The Devil Will Come (2 page)

Advocatus Diaboli

“I think you’re full of shit,” Hinman said. He tossed the gold-plated pen he’d been holding onto his desk blotter and sat back in his chair, the rich leather creaking softly as it adjusted to his body.

“The evidence is there, and in abundance,” the other man said, leaning forward in his seat a little. The flames in the nearby fireplace flickered their reflection in the lenses of his eyeglasses.

“Well then, lay it out,” Hinman told him, with an impatient wave of his hand. “I didn’t invite you to my home on a Sunday just so you could waste my time. There are plenty of people who do that for me five days a week.”

Walter Kendall opened the expensive leather briefcase that lay in his lap. It had been a graduation gift from his mother, bestowed three years ago when he had earned his Ph.D. in Cultural Anthropology at Berkeley.

Kendall pulled out a handful of manila file folders, each one meticulously labeled. He closed the briefcase but kept it across his knees.

“As I mentioned a minute ago, the pattern is clear,” Kendall said. “Time and again throughout history, you find cases of men who were nobodies, nonentities, clearly destined for lives of obscurity and insignificance. And then, in each instance, something… happened.”

“Divine intervention, you mean?” Hinman did not bother to mute the sarcasm.

Kendall shook his head. “Not at all. Quite the contrary, in fact— but I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Look, we both know that random chance operates in human affairs,” Hinman said. “Some guy hits the lottery for ten mil, another guy books passage on the
Titanic
. Or, as this fella I know, who’s part Osage Indian, likes to say, ‘Some days you eat the bear, and some days the bear eats you.’ It’s happenstance, is all it is.”

“Chance plays a role in history, of course. Everyone knows that. But I’m talking about something that is far less random. Consider this, for instance.” Kendall opened one of the folders and glanced at the top page of its contents. “After the First World War, Adolf Hitler’s prospects are close to zero. He’s got no real education, no money, no contacts, and no clear direction. The only job he can find is spying on his own countrymen for the Army. Then, one day, he’s sent to observe and report on this tiny fringe group, the German Worker’s Party— and suddenly everything changes. Within eleven years, this failed artist, failed soldier, failed
everything
is Chancellor of Germany. The rest as they say, is history. Or maybe tragedy.”

“Interesting, I suppose, but of no significance,” Hinman said with a shrug. “One thing I learned in college is that a single example doesn’t prove diddly-squat. I think Aristotle is supposed to’ve said something to that effect.”

“He did, and he was right.” Kendall reached for another folder. “Fortunately, we don’t need to rely on just one example.” He flipped the folder open and peered inside. “Joseph Vissarionavich Dzhugashvilli, later known as Joseph Stalin. In his case, lightening appears to strike twice, except I’m betting it isn’t lightening. Before the Russian Revolution, Stalin is a minor functionary in the Bolshevik party, undistinguished and unpromising. Then Lenin suddenly appoints him to an important post, from which Stalin rises after the revolution and civil war to become number three man in the new Soviet state.”

“You mentioned something about lightening striking twice,” Hinman said. For the first time in the conversation, he actually sounded interested.

“The second time was just after Lenin’s death in 1924. Trotsky should have succeeded him. He was Lenin’s choice, he was more popular than Stalin among the party cadre, and besides, he was the number two man. And if Trotsky had taken over, Stalin would have been headed for a labor camp or the firing squad, posthaste, no doubt about it— there was a lot of bad blood between them.”

“But it didn’t work out like that, did it?”

“No, not at all. Instead, Stalin somehow, against all odds, gains control of the party, Trotsky is sent into exile, and Stalin later has him murdered. Stalin, who is probably responsible for more deaths then even Hitler — after all, he was in office a lot longer — maintains a ruthless grip on power until his death in 1953.”

“And is that all you’ve got to support this little theory of yours? Two cases?”

“On the contrary, I’ve been able to document several other instances of the same phenomenon. Take Slobodan Milosovic, the so-called ‘butcher of Serbia,’ who was once—”

“Any Americans?” Hinman interrupted. “I mean, this European history lesson is fascinating and all, but I’m wondering if you’ve been able to find any examples of it occurring on this side of the Atlantic.”

