever. At first he struggled to utter the words. Then in a final act of mercy, he ended the life of his daughter. Turn them off!

Then there was silence…followed by the deathly screams of a man of faith, a father, gone mad.

He failed Cassandra.

God failed him.

God…and everyone who worshipped him…he vowed…would pay!

Chapter 1

Ash Wednesday…

There were five men named Silva who lived in the village. Four were dead. The fifth would die today. Those were the men. The boys would grow up cursing their very name. Each Silva was named Jesús with the corresponding Roman numeral to signify their place in the unforgiving genetic pecking order of life. Unlike their name, they weren’t blessed. Each left the world as poor as their unfortunate namesake who would replace them. There was no royalty in poverty, and nothing to indicate that the next generation would be any different. Theirs was the type of poor, the type of wretched thirst for equality that the world either forgot or simply chose not to see, even though they were forced to live with the consequences of being without, of being poor, daily. Poverty became a birth curse that led to hard choices: medicine versus food, food versus clothing, a single toy at Christmas, death without dignity.

Like most mornings Silva awoke from a restless night’s sleep but this time he was not worried about the past, or the bills that sat in a pile on the opposite side of the room. On this morning he was restless because he knew this day would be his last. The only comfort came from knowing that, while disgraced, his family would no longer be poor. The rain didn’t help.

Outside an unexpected storm thundered against the tin metal roof that covered the shack he called home. It was the drumbeat of a life without rhythm, a life too poor for song. Tap…tap…tap…then tapap tapap tapap and finally tapaptapaptapap.

From there the water formed icy streams and collected outside in puddles that became ravines. It was a relentless rain that seemed to fit the decision he had dreaded for so long. A hard, driving rain that fell cold in a normally tropical climate. It seemed appropriate for a man about to die.

As he sat up in bed, he continued to be haunted by the ghosts of his decision even though he still had time to turn away. It was, he knew, a single decision that would change the course of history and betray his precious Catholic church. His mind, moving at the speed of a man struggling with both faith and his own salvation, raced back to a single word played over and over during the night, as the images of the opposite flooded his thoughts, Maat. Even though he knew he would be scorned, it was necessary, he thought, to give them his children things in death that he could not provide in life. He would be dead, they would be rich. Such was the complex irony of a man, a father, about to become a martyr.

As he pulled back the small yellow wrinkled white sheet that barely covered his massive legs, he gazed upon the tiny bodies of his two youngest daughters who slept next to him each night. He paused momentarily to peel back the small white cotton tee shirts that served as their pajamas and softly kissed each on the shoulder, before turning to his wife Mariella kissing her goodbye. Two other children, Miriam 14, and Martha 12, slept separately on mats across the room. Two others, both girls, had grown older and moved away. Both married and lived in a similar hut on the other side of a similar slum they called home. Both had children. At 33, Jesús was already a grandfather, three times over.

The diminutive black wood burning stove that sat atop a somewhat larger piece of faded vinyl had grown cold. The stove managed to sport several different shades of black and the shine in the no-shine flooring was gone. The flooring was big enough to keep the sparks at bay, but stopped short of being effective. It was colder than the stove and sent a chill up the spine of Jesús as his bare feet came in contact with the earthen surface. The room smelled of burning trash that drifted in from the dump next door like an evil fog and damp rags from clothes that hung in the corner. They were damp from the constant rains that fell endlessly outside. Drop by drop the buckets that lined the floor filled to overflow but he would be long gone, and probably dead, before they were in need of emptying again.

His only solace, besides his children, was the uniform that hung neatly on a hook, fashioned from a bent coat hanger in the opposite corner of the room. As always, it was pressed and ready for his tour of duty. As a pilot in the Forca Aerea Brazileira, or Brazilian Air Force, it was more than a uniform; it was his family’s sense of pride. Bunions that hurt from flight boots that no longer fit, rounded out this portrait of misery hidden from a world that flew over his home each and every morning. Tourists arrived on the flights that circled his tiny mountain before landing, and soon they would flood Brazil’s beaches seeking solace in the sun.

