“So how does the Sanctuary work it? These yahoos walk into small banks with big bundles of cash to deposit?”
“Suppose the chief accountant for the main branch in Helena is the big man. Once a month he makes a swing around the branches and audits the banks. The thieves come in one at a time and bring in, say, a hundred thousand apiece. The accountant deposits all that money in one account, but the computer immediately spreads it over eleven accounts. So now you have the money spread over several accounts in all four banks. Nine thousand plus in each account. No reports to the IRS. And the program that deposits the money automatically is kept on a CD ROM, not in the computer, so the bank examiners never find it. And Mr. Accountant has four banks to work with.”
“How do we track it?”
“We can’t, it would take a couple of dozen accountants months to track down all these accounts and try to figure which ones are the phonies, and we don’t have that kind of time.”
“So what do we do?”
Meyer looked at him balefully. “I haven’t figured that out yet,” he said. “We have to find out who the somebody is and who the accountant is.”
“And if we’re wrong?”
“Then we’re up shit creek.”
MISSOULA, WEDNESDAY 7:02 P.M., MST
Two FBI agents sat in their car with the windows cracked and the heater on high. A state patrol car was slanted across the road, forming a road block. The ATF and FBI had set up blocks on all roads leading into Fort Yahweh, and with the help of the state patrol was running license and registration checks on every vehicle going in and out of the compound. Their objective was to harass Sanctuary members, check for illegal weapons, and hopefully discourage any further influx of troops into the mountain stronghold.
It was an effective ruse. There had been little traffic throughout the day. Harry Aiken, who had been called into the Montana task force from his home base in Georgia, had been bitching for three hours.
“It was seventy when I left home,” he said. “What the hell am I doing out here freezing my ass off in the middle of the night?”
“It’s seven o’clock, Harry, hardly the middle of the night,” his partner, Duke DeMay, who had been brought in from Virginia, answered. “It’s ten o’clock back home,” Aiken answered. “I go to bed early.”
“Two more hours and we can go back to the hotel and grab dinner.”
“Midnight my time,” Aiken growled. “A midnight snack. Fashionable if you’re a member of the freakin’ cotillion.”
DeMay cleared mist off the windshield and peered down the two-lane blacktop.
“What do you know,” he said. “Company’s coming.”
Aiken picked up his walkie-talkie and roused the patrol car.
“Turn on the carousel lights, boys, incoming from the compound.” He put on his thick gloves, turned up the collar of his blue FBI jacket, and eased the 9mm Glock from his hip holster. “Hope this guy isn’t a cowboy,” he mumbled.
The patrol car’s red and blue lights flashed on and a blue Four Runner pulled onto the shoulder and stopped.
Aiken and DeMay got out of their car and fell in behind the two state troopers. The window of the Four Runner slid silently down.
“Keep your hands where we can see them, sir,” one of them told the driver. Aiken and DeMay walked around the back of the vehicle and checked the interior with flashlights. The driver was alone. They approached the passenger side of the car and stood ready.
“Sompin’ wrong?” the driver said.
“May I please see your license and registration?” the trooper said.
“Yes, sir,” the driver, a tall, thin scarecrow of a man, said nervously. “I weren’t speedin’.” He handed the license and red slip to the trooper, who checked them with his flashlight.
“You Mr. Jessups?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This registration says your vehicle is owned by the Sanctuary.”
“Uh-huh.”
Aiken stepped beside the trooper and showed his credentials to Jessups.
“Sir, I’m Agent Aiken of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Would you please step out of your vehicle.”
“What’d I do?”
“Nothing yet,” Aiken said in a flat, no-nonsense voice.
Jessups got out of the car, stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, and stomped his feet on the road. He was obviously scared to death and close to hyperventilating. His breath curled from his mouth as he gasped for breath in the frigid night air.
“How come you rate a Four Runner, Mr. Jessups?” Aiken asked. “What’s your job at Yahweh?”
“I’m just kinda like a chauffeur,” the lean man said.