“In point of fact, I have.” Kendall shuffled through his folders. “Nothing really comparable in terms of political significance, since the United States has never been ruled by a dictator, but there are some interesting cases, nonetheless.” He selected a folder, opened it. “Do you remember the Reverend Jim Jones?”

Hinman’s brow wrinkled. “Wasn’t he one of those TV evangelists?”

“Evangelist, yes, but not on TV,” Kendall told him. “He founded a small cult in San Francisco, called The People’s Temple. In 1977, he led them down to a compound in British Guyana, which, with typical modesty, he named Jonestown. There he—”

“I remember now. Mass suicide, right? Poisoned Kool-Aid for everybody, willingly consumed?”

“Essentially, yes. Some 900 people took their own lives, at Jones’s command. As a cult leader and demagogue he was a success, although on a relatively small scale. But, by rights, he should have lived and died in obscurity. He was one of life’s losers, but one whose fortunes suddenly and dramatically improved— to the eventual detriment of quite a few ‘innocent’ human beings.”

Hinman nodded thoughtfully. After a moment he asked, “How many of those folders do you have there, anyway?”

“Fourteen,” Kendall said. “And they all document inexplicable turning points in the lives of men who were living unremarkable lives, indistinguishable from the rest of the common herd. Then something caused them to suddenly alter course, and they went on to exercise considerable power over the lives of others — some on a grand scale, like Hitler and Stalin, others more modestly, like Jim Jones, or like another individual whose file I have in front of me right now.”

“And whose name’s on that one?”

“Charles Manson.”

Hinman stared at his desk blotter for several seconds. Then, looking up, he said, “So all right. You’ve been able to document these inexplicable ‘turning points,’ as you call them, in the lives of fourteen men of power. But unless you can find some common factor—”

“I can.” Kendall’s face was smug.

“Excuse me?”

“I have been able to identify the common factor in each of these reversals of fortune.”

“Well, what is it?”

Kendall’s smile stayed in place. “It’s not a
what
, but a
who
.”

“You mean a person? The same one, each time? But that’s absurd, it’s fucking ridiculous.”

“
Woe unto ye, o ye of little faith
,” Kendall said. He rummaged in his briefcase for a moment. “Here, take a look at this.”

The photograph he passed to Hinman was an eight-by-ten glossy in black in white. “The detail’s a little fuzzy, since it’s a copy of a copy,” Kendall said. “But I think the faces are reasonably clear.”

The photo showed Adolf Hitler standing at a platform in a dark suit, haranguing a large and attentive-looking crowd. In the margin of the picture was written, “Munich, 1922.”

Hinman looked closer. Several men were standing on the platform behind Hitler. All wore swastika armbands over civilian clothing. One of the men was circled with a grease pencil. He had a thin face, not young, not old, its pallor set off by a goatee. His dark hair was combed straight back to reveal a severe widow’s peak.

“Who’s the guy with the circle around him?” Hinman asked.

“That’s actually an interesting question,” Kendall said. “That picture’s been reprinted in three different histories of the Third Reich that have been published over the years. Two of them give that man entirely different names, and the third merely calls him ‘an unknown party member.’ Perhaps for purposes of this discussion we might refer to him as ‘Mister X.’”

“All right, fine, he’s Mister X. Now what?”

“Now this.” Kendall handed over another photo.

In the margin was written “Gorky, 1924.” It showed V.I. Lenin, the father of Soviet communism, sitting on a wood bench outdoors, looking tired and old. To his right sat a grinning Joseph Stalin.

Two men stood behind the bench, looking toward the camera. “Who’s the one on the left?” Hinman asked.

“That’s Trotsky. You’re looking at one of the few photos of him to survive. After Stalin came to power, he had the rest destroyed — or cropped, so as to leave Trotsky out of the picture, both literally and figuratively.”

“And the other man looks very much like our elusive Mister X — a long way from Munich.”

“A very long way,” Kendall said, nodding. “In terms of geography and politics, both. And there’s more.”

Over the next ten minutes, Hinman was handed a number of photographs. One, labeled “Milan, 1919,” showed a young Benito Mussolini standing in front of what appeared to be a newspaper office. The future Duce’s hands were on his hips, the arrogant chin outthrust. Behind him, standing inside the office and looking out from the big front window, stood a black-shirted man with the familiar face of Mister X.

