Strangers

longing to believe, not particularly in the truths of Catholicism or Christianity, for not all were Catholics or Christians, but a deep-seated longing to believe in something greater and better and cleaner than humankind, an intense yearning for spiritual transcendence.
        "What's it mean, Father?" one of them asked again.
        "Something's happening," he told them. "Here, elsewhere. A great and wonderful something. This child is part of it. I can't tell you for sure what it means or that we've seen the hand of God here, though I believe we have. Look at Hector on his mother's lap, eating candy, and remember God's promise: "There shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away." In my heart of hearts, I feel that the former things are about to pass away. Now I must go. I've urgent business."
        Somewhat to his surprise, even though his explanation had been vague, they parted to make way for him and did not detain him further, perhaps because the miracle of Hector Mendoza had not been vague - had in fact been emphatically specific - and had already given them more answers than they could handle. But as Stefan went, some reached out to touch him, to squeeze his hand or shoulder, not with religious fervor but with an emotional camaraderie. Stefan was overcome by the need to touch them as well, to share a profound sense of the community of humankind, which had filled everyone -in the room, to share the conviction that they were being swept toward some great destiny.
        

        
        In Boston, at ten o'clock, Alexander Christophson, former United States Senator and Ambassador to Great Britain, former Director of the CIA, now retired for a decade, was reading the morning newspaper when he received a telephone call from his brother, Philip, the antiques dealer in Greenwich, Connecticut. They spoke for five minutes about nothing important, just two brothers keeping in touch, but the conversation had a secret purpose. At the end Philip said, "Oh, by the way, I spoke with Diana just this morning. Do you remember her?"
        "I certainly do," Alex said. "How's she doing?"
        "Oh, she has her troubles," Philip said. "Too boring to discuss. But she says hello." Then he changed the subject, recommending two new books that Alex might enjoy, as if Diana were of no real importance.
        Diana was the code word that meant Ginger Weiss had phoned Philip and needed to speak with Alex. The moment he had seen Ginger at Pablo's funeral, her silver-blond hair a-shimmer as if with a light of its own, she had made him think of Diana, goddess of the moon.
        After he said goodbye to Philip, he told his wife, Elena, that he intended to drive to the mall. "I want to stop at the bookstore and pick up a couple of novels that Philip recommended."
        He actually went to the mall, but before he bought the books, he found a public phone booth and, using his AT&T credit card, called Philip to get the number that Ginger Weiss had left.
        "She says it's a pay phone in Elko, Nevada," Philip told him.
        When Alex put the Nevada call through, Ginger Weiss did not answer until the fifth ring. "Sorry," she said. "I was in the car, parked beside the booth. It was just too cold to stand here and wait."
        "What are you doing in Nevada?" Alex asked.
        "If I understood you correctly at Pablo's funeral, you really don't want me to answer questions like that."
        "Right. Less I know, the better. What did you want to ask me?"
        She explained, with a minimum of detail, that she had found others suffering from memory blocks similar to hers, some with different false memories covering the same time span. Since Alex was the expert on brainwashing, Ginger wanted to know if implanting fake memories that included threads of reality was more difficult than implanting entirely false recollections, and he was able to assure her that, indeed, it was.
        "That's what we figured," Ginger said. "But it's good to hear you confirm it. Shows we're on the right track. Now, one more thing: I want you to get some information for us. We need to know whatever you can learn about a Colonel Leland Falkirk, an officer in one of the Army's elite DERO companies. I also need-"
        "Wait, wait," Alex said, looking nervously through the glass door of the booth at shoppers walking past in the mall, as if he were