by C. S. Graham
Logging on, he went straight to his Hotmail account.
He’d set up the account several months ago, when his source had first contacted him. He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t even know if she really was a “she,” although she called herself Linda. She had refused to give him any personal details about herself. All he knew was that the information she provided him was always—always—spot-on.
At first, when he was writing his Who Really Runs the World series for the Post, she’d tantalized him with brief messages. Like, “Have you looked into who paid for Senator So-and-So’s latest trip to Uganda?” or, “Here’s a copy of the ‘Common Agreement as a Core Group’; think your readers would be interested to hear that elected members of Congress and banking execs are forming themselves into secret cells based on the organizational models of the Mafia and terrorist groups?”
Her tips had led him to places he never would have gone, like to the “K Street House,” where members of Congress were given subsidized lodgings in exchange for their participation in “Spiritual Warfare”; to the Christian Embassy; and to the Council on National Policy.
And then had come that memorable afternoon in early January, when he’d logged on to his Hotmail account and found her terse, two-sentence message: They’re planning to kill the new administration. Right after the inauguration.
He’d written back at once. Who is ‘they’? How do you know this? How and when will this happen?
It had been an agonizing five days before she got back to him. Don’t ask how I know about it. But it’s real. I just don’t know where or how.
He’d written back, Can you find out?
A week later, she answered. It has something to do with the Babylonian Codex.
He wrote back, The WHAT???
Her response had been swift, terse, contemptuous. And you call yourself a reporter?
In the two weeks that followed, he’d learned everything there was to know about the Babylonian Codex—which was, basically, not much. He’d even run an article on the theft of Iraqi antiquities in the Post, hoping to smoke something out.
But he never did figure out what the hell the codex had to do with anything.
Then, three days ago, a new message had popped up in his Hotmail account. They’re going to kill the VP in Davos.
That’s when Noah stormed into his editor’s office, ranting and raving about a plot by slimy corporate robber barons in cahoots with religious fanatics to take over the country.
She’d told him he was fired.
Now, when Noah opened up his Hotmail account, he found a message from Linda waiting for him.
I told you they were going to kill Hamilton! Why didn’t you STOP it??? You didn’t even write about it!!!
He typed back, I tried. The Post fired me and Hamilton laughed at me. No one will publish this story without something to back it up. I need PROOF.
To his surprise, her response was almost instantaneous. What do you need?
He wrote, How exactly did they kill Hamilton?
He waited.
A few minutes later, she answered. I can’t get you that.
He typed, What can you get me?
He waited an hour. Two.
Her response never came.
Chapter 27
Alexandria, Virginia: Saturday 3 February 12:30 P.M. local time
Jax found October hiding under the cover of a small sailboat berthed at the outer dock. She was soaking wet and so cold she was turning blue. But she took one look at him as she crawled out from beneath the blue canvas and went off into a peal of laughter. “Why do you look like an aging version of Magnum, P.I.?”
“Very funny.” He threw his arm across her shoulders and puller her close. “Pretend like you’re hugging me and keep your head down, okay? There are cops crawling all over the place.”
Wrapping her arm around his waist, she snuggled her face into his chest as they crossed the parking lot. “I can’t believe that cell phone didn’t fall out of my pocket when I dived in the water.”
“I can’t believe it still worked.” He opened the passenger door of the Toyota for her. “Hurry. You’re going beyond blue to gray.”
She drew up short. “What happened to your BMW?”
“The Toyota goes with the mustache. It’s called a disguise.” He gave her an evil grin. “Wait until you see what I got for you.”
They drove to a diner about five miles up the river. Jax ordered hot coffee while Tobie went to change into the clothes he’d brought her.
She was gone a long time.
When she finally reappeared, she’d been transformed into a Muslim fundamentalist, complete with a long-sleeved tunic over her new turtleneck and jeans, and a white headscarf that completely hid her hair and did strange, unexpected things to the shape of her face.
“Wow,” he said, staring at her. “I can’t believe how different that thing makes you look.”
She slipped into the booth opposite him. “I can’t believe you bought me a hijab.”
“It was your idea.”
“It was?”
“Actually, I think you wanted a burqa.”
She tipped her head to one side, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown as she studied his gray hair and salt-and-pepper mustache. “I guess I should be thankful you didn’t bring me a blue wig and a granny dress.”
“I got those, too. Along with a walker.”
She stared at him. “That’s a joke, right?”
“No.” Jax pushed the steaming coffee toward her. “Drink.”
She wrapped her hands around the cup, but she didn’t drink it. “What I don’t understand is, how did those guys even find me?”
“It’s not hard when you’ve got the head of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division on your side.”
“When you’ve what?”
He gave her a quick rundown of his meetings with Matt and Duane Davenport.
“Jesus,” she whispered. “Who are we dealing with here?”