There was also a clear image of Mister X sitting on the platform next to a “McCarthy for Senate” rally in 1946. Judging by the candidate’s expression, Tail Gunner Joe was happy to have him there.

Another photo, identified as “Chicago, 1959,” showed Mister X again — this time in a storm trooper’s uniform, standing next to George Lincoln Rockwell, Fuehrer of the American Nazi Party.

Still another picture had Mister X with his arm around a dark-haired man in shades that Kendall identified as the Reverend Jim Jones.

Then Mister X was smiling from the midst of a group photo whose margin read “Spahn Ranch, 1968.” The people around him consisted of the ragtag bunch of dopers, losers and loonies who would later become known to the world as the Manson Family, with Papa Charlie grinning maniacally from the front row.

And there was Mister X again in the next photo, wearing an elegant-looking suit and standing near a short, mustachioed man in an ornate military uniform.

“Who’s the clown with all the medals?” Hinman asked.

“That’s General Augusto Pinochet, who took over in Chile after a U.S.-sponsored coup in 1973. In a continent known for vicious dictators, Pinochet was perhaps the most vicious of them all.”

The last of the photos showed Mister X sitting across a cafe table from a young man with wire-rim glasses and an unruly crop of hair. The margin read, “Waco, Texas, 1990.”

“If you’re wondering, that’s—” Kendall began.

“No, it’s all right, I know who it is.” Hinman was no historian, but even he recognized the image of David Koresh, cultish leader of the Branch Davidian Church who would lead most of his followers to a fiery death.

Hinman gathered the photos together and placed them in the center of his desk blotter. Then he smiled for the first time since Kendall had arrived. “You’ve done well,” he said. “I must say I’m quite impressed.”

“I could probably find more, if I work backward,” Kendall said. “You told me to concentrate on the Twentieth Century, but I’m confident that if I went back to the Nineteenth Century, and even earlier….”

“That won’t be necessary. I’d say you’ve made your case.” Hinman stood and walked to a nearby sideboard. “What say we have a drink to celebrate?”

Kendall asked for Scotch, and he was just taking his first sip of exquisite single malt when Hinman said, “I’m sorry if I was rough on you at the start. I just like to play devil’s advocate with people. I’ve found it often stimulates their thinking, makes then sharper.”

“No offense taken,” Kendall said, “but it’s interesting you should use that term, ‘devil’s advocate.’ Do you know where it comes from?”

Hinman thought for a moment. “Isn’t it that short story — ‘The Devil and Daniel Webster’? I think I read it in high school.”

Kendall shook his head. “It’s not from there. In fact, if you think about it, Webster in the story was advocating
against
the devil, not for him. No, the term dates back to the Sixteenth Century, and the Roman Catholic Church. Of course, they rendered it in Latin:
advocatus diaboli
. It’s more common meaning has to do with the process of naming someone as a saint. Canonization, they call it. There’s a committee of Cardinals appointed in each case to look at the evidence, but one of them is specifically charged to come up with objections, with reasons why the person in question should not be declared a saint. It’s supposed to spur debate among the committee, and also to avoid embarrassment for the Church later, if canonization takes place.”

Hinman swirled brandy around in the snifter he was holding, then said thoughtfully, “And you’re telling me all this, why?”

“Because of the second sense of
advocatus diaboli
, the less well known usage. The most common meaning of
advocatus
is ‘advocate,’ of course — that’s where we get the English word. But there’s a secondary connotation, which translates as ‘the called or summoned one.’ So, in that sense, the phrase could be translated as ‘the summoned one of the devil,’ or, more colloquially, ‘the devil’s representative.’”

Hinman was frowning. “And I need to know all this, because….”

“Because there are several instances, in old Latin texts, of the term being used in that precise way. And in each case, the reference seems to be describing a being who sounds an awful lot like our mysterious Mister X.”

“Now that
is
interesting.” Hinman drank some brandy. “Very interesting indeed.” He put the snifter down and sat back in his chair. “Now, here’s what I want you to do about it.”

* * *

Hinman brought Kendall into his study and waved him toward the same chair he had occupied the last time. Sitting down behind his desk, Hinman said, “Been a while, hasn’t it?”