by Ken Follett
He opened the billfold. It contained money, credit cards, business cards, and some kind of identity card with a photo. Priest pulled out a business card and handed it to Flower. "My card, ma'am."
She giggled. "You're Peter Shoebury, of Watkins, Colefax and Brown."
"I'm a lawyer?"
"I guess."
He looked at the photo on the identity card. It was about half an inch square and had been taken in an automatic photo booth. It was about ten years old, he guessed. It did not look exactly like Priest, but neither did it look much like Peter Shoebury. Photos were like that.
Still, Priest could improve the resemblance. Shoebury had straight dark hair, but it was short. Priest said: "Can I borrow your hairband?"
"Sure." Flower took a rubber band out of her hair and shook her locks around her face. Priest did the reverse, pulling his hair back into a ponytail and tying it with the band. Then he put on the glasses.
He showed Flower the photo. "How do you like my secret identity?"
"Hmm." She looked at the back of the card. "This will admit you to the downtown office, but not the Oakland branch."
"I guess I can live with that."
She grinned. "Daddy, where did you get this?"
He raised one eyebrow at her and said: "I borrowed it."
"Did you pick someone's pocket?"
"Sort of." He could see she thought that was roguish rather than wicked. He let her believe what she wanted. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was eleven forty-five. "Are you ready to go?"
"Sure."
They walked along the street and entered the Federal Building, a forbidding gray granite monolith occupying the entire city block. In the lobby they passed through a metal detector, and Priest was glad he had had the forethought to get rid of the knife. He asked the security guard which floor the FBI was on.
They took the elevator up. Priest felt like he was high on cocaine. The danger made him superalert. If this elevator breaks down, I could power it with my own psychic energy. He figured it was okay to be self-confident, maybe even a little arrogant, as he was playing the part of a lawyer.
He led Flower into the FBI office and followed a sign to a conference room off the lobby. There was a table with microphones at the far end of the room. Near the door stood four men, all tall and fit looking, wearing well-pressed business suits, white shirts, and sober ties. They had to be agents.
If they knew who I was, they'd shoot me down without even thinking about it.
Stay cool, Priest--they ain't mind readers, they don't know nothing about you.
Priest was six feet, but they were all taller. He sensed immediately that the leader was the older man whose thick white hair was meticulously parted and combed. He was talking to a man with a black mustache. Two younger men were listening, wearing deferential expressions.
A young woman carrying a clipboard approached Priest. "Hi, can I help you?"
"Well, I sure hope so," Priest said.
The agents noticed him when he spoke. He read their reactions as they looked at him. When they took in his ponytail and blue jeans they became guarded; then they saw Flower and softened again.
One of the younger men said: "Everything okay here?"
Priest said: "My name is Peter Shoebury, I'm an attorney with Watkins, Colefax and Brown here in the city. My daughter Florence is editor of the school newspaper. She heard on the radio about your press conference, and she wanted to cover it for the paper. So I figured hey, it's a public information thing, let's go along. I hope it's okay with you."
Everyone looked at the white-haired guy, confirming Priest's intuition that he was the boss.
There was an awful moment of hesitation.
Hell, boy, you ain't no lawyer! You're Ricky Granger, used to wholesale amphetamines through a bunch of liquor stores in Los Angeles back in the sixties--are you mixed up in this earthquake shit? Frisk him, boys, and cuff his little girl, too. Let's take 'em in, find out what they know.
The white-haired man held out his hand and said: "I'm Associate Special Agent in Charge Brian Kincaid, head of the San Francisco field office of the FBI."
Priest shook hands. "Good to meet you, Brian."
"What firm did you say you're with, sir?"
"Watkins, Colefax and Brown."
Kincaid frowned. "I thought they were real estate brokers, not lawyers."
Oh, shit.
Priest nodded and tried for a reassuring smile. "That's correct, and it's my job to keep them out of trouble." There was a word for a lawyer who was employed by a corporation. Priest searched his memory and found it. "I'm in-house counsel."