“I’m not sure.” He drew the paper Matt had given him from his pocket and slid it across the table toward her. “Elaine Cox had the list of antiquities you were brought here to RV in her hand when the police found her. There’s no manuscript of any kind on it.”
“What?” October snatched up the list in disbelief. She stared at it a moment, then raised her gaze to his, her eyes dark and huge. “This doesn’t make any sense. If the manuscript wasn’t even on the list, then why send someone to kill me?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. The only explanation that makes any sense is that whoever has the manuscript also has something else that is on the list.”
“I don’t get it.”
Jax leaned forward, his forearms laid along the tabletop, his fingers laced together. “You told me once that a remote viewer will sometimes be drawn away from the intended target to something else nearby—something that’s more powerful.”
“Y-yes. But—”
“That could be what happened here. Remember what Dr. Stein was telling us? About the rumors that certain rich, powerful collectors had put in advance orders for the exact antiquities they wanted stolen from Iraq?” Jax tapped the sheet of paper between them. “There might be a dozen artifacts on this list, but I bet you’d find that they’re in the hands of no more than six or eight collectors. Very rich men with their own private galleries containing Mesopotamian art.”
“And manuscripts,” said October softly. “So what are you suggesting? That some gazillionaire put out an order for a few select artifacts from the Baghdad Museum, including the papyrus I saw? Then he hears the Art Crimes Team is bringing in a remote viewer, and that one or more of the items in his private gallery might have made the final cut and are on the list, so he gets his man in the FBI to send one of his agents to watch the viewing and take me out if it looks like I’m getting a little too close for comfort?”
“Which you did.”
“Which I did.” She was silent a moment, her fingers trailing up
and down the sides of her mug. He noticed the color was starting to come back to her cheeks. She said, “I was reading about Davos this morning, before my visitors arrived.”
He frowned. “And?”
“One of the articles had a picture of Vice President Hamilton talking to a Washington Post reporter just minutes before he was killed. It was the reporter’s name that caught my eye. Noah. Noah Bosch. So I looked him up. Just last week he wrote an article about early Christian treasures stolen from Iraq, and one of the items he mentioned was an ancient papyrus that had been discovered buried under an old church near Babylon.” She paused. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
Jax stared at her. In spite of himself, he felt a chill run up his spine. How did she know these things? But all he said was, “What papyrus?”
“According to an Assyrian priest Bosch interviewed at the Franciscan Monastery here in D.C., it’s an older version of one of the books of the New Testament.”
“An older version?”
“That’s what he said.” She dropped her voice and leaned forward, as if afraid someone might overhear. “This still doesn’t make any sense. What could some Bible verses have to do with the assassination of the vice president of the United States?”
Rather than answer, he nodded toward her still full cup. “Drink up. I want to make a visit to the Washington Post.”
She reached for the check. “We can go now.”
He beat her to it. “Uh-uh. Hijab or no hijab, I’m not going to risk taking you into a room full of reporters who spend their lives following the news. Someone might recognize you.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. “If you want to do something, go talk to this Assyrian priest. What the hell is an Assyrian priest, anyway?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
Duane Davenport paused in the hallway outside the coroner’s office, his hands clenching into fists at his side. The air was thick with the stink of antiseptic and the pervasive, ineradicable odor of death.
“I’m sorry,” said Special Agent Brockman. “They were good men.”
He turned on his heel to walk rapidly toward the exit. “Three agents,” he snapped. “We’ve now lost three agents because of that bitch.” It didn’t matter that Agent Cox had died at Davenport’s own orders; her death was as much October Guinness’s fault as the two men whose charred bodies he’d just seen rolled into refrigerator drawers.
“We’re still searching the river,” said Brockman, keeping pace with him. “It’s possible she died in the explosion.”
“I don’t think so. It’s like she’s a witch or something.” He slapped open the door to the parking lot and stood for a moment, sucking the clean, cold air into his lungs. “We’ve grossly underestimated this woman. Twice now. We’ve been acting like we’re dealing with some dim-witted crackpot, only she’s shown us that she’s anything but.”
Brockman started to say something, then pressed her lips together.
Davenport stepped off the curb, his suit jacket flaring open to reveal the Glock in his shoulder holster. “Think about it. The minute Guinness realized we were out to get her, she basically had two choices: run as far and as fast as she could, or stay and try to figure out who we are and what we’re up to. Nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand people would have run. She didn’t.”
“ ‘Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light,’ ”quoted Brockman.
Nodding, Davenport strode rapidly toward their car, “Get me the recordings of those remote viewing sessions she was doing for Cox. If we’re going to get this witch, we need to know exactly what we’re dealing with—and what she knows.”
Chapter 28
An unobtrusive structure with redbrick and white trim, the K Street House had served for forty-five years as a place where like-minded men—from defense contractors and religious leaders to corporate lobbyists and members of Congress—could meet in a quiet, private atmosphere to discuss strategies and plot their next moves. To this end it boasted several private dining rooms, a superb kitchen, and a bar that was always open.
