by Ken Follett
She was a woman in deep trouble.
She had left her husband and moved in with the bass guitarist in a hot rock band; but the bassist had thrown her out after a few weeks. She had no one to turn to: her father was dead, and her mother lived in New York with a guy who had tried to get into bed with Melanie the one night she had slept at their apartment. She had exhausted the hospitality of her friends and borrowed all the money they could afford to lend. Her career was a washout, and she was working in a supermarket, stacking shelves, leaving Dusty with a neighbor all day. She lived in a slum that was so dirty, it gave the kid constant allergy attacks. She needed to move to a place with clean air, but she could not find a job outside the city. She was up a blind alley and desperate. She had been trying to calculate the exact overdose of sleeping pills that would kill her and the child when a girlfriend had offered her this vacation.
Priest liked people in trouble. He knew how to relate to them. All you had to do was offer them what they needed, and they became your slaves. He was uncomfortable with confident, self-sufficient types: they were too hard to control.
By the time they reached the cabin it was suppertime. Melanie made pasta and salad, then put Dusty to bed. When the child was asleep, Priest seduced her on the rug. She was frantic with desire. All her pent-up emotional charge was released by sex, and she made love as if it were her last chance ever, scratching his back and biting his shoulders and pulling him deep inside her as if she wanted to swallow him up. It was the most exciting encounter Priest could remember.
Now her supercilious handsome-professor husband was complaining. "That was five weeks ago. You can't just take my son and disappear without even a phone call!"
"You could have called me."
"I didn't know where you were!"
"I have a mobile."
"I tried. I couldn't get an answer."
"The service was cut off because you didn't pay the bill. You're supposed to pay it, we agreed."
"I was a couple of days late, that's all! They must have turned it back on."
"Well, you called when it was cut off, I guess."
This family row was not bringing Priest closer to that disk, he fretted. Got to get Michael out of the room, some way, any way. He interrupted to say: "Why don't we all have some coffee?" He wanted Michael to go into the kitchen to make it.
Michael jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Help yourself," he said brusquely.
Shit.
Michael turned back to Melanie. "It doesn't matter why I couldn't reach you. I couldn't. That's why you have to call me before taking Dusty away on vacation."
Melanie said: "Listen, Michael, there's something I haven't told you yet."
Michael looked exasperated, then sighed and said: "Sit down, why don't you." He sat behind his desk.
Melanie sank into a corner of the couch, folding her legs beneath her in a familiar way that made Priest think this had been her regular seat. Priest perched on the arm of the couch, not wanting to sit lower than Michael. I can't even figure out which of those machines is the disk drive. Come on, Melanie, lose the damn husband!
Michael's tone of voice suggested he had been through scenes like this with Melanie before. "All right, make your pitch," he said wearily. "What is it this time?"
"I'm going to move to the mountains, permanently. I'm living with Priest and a bunch of people."
"Where?"
Priest answered that question. He did not want Michael to know where they lived. "It's in Humboldt County." That was in redwood country at the northern end of California. In fact the commune was in Sierra County, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, near the eastern border of the state. Both were far from Berkeley.
Michael was outraged. "You can't take Dusty to live hundreds of miles away from his father!"
"There's a reason," Melanie persisted. "In the last five weeks, Dusty hasn't had a single allergy attack. He's healthy in the mountains, Michael."
Priest added: "It's probably the pure air and water. No pollution."
Michael was skeptical. "It's the desert, not the mountains, that normally suits people with allergies."
"Don't talk to me about normally!" Melanie flared. "I can't go to the desert--I don't have any money. This is the only place I can afford where Dusty can be healthy!"
"Is Priest paying your rent?"
Go ahead, asshole, insult me, talk about me like I'm not here; and I'll just carry on fucking your sexy wife.
Melanie said: "It's a commune."
"Jesus, Melanie, what kind of people have you fallen in with now? First a junkie guitar player--"
"Wait a minute, Blade was not a junkie--"
"--now a godforsaken hippie commune!"