“A chauffeur, huh. Why don’t we go over to my car for a minute and get out of the cold.”
He pulled one of the troopers over to the side.“We may want to impound that vehicle,” he said.
“Want us to check it out for weapons?” the trooper asked.
“No. Just let it sit for now.” He took the license and registration and led Jessups to the FBI car after patting him down. They put him in the backseat and Aiken and DeMay got in the front.
“Let’s see, you’re Mordachai Jessups, that right?” Aiken said. “Uh-huh.”
“So who do you chauffeur around in that Four Runner?” DeMay said. Jessups didn’t answer immediately.
“You Engstrom’s driver?” Aiken asked.
“N-N-No, sir.”
“Then who?”
He hesitated before answering. “Brother Abraham.”
Aiken and DeMay traded glances but tried to cover their surprise. “You drive for Abraham?”
Mordachai nodded.
“Where is he now?”
Mordachai shifted uncomfortably in the backseat and wiped his mouth with his hand. “Back there,” he said finally, nodding toward Yahweh.
“How come he didn’t turn up when we searched the fort?”
“He… uh… he weren’t there.”
“Where was he?” DeMay asked.
“Up on the hill.”
“You mean Mount James?”
“Yessir.”
“Where on the hill?” Aiken asked.
“L-L-Look, fellers, I can’t talk about this. I could get me in a lotta trouble.”
“You’re in a lotta trouble already,” Aiken said. “Your boss could be staring treason in the eye.”
“Treason!”
“Every time he opens his mouth he speaks sedition,” DeMay said. “He’s preaching terrorism and murder.”
“He’s most religious.”
“He’s crazier than a one-eyed owl,” Aiken said. “Where you from, you sound like a southerner, Mordachai—okay if we call you Mordachai?”
“Oh sure, yessir. I’m from Georgia.”
“No kidding? So am I. Where in Georgia?”
“Little town of Enigma just outside Tifton.”
“No kidding. I’m from St. Simons Island. Know where that is?”
“Oh sure. That’s one beautiful place.”
“Well, it used to be before the vultures cut down all the trees and covered it with cement. I’m with the office in Savannah now.”
“So tell us about Brother Abraham, Mordachai,” DeMay said.
“You remember a spark-shootin’ evangelist name a Brother Transgressor?”
“Can’t say as I do,” Aiken said.
“Name rings a bell,” DeMay said. “Snake handler, wasn’t he? Blind man.”
Mordachai nodded. “That’s right. Abraham is Brother Transgressor.”
“He’s blind?” Aiken said.
“Yessir. That’s why I drive for him. We were partners. Was doin’ real good, too. I mean, we was out in Nebraska, headed for Oklahoma, pullin’ in a coupla hundred folks a night. In Omaha we had ’em failin’ outta the tent. Almost a thousand folk showed up that night. Took in a few thousand dollars. I drove and took care a business, he done the preachin’.”
“What happened?”
“Dam
n militia showed up one night and made him this offer. He was always kinda mystical about things. Like, he wouldn’t let nobody take his picture. Hated the press. Why hell, if he’d a give out interviews we coulda riz up to be big as Falwell and Robertson and some of those fat boys. He wouldn’t have no truck with TV though.”
“How come the Sanctuary was attracted to him?” Aiken asked. “The night they come to see him he give one of the most rousing sermons I ever heard. Takin’ down the government—no offense— ’bout taxes and such.”
“Who came? Engstrom?”
“No sir, there was two of ’em plus a sergeant drivin’ their car.”
“A real sergeant?”
“Militiaman.”
“Who were the two?”
“Colonel Shrack, call him Black Bobby. And some business fella who owned the radio station but I don’t remember his name. Ain’t seen him since. Made T an offer was too good t’turn away from.”
“What kind of offer?”
“Money. Nice place to live. Big audience. And they, uh…” Mordachai stopped and wiped his mouth again.
“And they what?”
“They, uh, kindly overlook his compulsion?”