"Would you have any kind of ID?"
"Oh, sure." He opened the stolen wallet and took out the card with the photo of Peter Shoebury. He held his breath.
Kincaid looked at it, then checked the resemblance to Priest. Priest could tell what he was thinking: Could be him, I guess. He handed it back. Priest breathed again.
Kincaid turned to Flower. "What school are you at, Florence?"
Priest's heart beat faster. Just make something up, kid.
"Um...." Flower hesitated. Priest was about to answer for her, then she said: "Eisenhower Junior High."
Priest felt a surge of pride. She had inherited his nerve. Just in case Kincaid should happen to know the schools in San Francisco, he added: "That's in Oakland."
Kincaid seemed satisfied. "Well, we'd be delighted to have you join us, Florence," he said.
We did it!
"Thank you, sir," she said.
"If there are any questions I can answer now, before the press conference starts ..."
Priest had been careful not to overprepare Flower. If she appeared shy, or fumbled her questions, it would seem only natural, he figured; whereas if she were too poised and seemed well rehearsed, she might arouse suspicion. But now he felt a surge of anxiety on her behalf, and he had to suppress the paternal urge to step in and tell her what to do. He bit his lip.
She opened her notebook. "Are you in charge of this investigation?"
Priest relaxed a little. She would be fine.
"This is only one of many inquiries that I have to keep an eye on," Kincaid answered. He pointed to the man with the black mustache. "Special Agent Marvin Hayes has this assignment."
Flower turned to Hayes. "I think the school would like to know what kind of person you are, Mr. Hayes. Could I ask you some questions about yourself?"
Priest was shocked to observe a hint of coquettishness in the way she tilted her head and smiled at Hayes. She's too young to flirt with grown men, for God's sake!
But Hayes bought it. He looked pleased and said: "Sure, go ahead."
"Are you married?"
"Yes. I have two children, a boy around your age and a girl a little younger."
"Do you have any hobbies?"
"I collect boxing memorabilia."
"That's unusual."
"I guess it is."
Priest was both pleased and dismayed by how naturally Flower fell into the role. She's good at this. Hell, I hope I haven't raised her all these years to become a cheap magazine writer.
He studied Hayes while the agent answered Flower's innocent questions. This was his opponent. Hayes was carefully dressed in conventional style. His tan lightweight suit, white shirt, and dark silk tie had probably come from Brooks Brothers. He wore black oxford shoes, highly shined and tightly laced. His hair and mustache were neatly trimmed.
Yet Priest sensed that the ultraconservative look was fake. The tie was too striking, there was an overlarge ruby ring on the pinky of his left hand, and the mustache was a raffish touch. Also, Priest thought that the kind of American Brahmin Hayes was trying to imitate would not be so dressed up on a Saturday morning, even for a press conference.
"What's your favorite restaurant?" Flower asked.
"A lot of us go to Everton's, which is really more of a pub."
The conference room was filling up with men and women with notebooks and
cassette recorders, photographers encumbered with cameras and flashguns, radio reporters with large microphones, and a couple of TV crews with handheld videocameras. As they came in, the young woman with the clipboard asked them to sign a book. Priest and Flower seemed to have bypassed that. He was thankful. He could not write "Peter Shoebury" to save his life.
Kincaid, the boss, touched Hayes's elbow. "We need to prepare for our press conference now, Florence. I hope you'll stay to hear what we have to announce."
"Yes, thank you," she said.
Priest said: "You've really been very kind, Mr. Hayes. Florence's teachers will be truly grateful."
The agents moved to the table at the far end. My God, we fooled them. Priest and Flower sat at the back and waited. Priest's tension eased. He really had got away with it.
I knew I would.
He had not gained much hard information yet, but that would come with the formal press announcement. What he did have was a sense of the people he was dealing with. He was reassured by what he had learned. Neither Kincaid nor Hayes struck him as brilliant. They seemed like ordinary plodding cops, the kind who got by with a mixture of dogged routine and occasional corruption. He had little to fear from them.
