by Ken Follett
There was an air of subdued urgency. Everyone was calm, but they were concentrating hard and working intensely. No one stopped for coffee or schmoozed over the photocopier or went outside for a cigarette. Later, if the situation developed into a full-blown crisis, the atmosphere would change, Judy knew: people would be yelling into phones, the expletive quotient would multiply, tempers would fray, and it would be her job to keep the lid on the cauldron.
Remembering Bo's tip, she pulled up a chair next to Carl Theobald, a bright young agent in a fashionable dark blue shirt. He was the leader of the team reviewing Marvin Hayes's files. "Anything?" she said.
He shook his head. "We don't really know what we're looking for, but whatever it is, we haven't found it yet."
She nodded. She had given this team a vague task, but she could not help that. They had to look for something out of the ordinary. A lot depended on the intuition of the individual agent. Some people could smell deceit even in a computer.
"Are we sure we have everything on file?" she asked.
Carl shrugged. "We should."
"Check whether they kept any paper records."
"They're not supposed to...."
"But people do."
"Okay."
Rosa called her back to the head shed for a phone call. It was Michael. She smiled as she picked up. "Hi."
"Hi. I've got a problem tonight. I can't make it."
She was shocked by his tone. He sounded curt and unfriendly. For the last few days he had been warm and affectionate. But this was the original Michael, the one who had turned her away from his door and told her to make an appointment. "What is it?" she said.
"Something came up. I'm sorry to cancel on you."
"Michael, what the hell is wrong?"
"I'm in kind of a rush. I'll call you."
"Okay," she said.
He hung up.
She cradled the phone, feeling hurt. "Now, what was all that about?" she said to herself. Just as I was getting fond of the guy. What is it with him? Why can't he stay the way he was on Sunday night? Or even when he called me this morning?
Carl Theobald interrupted her thoughts. He looked troubled. "Marvin Hayes is giving me a hard time," he said. "They do have some paper records, but when I said I needed to see them, he pretty much told me to shove it."
"Don't worry, Carl," Judy said. "These things are sent by heaven to teach us patience and tolerance. I'll just go and tear his balls off."
The agents nearby heard her and laughed.
"Is that what patience and tolerance means?" Carl said with a grin. "I must remember that."
"Come with me, I'll show you," she said.
They went outside and jumped in her car. It took fifteen minutes to reach the Federal Building on Golden Gate Avenue. As they went up in the elevator, Judy wondered how to deal with Marvin. Should she tear his balls off or be conciliatory? The cooperative approach worked only if the other party was willing. With Marvin she had probably gone past that point forever.
She hesitated outside the door to the Organized Crime squad room. Okay, I'll be Xena, the warrior princess.
She went in, and Carl followed.
Marvin was on the phone, grinning broadly, telling a joke. "So the barman says to the guy, there's a badger in the back room that gives the best blow job--"
Judy leaned on his desk and said loudly: "What's this crap you're giving Carl?"
"Someone's interrupting me, Joe," he said. "I'll call you right back." He hung up. "What can I do for you, Judy?"
She leaned closer, putting herself in his face. "Stop dicking around."
"What is it with you?" he said, sounding aggrieved. "What do you mean by going over my records as if I must have made some goddamn mistake?"
He had not necessarily made a mistake. When the perpetrator presented himself to the investigating team in the guise of a bystander or witness, he generally tried to make sure that they did not suspect him. It was not the fault of the investigators, but it was bound to make them feel foolish.
"I think you may have talked to the perpetrator," she said. "Where are these paper records?"
He smoothed his yellow tie. "All we have are some notes from the press conference that never got keyed into the computer."
"Show me."
He pointed to a box file on a side table against the wall. "Help yourself."
She opened the file. On top was an invoice for the rental of a small public address system with microphones.
"You won't find a damn thing," Marvin said.