Melanie was so involved in this quarrel that she had forgotten why they were here. The disk, Melanie, the damn disk! Priest interrupted again. "Why don't you ask Dusty how he feels about this, Michael?"
"I will."
Melanie shot Priest a despairing look.
He ignored her. "Dusty's right outside, in my car."
Michael flushed with anger. "You left my son outside in the car?"
"He's okay, my dog's with him."
Michael glared furiously at Melanie. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he shouted.
Priest said: "Why don't you just go and get him?"
"I don't need your fucking permission to get my own son. Give me the car keys."
"It's not locked," Priest said mildly.
Michael stormed out.
"I told you not to tell him Dusty was outside!" Melanie wailed. "Why did you do it?"
"To get him out of the goddamn room," Priest said. "Now grab that disk."
"But you've made him so mad!"
"He was angry already!" This was no good, Priest realized. She might be too frightened to do what was needed. He stood up. He took her hands, pulled her upright, and gave her the Look. "You don't have to be afraid of him. You're with me now. I take care of you. Be cool. Say your mantra."
"But--"
"Say it."
"Lat hoo, dat soo."
"Keep saying it."
"Lat hoo, dat soo, lat hoo, dat soo." She became calmer.
"Now get the disk."
She nodded. Still saying her mantra under her breath, she bent over the row of machines on the shelf. She pressed a button and a flat plastic square popped out of a slot.
Priest had noticed before that "disks" were always square in the world of computers.
She opened her purse and took out another disk that looked similar. "Shit!" she said.
"What?" Priest said worriedly. "What's wrong?"
"He's changed his brand!"
Priest looked at the two disks. They seemed the same to him. "What's the difference?"
"Look, mine is a Sony, but Michael's is a Philips."
"Will he notice?"
"He might."
"Damn." It was vital that Michael did not know his data had been stolen.
"He'll probably start work as soon as we've gone. He'll eject the disk and swap it with the one in the fireproof box, and if he looks at them, he'll see they're different."
"And he's sure to connect that with us." Priest felt a surge of panic. It was all turning to shit.
Melanie said: "I could buy a Philips disk and come back another day."
Priest shook his head. "I don't want to do this again. We might fail again. And we're running out of time. The deadline is three days away. Does he keep spare disks?"
"He should. Sometimes a disk gets corrupted." She looked around. "I wonder where they are." She stood in the middle of the floor, helpless.
Priest could have screamed with frustration. He had dreaded something like this. Melanie had completely gone to pieces, and they had only a minute or two. He had to get her calmed down fast. "Melanie," he said, struggling to make his voice low and reassuring, "you have two disks in your hand. Put them both in your purse."
She obeyed him automatically.
"Now close
your purse."
She did that.
Priest heard the building door slam. Michael was on his way back. Priest felt perspiration break out in the small of his back. "Think: when you were living here, did Michael have a stationery cupboard?"
"Yes. Well, a drawer."
"Well?" Wake up, girl! "Where is it?"
She pointed to a cheap white chest against the wall.
Priest yanked open the top drawer. He saw a package of yellow pads, a box of cheap ballpoints, a couple of reams of white paper, some envelopes--and an open box of disks.
He heard Dusty's voice. It seemed to come from the vestibule at the entrance to the apartment.
With shaking fingers, he fumbled a disk out of the packet and handed it to Melanie. "Will this do?"
"Yes, it's a Philips."
Priest closed the drawer.
Michael walked in with Dusty in his arms.
Melanie stood frozen with the disk in her hand.
For God's sake, Melanie, do something!
Dusty was saying: "And you know what, Daddy? I didn't sneeze in the mountains."
Michael's attention was fixed on Dusty. "How about that?" he said.
Melanie regained her composure. As Michael bent to put Dusty down on the couch, she stooped over the disk drive and slid the disk into the slot. The machine whirred softly and drew it in, like a snake eating a rat.