And it was all funded by tax-deductible contributions.
Leo Carlyle sat at his favorite chair beside a window overlooking the street, an appetizer of pâté de foie gras and toast on the table before him. Also at the table were Warren Patterson, affectionately known as “America’s Minister”; Dick King, the new CEO of Keefe Corporation; and Ross Cole, an insurance company executive who personally pocketed one out of every ten dollars paid to his company for health insurance. They were just four of those who called themselves the Apostles, a select group of bold men who were willing to go further—and faster—than any of God’s servants had yet dared to reach.
Carlyle took a slow sip of his champagne. “Things are going along well, gentlemen.” He nodded to Patterson. “Time to up the rhetoric on the need to retake the Seventh Mountain.”
Patterson’s famous green eyes sparkled. “I have a broadcast scheduled for tonight. I think you’re going to like it.”
Dick King, the bullet-headed CEO of Keefe, swallowed a mouthful of rare prime beef and said, “Who’s the scapegoat going to be?”
Carlyle smiled. “A true scum of the earth. A militant atheist lawyer who’s not only a member of the Council for Secular Humanism, but who also does pro bono work for the ACLU.”
“Sounds perfect,” said Ross Cole.
Patterson glanced at his watch. “What time is our ‘Satanic Leader’ scheduled to address the nation?”
“Now.” Leo pointed the remote at the giant TVs hanging suspended in opposite corners of the room.
The Latin features of Daniel Pizarro, the newly elected president of the United States, filled the screen.
“Over the past thirty years,” said Pizarro, his face drawn and serious, “the American dream has been stood on its head. The statistics are frightening. In 1982, the wealthiest four hundred individuals in this country held an average of six hundred and four million dollars each, if converted to today’s dollars. But today, right now, the top four hundred people in the United States own an average of three point nine billion dollars each. That’s more than one and a half trillion dollars all together. Ten percent of the entire gross domestic product of the United States is now in the hands of just four hundred people. The top one percent of Americans controls more wealth than the bottom ninety percent combined.
“This is wrong. Today, in this country, the superrich are getting richer while everyone else is getting poorer. The hardworking citizen who labors for his wages pays a higher tax rate than the idle rich who let their money work for them.
“Now, some people will tell you the government has no business interfering in any of this. Well, they’re wrong. Government is not here just to protect you from the thief with the gun who wants to steal your wallet. A government should also prevent its citizens from being robbed by the insurance companies and the banks and the energy companies who cheat and defraud their fellow citizens and pollute our great country in an ugly, unchecked scramble for profits.
“For the past thirty years government has abdicated that responsibility. They have allowed lobbyists to pressure Congress into scrapping the regulations that once kept us safe, which is why we’re in the sorry mess we’re in today. Well, I’m here to tell you: no longer. Not on my watch.”
Leo Carlyle pointed the remote at the screens and zapped the newly inaugurated President Pizarro into oblivion.
“My God! The guy’s a fucking communist,” exclaimed Ross, leaning back in his chair.
“What do you expect?” said King. “He might call himself a Catholic, but his mother was a Jew.”
“Since when are Catholics any better than Jews?” said Patterson, and the rest of the men at the table laughed.
“Not to worry, gentlemen,” said Leo. “Four more days, and the nightmare will be over.”
Chapter 29
Forty-five minutes later, Jax walked into the o
ffices of the Washington Post on Fifteenth Street and handed one of the receptionists a set of very real looking Homeland Security credentials bearing the name James Anderson. Jax knew a guy named Ernie DeMoss in Adams Morgan who did even better work than the CIA.
“I’d like to see Noah Bosch,” said Jax, smoothing his graying mustache.
The receptionist—a chubby-cheeked redhead with freckles and a name tag that read TERRANCE—cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
Jax put on his best glower. “Sorry. It’s official business.”
Terrance swallowed with enough force to bob his Adam’s apple up and down. “Excuse me,” he said and groped for the phone.
After a furtive, whispered conversation, he said, “This way,” and led Jax to a glass office at the back of the newsroom.
A slim, fifty-to-sixtyish woman in a black silk jacket and cream shell rose from behind the desk. “I’m Kelly Brian, head of the Metro desk,” she said, her hand outstretched. She had an attractive, gently aging face framed by sleek gray hair. But Jax had no doubt that beneath that deceptive smile, she was as hard as nails. She couldn’t have reached this office otherwise.
“Please, have a seat,” she said. “I understand you’re looking for Noah Bosch.”
“That’s right.” Rather than take the chair indicated, he shifted his weight into a widespread stance and clasped his hands behind his back.
She raised one eyebrow. “I take it you’re here because of the photograph of Noah with the Vice President in Davos?”
When Jax simply stared at her expectantly, she cleared her throat and said, “I don’t know what Noah was doing in Davos. But I can assure you that he wasn’t on assignment for us.”