Pulling the small tin door behind him, and fastening the wooden latch with the wire that kept it in place, he surveyed all that was not his. Life inside the favelas was cruel. Small children with soiled faces, who roamed the landfills fighting dogs for lost treasures in their youth, grew angry as adults when their faith that things would be better, was replaced by the cold reality they would die even poorer than how they were born. Such was the cycle of poverty. Still, it was Ash Wednesday, and like all devout Catholics Jesús would partake of the sacraments, he would drink of the cup and eat of the bread and allow the priest to place the ashes on his forehead. Then he would continue the self sacrifice that would define him.

And so it was that Jesús Silva wore the ashes of the faithful, the mark of a good Catholic, as he guided the stick of his French made Mirage III fighter jet for the last time. A pilot, he remembered the last words in the briefing session before the mission. Fly low and slow. This, he was told, was nothing more than another drill in an endless series of drills stemming from the attacks of 9/11 in the U.S. Today, he was to fly his supersonic fighter jet past the massive statue of ‘Christ the Redeemer’ and then turn on the afterburners as if in pursuit of a terrorist who had commandeered a passenger plane. He had never fired a shot in combat, and, for the first time in his life, he knew he never would.

‘Christ the Redeemer’ or as the Portuguese called it, ‘O Christos Redentor,’ rose 140 feet into the air and sat atop the humpback shoulders of Corcovado mountain, weighing more than 635 thousand tons. The massive concrete statue, with miles of steel reinforcing underneath, was Brazil’s contribution to the community of faith. The mammoth visage of Christ and his outstretched hands offered a blessing to all who gathered below. The statue had become one of Rio’s most famous tourist attractions and in 2007 was added to the modern list of the seven greatest wonders of the world. It graced the cover of magazines and the frequently was shown during the openings of TV shows. Christ, Jesús Silva believed, was also blind.

In the ghettos below, there was little in the way of any blessings and instead only poverty. Jesús Silva could see it from the cockpit of his fighter jet and he wondered why God hadn’t seen it too. Why, he wondered, did God not see the hundreds of favelas that dotted the landscape? Once called ‘barrios Africanos’ or African neighborhoods the favelas were the other, less flattering, face of Brazil. There thousands of former slaves, who owned no land and had no chance of jobs, crammed into shanty towns in the mountains that overlooked some of Brazil’s most popular beaches. They were his aunts and uncles. They were his children, his family.

Silva was a descendent of the more than 3.6 million slaves to land in Brazil, but unlike many, his family fought back. Once Islamic and Sudanese, they formed Brazils most famous quilombo, or band of runaway slaves in a place called Palmares. Formed in the 1600’s, Palmares grew to be the largest collection of independent and self sustaining runaway slaves in Brazil. As a little boy growing up in school, he marveled at the exploits of Ganga Zumba and Sumbi, the two most popular quilombo leaders. They fought the Dutch and the Portuguese until at its height both men were killed by artillery shells. Despite that, both men became national heroes in a country that offered little in the way of such examples for its young afro Brazilian men.

Low and slow, he mouthed again as the stick on the fighter jet tightened in his grip. Perspiration made it difficult to hold onto. He had been told to anticipate the nerves, but as a trained fighter pilot, he had written off such concerns. Keep her steady, he reminded himself. Much was riding on the mission.

Bravo two-four-zero we’re noticing a variation in your flight path can you confirm? the first call from the tower lacked any sense of urgency, as Silva was still miles away from his intended target.

Must be problems with the instruments on your end cause’ I’m showing we’re right on course, Silva replied. Aren’t we replacing these French pieces of junk you call airplanes anyway? He replied in his broken Brazilian accent, not expecting an answer. Slowly he pushed the stick causing the plane to bank right ever so slightly. I’m doing a course correction to the left, are you seeing any changes?

The flight director watching the mission from the control tower seemed puzzled. If, as he had indicated Silva was banking left, the plane was headed in the opposite direction. Suddenly a look of concern crossed the controller’s face. "Try that again," he added.

Roger that, Silva replied. Then, once again pushing the stick ever so slightly, this time to the right, the plane banked right just as it had been instructed by its pilot.