“Compulsion?”
“He likes the ladies. Young ladies.”
“How young?”
“You know, fourteen, fifteen.”
“Jesus!” DeMay said.
“Runaways. He sanctifies ’em and they just follow him.”
“Sanctify them?” Aiken said. “That’s called rape where we come from, Mordachai. Rape and sedition. And you could be an accessory to all that.”
“I never done that. I didn’t pimp for him. Tried to calm him down about that, but wouldn’t do no good.”
“Why don’t you tell us where on the hill he is, Mordachai,” DeMay said.
“Mister, they’ll kill me. They’ll probably kill me anyway for leavin’, but tell you the truth, they’re all crazier n’ shit.”
“You’re in our custody now, Mordachai. Nobody’s going to kill you.”
“Has he got young women with him now? Up on the hill, I mean?” Aiken asked.
Mordachai nodded.
“Where?”
“They got a bunker up there, deep in the mountain. I never been up to it, only the I.F. gets to go up there.”
“What’s the I.F.?”
“Intelligence Force. The planners. It’s a regular command post from what I hear. Got a radio setup, too. That’s where T makes his tapes.”
“What’s his real name?”
“Ah, sweet Jesus…”
“You’ve gone this far, Mordachai. May as well give it all up.”
“I had to file taxes on him when he was on the road, get him social security.”
“His name,” Aiken said sternly.
“Elijah Wells.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Albany, Georgia.”
Aiken turned to DeMay. “I’ll call Isaac. We’ll impound the Four Runner and dust it for prints. You drive it back to town and Mordachai will come with me.”
Aiken dialed a number on his cell phone and asked for Geoff Isaac.
CHAPTER 30
CHICAGO, THURSDAY 8:34 A.M., CST
Harrison Latimore got off the early flight from Washington and raced through the Chicago airport. He headed for a little-used gate at the far end of the concourse, where he flashed his credentials. He passed through the FBI guards and entered AMOC One. Vail, Hardistan, and Firestone were in the dining lounge eating breakfast.
“Welcome aboard,” Vail said. “Grab a chair and have some breakfast.”
“Thanks,” the young A.G. said. He sat down next to Hardistan.
“Where have you been for the last two days?” Vail asked.
“New Jersey and Washington,” Latimore said.
Paul, the steward, put a cup of coffee in front of him. “What can I get you?” he asked.
“Everything you’ve got back there,” Latimore answered, and laughed. “I haven’t had a decent meal for days.”
“How about a sirloin strip and eggs. Hash browns on the side. And some excellent cantaloupe to get you started.”
“Great!”
The steward left and Latimore wasted no time sharing his news. He took out the copy of the photograph of the Specter squad and slid it in front of Vail and Hardistan.
“I know who Os is,” he said.
“Os?” Firestone said.
“The guy who shot Waller,” Latimore said, and leaned back with a self-satisfied grin on his face.
“Good,” Vail said, concentrating on his breakfast. “Got his address and phone number?”
“No, but I think I know how we can get it.”
Everybody at the table looked at him. He pointed to Jennings and Tunny in the photograph.
“These two are the ones we never identified. The one on the left is Oscar Jennings. This one is Wayne Tunny.”
“So Oz is Oscar?” Hardistan said.
“Not necessarily. Hear me out a minute,” Latimore said. He recounted his conversation with Grimes. “The last thing he said to me was, ‘What is, isn’t, what isn’t, is.’ My assumption was that our shooter was Oscar Jennings because Jordan mentioned him when Marty interviewed him at the Grave. So I went to Washington and checked Graves’ Registration. Tunny is listed as KIA. Jennings isn’t.”
“So Os is the shooter.”
“No. What is, isn’t. Tunny isn’t on the Vietnam wall. I went over and took a look. Guess who is?”
“Jennings,” Vail said.