He might be right, but she had to try, and it was dumb of him to obstruct her. A smarter man would have said, "Hey, if I overlooked something, I sure hope you find it." Everyone made mistakes. But Marvin was now too defensive to be gracious. He just had to prove Judy wrong.
It would be embarrassing if she was wrong.
She rifled through the papers. There were some faxes from newspapers asking for details of the press conference, a note about how many chairs would be needed, and a guest list, a form on which the journalists attending the press conference had been asked to put their names and the publications or broadcasters they represented. Judy ran her eye down the list.
"What the hell is this?" she said suddenly. "Florence Shoebury, Eisenhower Junior High?"
"She wanted to cover the press conference for the school newspaper," Marvin said. "What should we do, tell her to fuck off?"
"Did you check her out?"
"She's a kid!"
"Was she alone?"
"Her father brought her."
There was a business card stapled to the form. "Peter Shoebury, from Watkins, Colefax and Brown. Did you check him out?"
Marvin hesitated for a long moment, realizing he had made a mistake. "No," he said finally. "Brian decided to let them into the press conference, and afterward I never followed up."
Judy handed the form with the business card to Carl. "Call this guy right away," she said.
Carl sat at the nearest desk and picked up the phone.
Marvin said: "Anyway, what makes you so sure we talked to the subject?"
"My father thinks so." As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realized she had made a mistake.
Marvin sneered. "Oh, so your daddy thinks so. Is that the level we've sunk to? You're checking on me because your daddy told you to?"
"Knock it off, Marvin. My father was putting bad guys in jail when you were still wetting your bed."
"Where are you going with this, anyway? Are you trying to set me up? You looking for someone to blame when you fail?"
"What a great idea," she said. "Why didn't I think of it?"
Carl hung up the phone and said: "Judy."
"Yeah."
"Peter Shoebury has never been inside this building, and he has no daughter. But he was mugged on Saturday morning two blocks from here, and his wallet was stolen. It contained his business cards."
There was a moment's silence, then Marvin said: "Fuck it."
Judy ignored his embarrassment. She was too excited by the news. This could be a whole new source of information. "I guess he didn't look like the E-fit picture we got from Texas."
"Not a bit," Marvin said. "No beard, no hat. He had big glasses and long hair in a ponytail."
"That's probably another disguise. What about his build, and like that?"
"Tall, slim."
"Dark hair, dark eyes, about fifty?"
"Yes, yes, and yes."
Judy almost felt sorry for Marvin. "It was Ricky Granger, wasn't it?"
Marvin looked at the floor as if he wanted it to open up and swallow him. "I guess you're right."
"I would like you to produce a new E-fit, please."
He nodded, still not looking at her. "Sure."
"Now, what about Florence Shoebury?"
"Well, she kind of disarmed us. I mean, what kind of terrorist brings a little girl along with him?"
"One who is completely ruthless. What did the kid look like?"
&
nbsp; "White girl about twelve, thirteen. Dark hair, dark eyes, slim build. Pretty."
"Better do an E-fit of her, too. Do you think she really is his daughter?"
"Oh, sure. That's how they seemed. She showed no signs of being under coercion, if that's what you're thinking."
"Yes. Okay, I'm going to assume they're father and daughter, for now." She turned to Carl. "We're out of here."
They went out. In the corridor Carl said: "Wow. You really did tear off his balls."
Judy was jubilant. "But we've got another suspect--the kid."
"Yeah. I just hope you never catch me making a mistake."
She stopped and looked at him. "It wasn't the mistake, Carl. Anyone can screw up. But he was willing to impede the investigation in order to cover up. That's where he went wrong. And that's why he looks like such an asshole now. If you make a mistake, admit it."
"Yeah," Carl said. "But I think I'll keep my legs crossed, too."
*
Late that evening Judy got the first edition of the San Francisco Chronicle with the two new pictures: the E-fit of Florence Shoebury and the new E-fit of Ricky Granger disguised as Peter Shoebury. Earlier she had only glanced at the pictures before asking Madge Kelly to get them to the newspapers and TV stations. Now, studying them by the light of her desk lamp, she was struck by the resemblance between Granger and Florence. They're father and daughter, they have to be. I wonder what will happen to her if I put her daddy in jail?