Now we’re showing you on course, the flight director replied in a calmer voice that still crackled over the headsets. Try it again, but remember we’re getting real close to the no-fly-zone over the monument….so make it quick, he continued.

This time Silva once again pushed the stick more sharply to the left causing the plane to suddenly alter course and head directly toward the massive statue of Christ the Redeemer.

Bravo two-four-zero you’re way off course, the flight director said barking a series of commands into the microphone. "Break away…I repeat…break away!"

On the ground a couple had just completed their wedding vows inside the small Chapel of Nossa Senhora Aparecida. Others were sipping cups of Brazilian coffee in a small café near the statue. None heard or saw anything until a little boy clutching a replica of the statue he had just purchased inside the gift shop looked up. Mommy… he said grabbing her hand in a jerking manner, What’s that?

Silva knew it was too late for the others to scramble and intercept his flight. As the massive face of Jesus began to fill his field of vision, he saw for the first time why so many were angry. There, looking back was a face that bore no resemblance to reality. The visage was more Caucasian than African, with flowing locks of hair cast in concrete.

Break off Bravo two-four-zero…I repeat break-away!

Silva looked down at a small picture of his family, taped to the cockpit’s control panel, as he posed proudly with them outside the small tin hut they called home. He knew there would be questions, from police, from friends, and from associates, but he prayed that God knew the true intentions of his heart. He wondered why no one questioned the fact that his plane bore the infamous name of the slave ships that brought his ancestors to Brazil. The ‘Black Ship’ as it was called, was a tribute to those whose voices died with them during the dreaded middle passage or under the yoke of oppression once they arrived in what was supposed to be ‘the free world.’

M-a-a-t… he said calmly in to the radio. M-a-a-t!

What the hell does that mean you crazy bastard! Now break off your flight pattern before it’s too late…

It means truth…Silva replied calmly. It means truth. Then pausing long enough to turn the photo of his family over he read the carefully scripted message he had scribbled on the back. Everywhere is war! he shouted into the microphone on his headset. Everywhere is war!

A few people with cell phones managed to capture the image of the fighter jet crashing into the top of the monument, severing the head of Jesus and sending tons of rocks and other debris crashing onto those below. A large cloud formed from the vaporized concrete that exploded in different directions. The twisted metal remains of the plane sent shrapnel cascading down on all who couldn’t escape. Seventeen people died, two dozen more were injured, in what Brazilian authorities quickly called an act of terrorism. The nation’s media quickly turned their attention to Jesús Silva, branding him a terrorist, a radical with extremist ties to radical Islamic groups in the Sudan. They assumed it had to do with the endless stories of starvation and war in the war torn African country. His father, an elderly man who bore a striking resemblance to his son, refused to speak with reporters and took refuge inside the tiny tin hut, inside the favelas, they had called home for so long. Soon the huts were bulldozed leaving behind little trace of the man named Jesús Silva.

A top to bottom review of the country’s air force was ordered by a military desperate to explain how a drill designed to protect the country from a terrorist attack wound up being one.

Explain to me how in the hell this type of thing could happen? Major General Juan Esposito demanded, chomping down on just one of his staple of Cuban Cigars. Why the hell didn’t we shoot the damn thing down?

We couldn’t, Silva’s immediate officer explained. He was supposed to be protecting us. It was supposed to be a drill to test our readiness in the event something just like it happened. We froze, just like the authorities in the United States, he countered before realizing the colonel had no use for logic.

And what the hell was he saying right before the crash? the colonel demanded. "What the hell is m-a-a-t?"

Chapter 2

30 pieces of silver

Mariella Silva awoke to the sound of what seemed to be a violent explosion and ran across the room. She immediately searched the bed for her husband and quickly discovered he was gone. She was preceded by her two teenagers who also wanted to know what caused the commotion. The smaller children had been dressed for hours and were preparing to go about their daily routine of begging for food and small amounts of money by selling Chiclets or whatever else they could get their hands on when it seemed as if the entire mountain began to disintegrate. The thunderous sound made it seem as if God himself had declared war on Brazil.

