Chapter 22 #2
We were ferried several miles, to the expected Atlanta landmark: the Clarion Cathedral.
It was practically a city unto itself, an amalgam of spires, buttresses, and towers made from clear glass, as if it might turn invisible at will.
It was overwhelming, although without the Vatican’s artistry or history.
It was more of a mammoth convention center, akin to the Empress Olympia, a feat of engineering and fundraising rather than imagination.
The construction techniques were incomprehensible, with so many seamless and soaring panes.
Looking directly at it was difficult, as the sunlight bounced off every surface, causing shifts in perspective and prismatic rainbows, for a grandly kitschy effect, as if there were a stable for glass unicorns next door.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” said Fleming. “It’s going to become Reese’s second White House.”
“If he’s elected,” said Reggie.
“Which is why we’re here,” said Fleming, who’d barely acknowledged me.
And oddly, there were very few security guards or church employees in the vicinity, and since the cathedral was closed, the place seemed deserted.
Fleming led us through a main entrance, as the two-story-high arched glass doors swung open, of their own accord.
Even the floors were glass, although etched to avoid scuff marks and unfortunate views from below.
Walking into the cathedral became entering a snow globe or some other monumental version of an airport gift shop display.
The angles kept mutating, as concealed lighting would illuminate walls within walls, for a fun-house distortion.
The central chapel was a Colosseum-style space, with a sweeping flight of curving steps.
I refocused my vision to avoid swaying as the waves of sparkle and visible sky crashed over me.
The Clarion Cathedral was more a ride than a house of worship, with extra-wide velvet-upholstered theater-style seating (with cupholders) rather than rigorous wooden pews.
Churchgoers flocked to be entertained and flabbergasted instead of contemplating, say, the existence of the Divine and lessons in morality.
“Well, hey there,” said a mellifluous voice, as a shaft of artificial light blasted from above, with Reese Dantine at its center, standing before the glass altar.
There was a modernist glass sculpture dangling in midair high above him, with a glass eagle, its wings spread, perched atop a huge glass crucifix resplendent with glass bunting and glass stars, for an abstract orgy of hallowed Americana.
Some optical trickery lent Reese an exalted stature, as if he were more imposing than merely human-sized.
He’d been carefully styled to appear presidential, in a pin-striped navy blue suit, plutonium-white shirt, and neatly knotted Republican red silk tie.
His face and hair were billboard-ready, and his smile was ravenously wide.
“Welcome, my friends, to Our Lord’s wonderland. It’s so good to see you. I’m told we’re lucky enough to host Mr. Reginald O’Malley and Mr. Andrew Birnbaum. Andrew, I’d like you to keep in mind, God loves every last one of us, and Judaism is no hindrance.”
This wasn’t a blessing. Everything about Reese and his surroundings was staged, and I remembered Triumph of the Will, a documentary Aunt Libby had taken me to, in a screening room at the Museum of Modern Art.
This movie had been directed by the innovative if ethically hopeless Leni Riefenstahl, who’d photographed Hitler as a god among men, the Elvis of fascist supremacy.
“Leni was Hitler’s cinematographer and publicist,” Libby had warned. “Every dictator’s got one.”
“I’m told you’re bearing great gifts,” said Reese, raising his arms as if parting the Red Sea or cuing a spike in audience applause at the end of a production number.
“Not until we see Reata,” said Reggie.
“And so you shall,” Reese intoned, as he nodded to some unseen crew member.
In an instant, the cathedral was transformed.
Every transparent surface turned an opaque black, as if a tornado were brewing.
The copious natural light was swallowed by darkness, with only the spotlight on Reese remaining.
There was an eerie electronic hum, from exits being blocked.
If there were settings on the cathedral’s central control switch, they’d been dialed to “Supervillain Lair.”
Then an immense wall, to Reese’s right, rose silently, revealing Reata, her hands zip-tied in front of her.
She was still in her jeans, T-shirt, and safari jacket, with her hair pulled back by a rubber band.
Her boots were crusted with soil, from the dig she’d visited.
While always iconic, Reata was now a hands-on heroine, Amelia Earhart coupled with Sigourney Weaver’s forthrightness and Angela Bassett’s don’t-fuck-with-me clout.
“Reata?” Reggie called out from the gloom. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, “but these bastards don’t deserve the Moirai jewels.”
“But of course we do,” said Reese. “Isn’t that right, Fleming?”