She yawned and rubbed her eyes. Bo's advice came back to her. "Take breaks, eat lunch, get the sleep you need." It was time to go home. The overnight shift was already here.
Driving home, she reviewed the day and what she had achieved. Sitting at a stoplight, looking at twin rows of streetlights converging to infinity along Geary Boulevard, she realized that Michael had not faxed her the promised list of likely earthquake sites.
She dialed his number on the car phone, but there was no answer. For some reason that bothered her. She tried again at the next red light, and the number was busy. She called the office switchboard and asked them to check with Pacific Bell and find out whether there were voices on the line. The operator called her back and said there were not. The phone had been taken off the hook.
So he was home, but not picking up.
He had sounded odd when he called to cancel their date. He was like that; he could be charming and kind, then change abruptly and be difficult and arrogant. But why was his phone off the hook? Judy felt uneasy.
She checked the dashboard clock. It was just before eleven.
Two days left.
I don't have time to screw around.
She turned the car around and headed for Berkeley.
She reached Euclid Street at eleven-fifteen. There were lights on in Michael's apartment. Outside was an old orange Subaru. She had seen the car before but did not know whose it was. She parked behind it and rang Michael's doorbell.
There was no answer.
Judy was troubled. Michael had crucial information. Today, on the very day she had asked him a key question, he had abruptly canceled an appointment, then had become incommunicado.
It was suspicious.
She wondered what to do. Maybe she should call for police backup and break in. He could be tied up or dead in there.
She returned to her car and picked up the two-way radio, but she hesitated. When a man took the phone off the hook at eleven P.M., it might mean a variety of things. He might want to sleep. He might be getting laid, although Michael seemed too interested in Judy to play around--he was not the type to sleep with a different woman every night, she thought.
While she was wavering, a young woman with a briefcase approached the building. She looked like an assistant professor returning home from a late evening at the lab. She stopped at the door and fumbled in her briefcase for keys.
Impulsively Judy jumped out of her car and walked quickly across the lawn to the entrance. "Good evening," she said. She showed her badge. "FBI special agent Judy Maddox. I need access to this building."
"Something wrong?" the woman said anxiously.
"I hope not. If you go to your apartment and close the door, you'll be just fine."
They went in together. The woman entered a ground-floor apartment, and Judy went up the stairs. She rapped on Michael's door with her knuckles.
There was no reply.
What was going on? He was in there. He must have heard her ring and knock. He knew no casual caller would be so persistent at this time of night. Something was wrong, she felt sure.
She knocked again, three times, hard. Then she put her ear to the door and listened.
She heard a scream.
That did it. She took a step back and kicked the door as hard as she could. She was wearing loafers, and she hurt the underside of her right foot, but the wood around the lock splintered: thank God he did not have a steel door. She kicked it again. The lock seemed almost to break. She ran at the door with her shoulder, and it burst open.
She drew her gun. "FBI!" she shouted. "Drop your weapons and put up your hands!" There was another scream. It sounded like a woman, she realized in the back of her mind, but there was no time to figure out what that signified. She stepped into the entrance lobby.
Michael's bedroom door was open. She dropped to one knee with her arms extended and aimed into the room.
What she saw stunned her.
Michael was on the bed, naked, perspiring. He was on top of a thin woman with red hair who was breathing hard. It was his wife, Judy realized.
They were making love.
They both stared at Judy in fear and disbelief.
Then Michael recognized her and said: "Judy? What the hell ...?"
She closed her eyes. She had never felt like such a fool in her life.
"Oh, shit," she said. "I'm sorry. Oh, shit."
15
Early on Wednesday Priest stood beside the Silver River, looking at the way the morning sky was reflected in the broken planes of the water's shifting surface, marveling at the luminosity of blue and white in the dawn light. Everyone else was asleep. His dog sat beside him, panting quietly, waiting for something to happen.