It was in that instance that Mariella realized the true gravity of what had just occurred. She remembered the night, when Jesús thought she was sleeping, that she overheard his plans, but chalked them up to the ramblings of an impoverished madman. Now the madness was upon them, and she knew it would not be long before the authorities came knocking. Panic set in as she raced back and forth across the tiny room fumbling to collect what little belongings there were. A small silver spoon handed down from mother to daughter, a quilt that had taken the same journey and the rags her children called clothes.

A loud knock on the door caused her to freeze. Standing motionless in the middle of the room she placed her finger across her lips signaling for the children to be quiet. Then the knock came again. It was only a matter of time, she knew, before the authorities would burst through the door arresting them all. In an instance her mind raced to the trials and prison and shame, and her children, the two most valued possessions in her life being placed into foster care. She thought of their neighbors, and the shame of it all. Seconds later she collected herself and began to slowly walk toward the door.

Again there was the knocking.

Mariella Silva! the man on the other side bellowed. Please, there is not much time!

Mariella did not recognize the voice but the way he spoke left little doubt he was not the police. Time for what? she said from the other side of the door, daring not open it, just yet.

I have something for you, the man continued. …something from Jesús!

What do you know about Jesús, and us? she asked, motioning for the children to walk toward the other end of the shack.

It is about the money!

Money?

Yes, the man added. By now you have put two and two together, but you do not yet now why. The man stated matter-of-factly. Now could I come in?

Slowly, Mariella opened the door only to see a man, dark skinned with flowing dreadlocks, dressed in an impeccable suit standing there holding a small black attaché case. He said nothing else, but instead raised the briefcase high enough for Mariella to see it, and unfastened the clasps.

This belongs to you, he said opening the briefcase. All of it!

Mariella had never seen such an amount of money. It appeared as if there were five rows of one hundred dollar bills, each row counting ten across.

There is $250,000 in here, the man said allowing Mariella to look inside the briefcase before closing it shut once more. There are no papers to sign. Jesús has done what he was asked to do and this is what he was told he would receive for doing so. There is no way the authorities will be able to trace this money to you, preparations have already been made. So I suggest you gather the children and come with me. I have a car waiting outside.

But why? Mariella asked with a bewildered expression on her face. It was all too sudden, too surreal.

Why is not important, the man replied. In due time you will learn that what your husband did today may have been the most important, the most unselfish act in history. But you must come quickly because the authorities won’t take long to find you.

The stunned expressions on the face of the children only mirrored those of their mother. Moments ago they were watching as Brazil’s treasure seemed to topple to the ground. Now there was a stranger, with long flowing dreadlocks, standing in their doorway, claiming to know their father, and holding an attaché filled with cash.

Children, Mariella said calmly. I suggest we follow this man, she added. As she made her way down the muddy path to the car, she and the children, out of habit, stopped to remove their shoes before entering the limo.

There is no need for that, the man said politely opening the door for Mariella to enter. It is our pleasure to serve you.

Mariella looked inside the limo and noticed there was no one else, just the driver and the mysterious man who handed her the briefcase as she entered the car.

This now belongs to you, he said. Take it and use it wisely.

Opening it Mariella paused and for the first time in her life felt both pleasure and pain. She had never seen so much money, and feared she knew where it had come from.

Jesús, what have you done? she said as her emotions began to take over. What in God’s name have you done?

Chapter 3

Washington, D.C.

The first images began streaming into newsrooms around the world shortly after noon EST. As they did, horrified staffers, hardened to most sights, gathered in pools beneath television screens in buildings around the globe. The Washington D.C. station that was first on the air ran what was known as a crawl, a graphic sliding across the bottom of the screen announcing that Brazil had suffered its own terrorist attacks, reminiscent of the attacks on the U.S. on September 11th.

TERRORISTS STRIKE BRAZILIAN LANDMARK

DOZENS FEARED DEAD.

Walker, the station’s news director bellowed, Be on the next flight out of here, he added. And make sure Samantha is on it with you!

Born angry and black, with a slap on the ass in the small industrial town of Wheeling, West Virginia, Matthias ‘Matt’ Walker was raised in poverty and weaned on the Civil Rights movement by a father who taught him that his job was not just a profession but a responsibility. Matt Walker was a Washington fixture, an award winning investigative