“Right. I believe the records were dummied up a long time after the war. Look, Jennings is from Milwaukee. Brought up in a foster home, went into the Army when he was eighteen. Had no close friends or relatives. Tunny was from New York. Mother and father are dead now and he had no brothers or sisters. I think the CIA or some outfit enlisted Tunny before he shipped back. When Jennings was killed, he was sent back in Wayne Tunny’s box. But when they collected the names for the memorial, Graves’ Registration hadn’t been altered yet. That’s what Grimes meant by ‘What is, isn’t.’ Jennings wasn’t missed and Tunny was buried by his parents. The shooter is Wayne Tunny.” He pointed to the photo. “That guy right there.”
“Sounds like the grassy knoll theory to me,” Hardistan said.
“I don’t agree,” Firestone said. “One of them is listed as dead in Graves’ Registration, the other one is listed dead on the Vietnam wall. One of them has to be wrong.”
“What is, isn’t…” Latimore said, and let the sentence trail off. “That’s great work,” Vail said. “But it doesn’t do us much good without some kind of identification.”
“It does if Mr. Hardistan takes this photograph and gets his artists to add twenty-five years to that face and run about six poses. With hair, bald, with a beard, without a beard, with sunglasses, and straight. Give it to WWN—they’ll run it every hour on the hour. Then give it to the networks in time for the six o’clock news and follow up with newspapers the next day. Somebody will recognize him.”
“We’ll have thousands of phone calls.”
“Not necessarily. When ‘America’s Most Wanted’ runs photos of at-large criminals they don’t get that many phonies and they take down a lot of wanteds.”
“What do we tell the media—I mean, why are we looking for this guy?” Vail asked.
“Material witness in a continuing investigation,” Latimore suggested.
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Vail said.
“It’s all I’ve been thinking about since I left here.”
“What if you’re wrong, Latimore?” Hardistan said. “What if it happened the way Graves’ Registration says it did? We’ll be looking for the wrong man and Jennings will go into deep cover. We’ll never find him.”
“Then how did Jennings end up on the memorial?” Latimore asked.
“Why not do them both?” Vail said. “Age up both pictures, release a story to the press, and say we’re lookin
g for both of them.”
“What if neither one of them died?”
“Then we’ll get two for one,” Vail said. “Give it to Azimour first. She’ll have it on the air every hour on the hour. The nets will cover it a couple hours later and the press will have it the next day.”
Hardistan took a sip of coffee. He studied the photo for a few moments and nodded. “It might work at that,” he said.
“I’m putting my money on Tunny,” Latimore said.
“Okay,” Hardistan said. “I’ll fax the picture to our best artist, Norm Friedkin. I won’t even have to tell him what to do. He’s been doing it for years.”
“I just have one request,” Latimore said. “If we find him, I’d like to be there when you put the cuffs on him.”
WASHINGTON, THURSDAY 10:24 A.M., EST
President Lawrence Pennington sat behind his desk in the Oval Office. He had a few minutes to himself and he was pondering his situation. Engstrom had put him in an impossible position. WWN had carried photographs and some fuzzy video of the service of warrants at Fort Yahweh and rehashed the ambush at Lost Trail Pass and the murder of George Waller. The latest poll in the morning New York Times had him down three points. It was the first time his popularity had dipped in months.
There was a knock on the office door and his secretary looked in. “General James is here, Mr. President.”
“Show him in, please, Mildred. And no interruptions.”
“Yes, sir.”
James entered the office. He was tall, a man in his late fifties, with white hair trimmed in a buzz cut. He was wearing his dress uniform and he entered the room briskly, like he owned it.
Pennington got up from his desk and moved around it to greet his visitor. “Five minutes early, as usual, Jesse,” he said, and slapped James on the shoulder. “You never change. You want coffee, a sweet roll?”
“No, thank you, Mr. President, I’m fine.”
“Don’t be so damn formal,” Pennington said. “It’s just the two of us. For Chrissake, you and I have been running together since ’Nam.” The general smiled and relaxed. “You were always a foot ahead of me, Larry. What’s the problem?”
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