It was a tranquil moment, but Priest's soul was not at peace.
His deadline was only two days away, and still Governor Robson had said nothing.
It was maddening. He did not want to trigger another earthquake. This one would have to be more spectacular, destroying roads and bridges, bringing skyscrapers tumbling down. People would die.
Priest was not like Melanie, thirsting for revenge upon the world. He just wanted to be left alone. He was willing to do anything to save the commune, but he knew it would be smarter to avoid killing if he could. After this was all over, and the project to dam the valley had been canceled, he and the commune wanted to live in peace. That was the whole point. And their chances of staying here undisturbed would be greater if they could win without killing innocent California citizens. What had happened so far could be forgotten soon enough. It would drop out of the news, and no one would care what became of the nutcases who said they could trigger earthquakes.
As he stood musing, Star appeared. She slipped out of her purple robe and stepped into the cold river to wash. Priest looked hungrily at her voluptuous body, familiar but still desirable. He had shared his bed with no one last night. Star was still spending her nights with Bones, and Melanie was with her husband in Berkeley. So the great cocksman sleeps alone.
While she was toweling herself dry, Priest said: "Let's go get a newspaper. I want to know if Governor Robson said anything last night."
They got dressed and drove to a gas station. Priest filled the tank of the 'Cuda while Star got the San Francisco Chronicle.
She came back white-faced. "Look," she said, showing him the front page.
There was a picture of a young girl who looked familiar. After a moment he realized with horror that it was Flower.
Stunned, he picked up the newspaper.
Beside the picture of Flower was one of himself.
Both were computer-generated images. The one of Priest was based on his appearance at the FBI press conference, when he had been disguised as Peter Shoebury, with his hair pulled back and wearing large glasses. He did not think anyone would recognize him from that.
Flower had not been in disguise. Her computer picture was like a poorly drawn portrait--not her, but like her. Priest felt cold. He was not used to fear. He was a daredevil who enjoyed risk. But this was not about him. He had put his daughter in danger.
Star said angrily: "Why the hell did you have to go to that press conference?"
"I had to know what they were thinking."
"It was so dumb!"
"I've always been rash."
"I know." Her voice softened, and she touched his cheek. "If you were timid, you wouldn't be the man I love."
A month ago it would not have mattered: no one outside the commune knew Flower, and no one inside read newspapers. But she had been going secretly to Silver City to meet boys; she had stolen a poster from a store; she had been arrested; and she had spent a night in custody. Would the people she had met remember her? And if so, would they recognize the picture? The probation officer might remember her, but luckily he was still on vacation in the Bahamas, where he was unlikely to see the San Francisco Chronicle. But what about the woman who had guarded her overnight? A schoolteacher who was also the sheriff's sister, Priest recalled. Her name came back: Miss Waterlow. She saw hundreds of little girls presumably, but she might remember their faces. Maybe she had a bad memory. Maybe she had gone on vacation, too. Maybe she had not read today's Chronicle.
And maybe Priest was finished.
There was nothing he could do about it. If the schoolteacher saw the picture and recognized Flower and called the FBI, a hundred agents would descend on the commune and it would be all over.
He stared at the paper while Star read the text. "If you didn't know her, would you recognize her?"
Star shook her head. "I don't think so."
"I don't either. But I wish I were sure."
"I didn't think the feds were this goddamn smart," Star said.
"Some are, some aren't. It's this Asian girl that worries me. Judy Maddox." Priest recalled the TV pictures of her, so slender and graceful, pushing through a hostile crowd with a look of bulldog determination on her delicate features. "I got a bad feeling about her," he said. "A real bad feeling. She keeps coming up with leads--first the seismic vibrator, then the picture of me in Shiloh, now Flower. Maybe that's why Governor Robson hasn't said anything. She's got him hoping we'll be caught. Is there a statement from the governor in the paper?"