"You didn't sneeze?" Michael said to Dusty. "Not once?"
"Uh-uh."
Melanie straightened up. Michael had not seen what she did.
Priest closed his eyes. The relief was overwhelming. They had got away with it. They had Michael's data--and he would never know.
Michael said: "That dog doesn't make you sneeze?"
"No, Spirit is a clean dog. Priest makes him wash in the stream, and then he comes out and shakes himself and it's like a rainstorm!" Dusty laughed with pleasure as he remembered.
"Is that right?" his father said.
Melanie said: "I told you, Michael."
Her voice sounded shaky, but Michael did not seem to notice. "All right, all right," he said in a conciliatory tone. "If it makes such a difference to Dusty's health, we'll just have to work something out."
She looked relieved. "Thanks."
Priest allowed himself the ghost of a smile. It was all over. His plan had moved another crucial step forward.
Now they just had to hope that Michael's computer did not crash. If that happened, and he tried to retrieve his data from the optical disk, he would discover that it was blank. But Melanie said that crashes were rare. In all probability there would be no crash today. And tonight the computer would back up again, overwriting the blank disk with Michael's data. By this time tomorrow it would be impossible to tell that a switch had been made.
Michael said: "Well, at least you came here to talk about it. I appreciate that."
Melanie would much rather have dealt with her husband on the phone, Priest knew. But her move to the commune was a perfect pretext for visiting Michael. He and Melanie could never have paid a casual social call on her husband without making him suspicious. But this way it would not occur to Michael to wonder why they had come.
In fact, Michael was not the suspicious type, Priest felt sure. He was brainy but guileless. He had no ability to look beneath the surface and see what was really going on in the heart of another human being.
Priest himself had that ability in spades.
Melanie was saying: "I'll bring Dusty to see you as often as you like. I'll drive down."
Priest could see into her heart. She was being nice to Michael, now that he had given her what she wanted--she had her head to one side, and she was smiling prettily at him--but she did not love him, not anymore.
Michael was different. He was angry with her for leaving him, that was clear. But he still cared for her. He was not over her yet, not quite. A part of him still wanted her back. He would have asked her, but he was too proud.
Priest felt jealous.
I hate you, Michael.
4
Judy woke up early on Tuesday wondering if she had a job.
Yesterday she had said: "I quit." But she had been angry and frustrated. Today she was sure she did not want to leave the FBI. The prospect of spending her life defending criminals, instead of catching them, depressed her. Had she changed her mind too late? Last night she had left a note on Brian Kincaid's desk. Would he accept her apology? Or would he insist on her resignation?
Bo came in at six A.M. and she warmed up some pho, the noodle soup that the Vietnamese ate for breakfast. Then she dressed in her smartest outfit, a dark blue Armani suit with a short skirt. On a good day it made her sophisticated, authoritative, and sexy all at the same time. If I'm going to be fired, I might as well look like someone they'll miss.
She was stiff with tension as she drove to work. She parked in the garage beneath the Federal Building and took the elevator to the FBI floor. She went straight to the SAC's office.
Brian Kincaid was behind the big desk, wearing a white shirt with red suspenders. He looked up at her. "Good morning," he said coldly.
"Morn--" Her mouth was dry. She swallowed and started again. "Good morning, Brian. Did you get my note?"
"Yes, I did."
Obviously he wasn't going to make this any easier for her.
She could not think what else to say, so she simply looked at him and waited.
Eventually he said: "Your apology is accepted."
She felt weak with relief. "Thank you."
"You can move your personal stuff into the Domestic Terrorism squad room."
"Okay." There were worse fates, she reflected. There were several people she liked in the DT squad. She began to relax.
Kincaid said: "Get to work on the Hammer of Eden case right away. We need something to tell the governor."
Judy was surprised. "You're seeing the governor?"
"His cabinet secretary." He checked a note on his desk. "A Mr. Albert Honeymoon."