Kincaid stood up and introduced himself. He sounded confident but a touch overassertive. Maybe he had not been the boss very long. He said: "I would like to begin by making one thing very clear. The FBI does not believe that yesterday's earthquake was triggered by a terrorist group."
The flashguns popped, the tapes whirred, and the reporters scribbled notes. Priest tried not to let his anger show on his face. The bastards were refusing to take him seriously--still!
"This is also the opinion of the state seismologist, who I believe is available for interview in Sacramento this morning."
What do I have to do to convince you? I threatened an earthquake, then I made it happen, and still you won't believe I did it! Must I kill people before you'll listen?
Kincaid went on: "Nevertheless, a terrorist threat has been made, and the Bureau intends to catch the people who made it. Our investigation is headed by Special Agent Marvin Hayes. Over to you, Marvin."
Hayes stood up. He was more nervous than Kincaid, Priest saw at once. He read mechanically from a prepared statement. "FBI agents have this morning questioned all five paid employees of the Green California Campaign at their homes. The employees are voluntarily cooperating with us."
Priest was pleased. He had laid a false trail, and the feds were following it.
Hayes went on: "Agents also visited the headquarters of the campaign, here in San Francisco, and examined documents and computer records."
They would be combing the organization's mailing list for clues, Priest guessed.
There was more, but it was repetitive. The assembled journalists asked questions that added detail and color but did not change the basic story. Priest's tension grew again as he sat waiting impatiently for a chance to leave inconspicuously. He was pleased that the FBI investigation was so far off course--they had not yet come upon his second false trail--but he felt angry that they still refused to believe in his threat.
At last Kincaid drew the session to a close and the journalists began to get to their feet and pack up their gear.
Priest and Flower made for the door, but they were stopped by the woman with the clipboard, who smiled brightly and said: "I don't think you two signed in, did you?" She handed Priest a book and a pen. "Just put your names and the organization you represent."
Priest froze with fear. I can't, I can't!
Don't panic. Relax.
Ley, tor, pur-doy-cor ...
"Sir? Would you please sign?"
"Sure." Priest took the book and the pen. Then he handed it to Flower. "I think Florence should sign for us--she's the journalist," he said, reminding her of her false name. It occurred to him that she might have forgotten the school she was supposed to attend. "Put your name, and 'Eisenhower Junior High.' "
Flower did not flinch. She wrote in the book and handed it back to the woman.
Now, for Christ's sake, can we go?
"You, too, sir, please," said the woman, and she gave Priest the book.
He took it reluctantly. Now what? If he just scrawled a squiggle, she might ask him to print his name clearly: that had happened to him before. But maybe he could just refuse and walk out. She was only a secretary.
As he hesitated, he heard the voice of Kincaid. "I hope that was interesting for you, Florence."
Kincaid is an agent--it's his job to be suspicious.
"Yes, sir, it was," Flower said politely.
Priest began to sweat under his shirt.
He drew a scrawl where he was supposed to write his name. Then he closed the book before handing it back to the woman.
Kincaid said to Flower: "Will you remember to send me a copy of your class newspaper when it's printed?"
"Yes, of course."
Let's go, let's go!
The woman opened the book and said: "Oh, sir, pardon me, would you mind printing your name here? I'm afraid your signature isn't really clear."
What am I going to do?
"You'll need an address," Kincaid said to Flower, and he took a business card from the breast pocket of his suit coat. "There you go."
"Thank you."
Priest remembered that Peter Shoebury carried business cards. That's the answer--thank God! He opened the wallet and gave one to the woman. "My handwriting is terrible--use this," he said. "We have to run." He shook Kincaid's hand. "You've been wonderful. I'll make sure Florence remembers to send you the clipping."
They left the room.
They crossed the lobby and waited for the elevator. Priest imagined Kincaid coming after him, gun drawn, saying, "What kind of attorney can't write his own goddamn name, asshole?" But the elevator came and they rode down and walked out of the building into the fresh air.
Flower said: "I gotta have the craziest dad in the world."
