If you don’t believe me, check for yourself. All forty-two men who have been presidents of the United States can trace their lineages back to Charlemagne, just like the British nobility and the great royal houses of the Bourbons and Saxe-Gotha. This is the “divine right of kings” so vigorously defended for centuries and only apparently abandoned in the tremendous pressure of the world’s peoples for freedom from reptilian rule. The rule did not end, however, and has not ended to this day. It only changed its public face. Now we are presented with “choices” between possible rulers. We can pick between George W. Bush or Al Gore, or between John Major and Tony Blair. The reality is too far under the surface for most people to notice. There is no choice. Bush and Gore are descended from the same bloodlines. So are John Major and Tony Blair. So is the Pope. So is Gorbachev. All our “choices,” between “capitalist” and “communist,” between “democracy” and “dictatorship,” between “liberal” and “conservative,” between “religious” and “athiest,” all of them are false choices, because in each case we are offered nothing but what the Illuminati want us to have. The Illuminati do not care if we call the system we live under “free market” or “social demo-cratic.”They only care that they rule.
We are coming upon a time of great persecution. Anthony van Wyck Ross was not murdered by men and women like us, who know the truth and want to expose it to the world—but the Illuminati will do everything in their power to make it look as if we are at fault, to brand us extremists, terrorists, and lunatics. Anthony van Wyck Ross was murdered by the same people who destroyed the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. In other words, he was murdered by his own, by a CIA operative on the direct orders of George W. Bush. Long powerful and reliable in the corridors of power, Ross had begun to disintegrate mentally in the last months of his life, the results of alcohol and drug abuse brought on by his attempts to ease the painful memories of the sexual abuse that was the foundation of his training as a member of the Illuminati. It was feared that he would no longer be able to keep the secrets he had been entrusted with. The most dangerous secret, the one thing the Illuminati cannot allow the public to understand at just this point in time, is that the September 11 massacres were carried out on the orders of the United States government, with the help of the British, French, German and United Nations power elites. Ross was himself involved in the planning of those massacres. If he couldn’t shut up—and he couldn’t, not any longer—he would have to be silenced.
Charlotte licked her lips and folded the sheaf of papers in half again. It was like being trapped inside the mind of a lunatic, imprisoned in his skull. She had no idea where this thing had come from, or who had put it squarely in the middle of her desk here in the morning room, so that it would be the first thing she would find. She had no idea who had been leaving them here, for months. She was sure Miss Parenti had had nothing to do with it. She was not sure the servants had not. The idea that somebody who worked for her read this … thing … on a regular basis made her feel as if she had been turned to ice.
She got out of her chair and took the sheaf of papers with her. She should turn them over to the police. She should outline the entire incident, the way they were lying right on top of her green felt ink blotter, where she couldn’t miss them. She should make out a list of the people in her service and the people who had been to visit during the day. She did none of these things. She threw the sheaf of papers in the fire and stood by to watch them burn. She counted the seconds until the flames had turned the papers to ash.
Then she left the morning room and walked down the hall to the small powder room near the back stairs. She needed to throw up.
2
It would have been better if there had been someone on the street when Father Tibor Kasparian got home—not a big welcoming committee; he wasn’t up for that, and he had a feeling he’d get it whether he wanted it or not in an hour or two—but just someone familiar, bringing home groceries, buying the paper, moving a car that had been parked too long at the curb. Sometimes you needed the ordinary and the everyday. They were all that took the edge off the frightening and bizarre. He thought ahead to the crush that would develop as soon as word got out that he was home. Lida Arkmanian was probably watching from the big plate-glass window in her living room right this minute. When it started, it would be inexorable. People would drift in to Ben-nis’s old apartment, scrupulously not talking about why it was free for somebody else to move into for a month or two, bringing food. Eventually, the women would ignore him and drape themselves over all of Bennis’s furniture to talk about who was getting married and who was getting divorced and who was going to graduate in the spring from what really fancy college in Massachusetts. Paper plates and plastic forks would accumulate on tables, brought in by whichever one of them realized that the last thing he’d want on his first day home was a lot of dishes to do. Books would accumulate on the coffee table in the living room, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with grosgrain ribbon. His suitcases would be laid out on Bennis’s freshly made-up bed. He had no idea what he would do when they were all gone. It hadn’t occurred to him until just this moment that he hadn’t been alone for a single minute since the explosion had ripped through Holy Trinity Church.