"I've heard of him." Honeymoon was the governor's right-hand man. The case had taken on a higher profile, Judy realized.
"Let me have a report by tomorrow night."
That hardly gave her time to make progress, given how little she had to begin with. Tomorrow was Wednesday. "But the deadline is Friday."
"The meeting with Honeymoon is on Thursday."
"I'll get you something concrete to give him."
"You can give it to him yourself. Mr. Honeymoon insists on seeing what he calls the person at the sharp end. We need to be at the governor's office in Sacramento at twelve noon."
"Wow. Okay."
"Any questions?"
She shook her head. "I'll get right on it."
As she left, she felt elated that she had her job back but dismayed by the news that she had to report to the governor's aide. It was not likely she would catch the people behind the threat in only two days, so she was almost doomed to report failure.
She emptied her desk in the Asian Organized Crime squad and carried her stuff down the corridor to Domestic Terrorism. Her new supervisor, Matt Peters, allocated her a desk. She knew all the agents, and they congratulated her on the Foong brothers case, though in subdued tones--everyone knew she had fought with Kincaid yesterday.
Peters assigned a young agent to work with her on the Hammer of Eden case. He was Raja Khan, a fast-talking Hindu with an MBA. He was twenty-six. Judy was pleased. Although inexperienced, he was intelligent and keen.
She briefed him on the case and sent him to check out the Green California Campaign. "Be nice," she told him. "Tell them we don't believe they're involved, but we have to eliminate them."
"What am I looking for?"
"A couple: a blue-collar man of about forty-five who may be illiterate, and an educated woman of about thirty who is probably dominated by the man. But I don't think you'll find them there. That would be too easy."
"Alternatively ...?"
"The most useful thing you can do
is get the names of all the officers of the organization, paid or volunteer, and run them through the computer to see if any of them have any record of criminal or subversive activity."
"You got it," Raja said. "What will you do?"
"I'm going to learn about earthquakes."
*
Judy had been in one major earthquake.
The Santa Rosa earthquake had caused damage worth $6 million--not much, as these things go--and had been felt over the relatively small area of twelve thousand square miles. The Maddox family was then living in Marin County, north of San Francisco, and Judy was in first grade. It was a minor tremor, she knew now. But at the time she had been six years old, and it had seemed like the end of the world.
First there was a noise like a train, but real close, and she came awake fast and looked around her bedroom in the clear light of dawn, searching for the source of the sound, scared to death.
Then the house began to shake. Her ceiling light with its pink-fringed shade whipped back and forth. On her bedside table, Best Fairy Tales leaped up in the air like a magic book and came down open at "Tom Thumb," the story Bo had read her last night. Her hairbrush and her toy makeup set danced on the Formica top of the dresser. Her wooden horse rocked furiously with no one on it. A row of dolls fell off their shelf, as if diving into the rug, and Judy thought they had come alive, like toys in a fable. She found her voice at last and screamed once: "DADDY!"
From the next room she heard her father curse, then there was a thud as his feet hit the floor. The noise and the shaking grew worse, and she heard her mother cry out. Bo came to Judy's door and turned the handle, but it would not open. She heard another thud as he shouldered it, but it was stuck.
Her window smashed, and shards of glass fell inward, landing on the chair where her school clothes were neatly folded, ready for the morning: gray skirt, white blouse, green V-neck sweater, navy blue underwear, and white socks. The wooden horse rocked so hard, it fell over on top of the dollhouse, smashing the miniature roof; and Judy knew the roof of her real house might be smashed as easily. A framed picture of a rosy-cheeked Mexican boy came off its hook on the wall, flew through the air, and hit her head. She cried out in pain.
Then her chest of drawers began to walk.
It was an old bow-fronted pine chest her mother had bought in a junk shop and painted white. It had three drawers, and it stood on short legs that ended in feet like lions' paws. At first it seemed to dance in place, restlessly, on its four feet. Then it shuffled from side to side, like someone hesitating nervously in a doorway. Finally it started to move toward her.