Priest smiled at her. "That's the truth."
"Why did we have false names?"
"Well, I never like the pigs to get my real name," he said. She would accept that, he thought. She knew how her parents felt about cops.
But she said: "Well, I'm mad at you about it."
He frowned. "Why?"
"I'll never forgive you for calling me Florence," she said.
Priest stared at her for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.
"Come on, kid," Priest said fondly. "Let's go home."
10
Judy dreamed she walked along the seashore with Michael Quercus, and his bare feet left neat, shapely prints in the wet sand.
On Saturday morning she helped out at a literacy class for young offenders. They respected her because she carried a gun. She sat in a church hall beside a seventeen-year-old hoodlum, helping him practice writing the date, hoping that somehow this would make it less likely that in ten years' time she would have to arrest him.
In the afternoon she drove the short distance from Bo's house to Gala Foods on Geary Boulevard and shopped.
The familiar Saturday routines failed to soothe her. She was furious with Brian Kincaid for taking her off the Hammer of Eden case, but there was nothing she could do about it, so she stomped up and down the aisles and tried to turn her mind to Chewy Chips Ahoy, Rice-A-Roni, and Zee "Decor Collection" kitchen towel printed with yellow patterns. In the breakfast cereal aisle she thought of Michael's son, Dusty, and she bought a box of Cap'n Crunch.
But her thoughts kept returning to the case. Is there really someone out there who can make earthquakes happen? Or am I nuts?
Back at home, Bo helped her unload the groceries and asked her about the investigation. "I hear Marvin Hayes raided the Green California Campaign."
"It can't have done him much good," she said. "They're all clean. Raja interviewed them on Tuesday. Two men and three women, all over fifty. No criminal records--not a speeding ticket between them--and no association with any suspic
ious persons. If they're terrorists, I'm Kojak."
"TV news says he's examining their records."
"Right. That's a list of everyone who ever wrote asking them for information, including Jane Fonda. There are eighteen thousand names and addresses. Now Marvin's team has to run each name through the FBI computer to see who's worth interviewing. It could take a month."
The doorbell rang. Judy opened the door to Simon Sparrow. She was surprised but pleased. "Hey, Simon, come on in!"
He was wearing black cycling shorts and a muscle T-shirt with Nike trainers and wraparound sunglasses. However, he had not come by bicycle: his emerald green Honda Del Sol was parked at the curb with the roof down. Judy wondered what her mother would have thought of Simon. "Nice boy," she might have said. "Not very manly, though."
Bo shook hands with Simon, then gave Judy a clandestine look that said Who the hell is this fruit? Judy shocked him by saying: "Simon is one of the FBI's top linguistic analysts."
Somewhat bemused, Bo said: "Well, Simon, I'm sure glad to meet you."
Simon was carrying a cassette tape and a manila envelope. Holding them up, he said: "I brought you my report on the Hammer of Eden tape."
"I'm off the case," Judy said.
"I know, but I thought you'd still be interested. The voices on the tape don't match any in our acoustic files, unfortunately."
"No names, then."
"No, but lots of other interesting stuff."
Judy's interest was piqued. "You said 'voices.' I only heard one."
"No, there are two." Simon looked around and saw Bo's radio-cassette on the kitchen counter. It was normally used to play The Greatest Hits of the Everly Brothers. He slipped his cassette into the player. "Let me talk you through the tape."
"I'd love you to, but it's Marvin Hayes's case now."
"I'd like your opinion anyway."
Judy shook her head stubbornly. "You should talk to Marvin first."
"I know what you're saying. But Marvin is a fucking idiot. Do you know how long it is since he put a bad guy in jail?"
"Simon, if you're trying to get me to work on this case behind Kincaid's back, forget it!"
"Hear me out, okay? It can't do any harm." Simon turned up the volume control and started the tape.
Judy sighed. She was desperately keen to know what Simon had found out about the Hammer of Eden. But if Kincaid learned that Simon had talked to her before Marvin, there would be hell to pay.