“You’re the future,” Fleming burbled.
“Let the First Lady go,” said Reggie. “Right now.”
“Afterward,” said Reese. “But we’ve got so much to do. First, if Mr. Fairmont would be so kind, let’s have a look at the treasure itself, which your group has been gracious enough to collect, from so many sources.”
Fleming grabbed Jenn’s bag from Reggie and strode down an aisle, handing his stolen bounty to a man in a gray suit with a jeweler’s loupe attached to his eye.
This hired arbiter began scrutinizing the diamond, ruby, and emerald in turn.
Reata was watching his every move—she was repulsed by Reese, but drawn to the artifacts and their antiquity.
As the evaluation continued, there was a rustling, and the beam from Reese’s personal lighting effect glinted off armed men who’d emerged from the shadows, as Reese’s private garrison.
“Everything checks out,” the jeweler or gemologist informed Reese. “These aren’t fakes.”
“Like this stooge would know,” said Reata. “What’s his background?”
“He’s verified relics for our church for decades,” said Reese.
“So you can sell them on the black market?” asked Reata. “Haven’t you made enough money by fleecing people in nursing homes?”
“Reata,” clucked Fleming, “this isn’t the time for petty sniping.”
“From a mere academic,” said Reese, and I was surprised Reata didn’t furiously snap the zip ties and lunge for his throat. Reese wasn’t merely a criminal and a bigot—he’d insulted her credentials. He turned to an associate, requesting, “The Diadem, please.”
Reata’s displeasure and interest only increased, but she wouldn’t give Reese the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.
Another gray-suited crony left the murk, bearing a velvet pillow nestling the Diadem, which was a chunky golden crown, newly polished, not a filigreed Tower of London specialty item but something far older and even crude that had survived for centuries.
“Good Lord,” said Reata. “Be careful!”
“Where did you get it?” asked Reggie, as this second figure handed the Diadem to the gemstone authority, who set the whole thing atop the altar and went to work, unrolling a pouch with delicate tools, each in its own tiny felt sleeve.
“It wasn’t easy,” said Reese. “Although the Diadem is of far lesser value without the jewels. The Diadem had been kept hidden for quite some time in a Tibetan monastery, where the monks abhorred its potential. They’d sworn to never unite the gems with their rightful setting, to keep the world safe. ”
“And rightly so,” said Reata. “So what did you do? Torch the monastery? Kill anyone who got in your way?”
“Unnecessary. I sent Fleming, who promised the Diadem would be stored at the Smithsonian and kept unavailable. The monks respected Mr. Fairmont’s stature, and the reputation of our foremost American museum.”
“Although the heat was god-awful in Tibet,” said Fleming, from the aisle. “I was forced to wear linen and mop my brow. And I don’t truly approve of Buddhism, with all those bowls of rice and so much chanting. Although the fabrics and peonies are heavenly.”
I could easily reconstruct Fleming’s unctuous negotiation, during which he’d introduced himself as a Western savior.
Fleming would do anything, without a second’s pause, to maintain his link to power.
He was a lapdog in a Panama hat and a natty gingham bow tie, although maybe this isn’t fair to lapdogs.
“Fairmont,” said Reata, “you’re a small-time suck-up, and you’re just smart enough to know it. And don’t kid yourself—your shelf life is limited. If you don’t deliver, you’ll be replaced, by a more efficient rodent.”
Fleming smirked, under Reese’s however momentary protection. For all his Dixie gentility, he frightened me. He was how evil flourishes; he was Reese’s fertilizer.
“Here we go,” said the guy at the altar, raising the Diadem with the jewels fastened in place.
The result was showily colorful, almost a costume piece, and I’d seen similar if less costly crowns in a recent revival of Camelot at Lincoln Center and in any number of ceremonial Viking tales on Netflix.
The Diadem was a Game of Thrones prop mixed with the pageantry of A Passage to India, echoed by the cardboard versions awarded at Burger King in honor of a Whopper ordered on a customer’s birthday.
Reata was transfixed, by a find she’d only seen in faded photos from the Third Reich.
I expected Fleming to obsequiously place the completed object atop Reese’s abundant curls, where the gel and hairspray would anchor it. But instead Reese said, “Andrew?”
Everyone turned toward me.
“Could you come up here?”
“Why?” asked Reggie. “We’ve met your demands, what are you going to do to him?”
“I’m not going to do anything to your little friend. But I’d like him to do something for me.”