The scent of lotus flowers had not completely disappeared from Arnold's lungs when the phone on his desk screamed. That loud '90s analog telephone ringing sound usually caused problems, but this time, the vibration felt different, more urgent, as if the electricity coursing through the wires carried a load thousands of volts higher.
Arnold picked up the receiver. Before he could say a word, a cold and matter-of-fact voice interrupted.
"Detective McDaniel. The black car is waiting in front of your building in sixty seconds. Don't bring the typewriter. Bring your brain."
Click. The phone is disconnected.
Arnold stared at the receiver for a moment, then turned to his typewriter. The words "THE BEAUTY WILL BEGIN SOON" were still clearly printed there, defying his logic. Without denying his instincts, he grabbed his shabby brown (trench coat) and stepped out, passing Miller who still looked confused in the corridor due to the light bulb explosion earlier.
Outside, London is no longer damp. People stood frozen on the sidewalks, their heads tilted up at a sky that should have been dark with pollution and evening clouds.
Arnold followed their gaze and froze.
Up there, what the authorities call the "Sky Lights" are dancing. It was not the aurora borealis, nor was it a military flare. It was a pearly white beam of light that formed a perfect geometric circular pattern within a rotating circle similar to an ancient celestial diagram he had once seen in the Vatican's forbidden book. The light is not dazzling; he felt "shady", but his presence made the hairs on Arnold's neck stand up.
A black sedan without a license plate stopped right in front of him. The door opened, and a man in a dark suit with a badge combining the Secret Service insignia and the papal seal motioned for her to enter.
"Where are we going?" Arnold asked as his car drove past the crowd that was starting to kneel on the road.
"Northolt Air Base," the agent answered simply. "A private jet is waiting. The Vatican and White House have activated Omni Protocol. You are requested to attend personally as the sole consultant to the Occult Department."
The flight felt like a brief nightmare. Inside the jet, Arnold is treated to grainy video footage from an 8 mm analog camera. The tape shows the same thing all over the world: in Washington, in Rome, in Jerusalem. The light appeared above the holy sites, emitting a frequency that drove military seismic monitors crazy but did not break a single glass window.
Arriving at the makeshift headquarters, a luxurious bunker filled with huge tube monitors (CRTs) and computer cables running around, Arnold was greeted by an incredible sight. The top cardinal from the Vatican sat at the same table as an American four-star general.
"McDaniel," the Cardinal said, his voice shaking. "This isn't an attack. This is an announcement."
"What announcement?" Arnold lit his cigarette, ignoring the no smoking sign in the oxygen bunker.
"Someone is knocking on the door of our reality," answered the General, pointing towards a corner of the dimly lit room. "And the international intelligence bureau has appointed someone to help you track down who knocked. He is an expert in theology, linguistics, and... physical anomaly."
From the darkness beyond the monitor's shadow, a figure stepped forward.
The man wore a very neat gray suit, as if the iron could never be creased by any law of physics. His face was serene, perfectly symmetrical, with a depth of eye color that was as hard to determine as clear water on golden sand.
He held an old leather suitcase and a small coffee flask.
"Arnold McDaniel," the man said. His voice was smooth, like flowing silk, but had an authority that made the noise in the bunker suddenly quiet. "It was an honor to work with detectives who trusted evidence more than prayers."
Arnold narrowed his eyes, exhaling smoke at the strange man. "And who are you? A guardian angel sent by the government?"
The man smiled a faint smile that felt very familiar to Arnold, even though they had never met.
"My name is Jean Manoel," he answered, extending a hand that felt both warm and sturdy. "From now on, I am your assistant. I am in charge of recording every miracle you discover... and helping you understand why the miracle happened."
Jean then placed his thermos of coffee on Arnold's empty table. The aroma of coffee steaming from the thermos immediately swallowed up the smell of cigarette smoke and the smell of machinery in the bunker. It smelled the same as the lotus flowers in Arnold's office.
"Go ahead, Detective. We're going to have a very long journey. And I think the Atlantic Ocean has just decided to stop being water."