As they neared the entrance, Patton looked at Fred Taylor, wondering if he felt it too, but the senior Secret Service agent’s face was inscrutable.
Patton opened the front door and they stepped inside. A spacious marble-floored lobby opened up before them. They walked to the bank of elevators and took the elevator to the tenth floor. On the way up, an instrumental version of Amazing Grace trickled through the overhead speakers. Though Patton had always liked the song, something about this particular version gave him the creeps. With the droning synthesizers and high-pitched string instruments, it sounded like something you might hear in the compound of some twisted New Age religious cult.
Stepping out of the elevator, they came to a reception area. A platinum-blonde woman with a shiny gold chain around her neck bearing the inscription WWJD—What Would Jesus Do? —smiled at them with bland efficiency from behind a teakwood desk.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Special Agent Taylor with the Secret Service and this is Agent Patton with the FBI. We’re here to see Benjamin Locke.”
The receptionist smiled pleasantly. “Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”
“For nine o’clock,” Patton said. “I spoke with Mr. Locke earlier this morning.”
She looked down at her planner. “Hmm. I don’t have you on my list.”
“This is a federal investigation, ma’am,” Taylor said stiffly. “We’d appreciate it if you’d call Mr. Locke right now and tell him we’re here.” In a fluid motion, he pulled out his creds and held them up for her to see. An official picture ID card flew up first, followed quickly by a gold shield. It was meant to be intimidating, and judging by the receptionist’s face, Patton could tell that the desired effect had been achieved. He didn’t even bother to take out his own.
“I’ll call Mr. Locke now.” She smiled nervously and reached for the phone.
While she made her call, Patton and Taylor looked around. The reception area was well furnished, but not lavish. There were a pair of tan leather sofas and a glass table in front of the desk. Patton scanned the magazines on the table: Christian Quarterly , American Hunter, Family Focus , Conservative Chronicles, Colorado Business , The American Spectator, and Rising Tide , the magazine of the Republican National Committee. The employees in the nearby cubicles and hallways were all carefully groomed and neatly dressed in the kind of business suits one would find in a mid-grade law office. No Armani, but no polyester either. Two men watched him from the doorway of an office; they looked suspicious, disapproving even, and for a fleeting instant, Patton felt like he was in the midst of a lost Indian tribe. This was getting weirder by the minute; Kafkaesque was the word that came to mind.
Ignoring the stares of the two men, Patton studied the color prints on the walls. They showed spectacular mountain and ocean vistas with pithy quotations from the Bible at the bottom, almost like commercial product plugs. “Rejoice in the LORD, O you righteous!” (Psalm 33:1). “Many are the pangs of the wicked; but steadfast love surrounds him who trusts in the LORD” (Psalm 32:10). “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you” (Isaiah 60:1). Patton was trying to figure out if there was a hidden meaning in one of the quotes when he heard heavy footsteps coming up from behind.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. I’m Benjamin Locke.”
When Patton turned around, the room seemed to shrink by half. The renowned Christian leader swallowed the reception area and sucked the air out all at once. Though Patton had seen Locke on TV, he had never met the man in person and was wholly unprepared for such an awesome and charismatic physical specimen. For a moment, he felt like a little boy again, gazing up in stupefaction at those giant statues of the mythical Civil War generals at Gettysburg.
They shook hands. “We appreciate your meeting with us under such short notice, Mr. Locke,” Patton said, unable to take his eyes off his host as he was gripped by the big man’s bear-sized paw.
“Anything I can do to help with your investigation,” Locke said through a disarming smile. He introduced himself to Taylor and said, “Please follow me, gentlemen.”
They padded obediently behind him down the hallway to a conference room with ornate paneling and a polished table, both mahogany. Locke took a seat at the head of the table; Patton and Taylor sat down next to each other to his right and pulled out their computer tablets. A tubby secretary with blood-red lipstick and a bulldog’s face surveyed the two federal agents suspiciously as she poured fresh coffee into the pot on the credenza.
Just for kicks, Patton winked at her.
She did not wink back.
CHAPTER 21
“I THINK IT’S A TRAGEDY, a terrible tragedy,” said Locke, and he meant it even though he firmly believed that the assassination had been necessary in order to save America from herself and her enemies. “President-elect Kieger was a good man and honorable leader. I was fortunate enough to work with him on a number of occasions. My heart goes out to his family and all those whose lives he’s touched. I can only hope that whoever is responsible is tracked down and justice is swiftly served. But I know you didn’t come here to listen to me lament a true statesman’s loss. How can I help you with your case, gentlemen?” He smiled at the younger man, the FBI agent Patton, who had called him early this morning to set up the meeting and whose picture he had seen on page three of today’s Gazette-Telegraph .
“Well, as I said over the phone, Mr. Locke, we’d just like to ask you a few questions. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
The silk tie at Locke’s throat felt a touch constricting, but he resisted the urge to loosen it. “It might help if I had a better understanding of the circumstances surrounding your inquiry. Is this regarding my professional association with William Kieger, or is there something else?”
“I’m afraid we can’t comment on that,” Taylor said. “This is an ongoing investigation.”
Locke gave a look of polite deference. “I understand.”
“We appreciate that,” said Patton, who began typing at his iPad. “I’d like to start with promotional buttons. You know, like those given out at campaign rallies and other events. You have buttons like that here, don’t you?”
Locke feigned a look of puzzlement, as if he couldn’t understand what possible relevance such items could have in the case. But inside his mind was grinding along in another direction. So that’s it, then—they are here because of the damned button. “Yes, we have the kind of souvenirs you are describing,” he answered in a helpful tone. “To the best of my knowledge, they are given to all new members upon joining our organization.”
He watched closely as both agents jotted down notes on their tablets.
“And how many members are there?” Patton asked.
“More than twenty million.”
The two agents looked at one another, their eyes saying dead end .
“Would employees have access to the buttons?” asked Taylor.
“We keep them in boxes here at headquarters, and at all the chapters. It’s quite easy to get one’s hands on such items.”
“How many employees are there?” Patton asked.
“Five thousand. And another fifty thousand volunteer activists at our more than three hundred chapters around the country.”
“Are the buttons given out at political rallies or other special events?” asked Taylor.
“All the time.”
“So what we’ve got,” Patton said, “is more than twenty million of these things out there.”
“It would appear so.”
The questions continued for another minute. Locke answered them in his most cooperative tone and strived diligently to appear accommodating. But deep down he wondered: Is there any way this nonsense could point to the Coalition?
“The reason we’re asking you about this, Mr. Locke,” Patton said, “is because an American Patriots’ button was left behind in the room where the fatal shot was fired.”
“One of
our buttons? I can’t believe it. But how do you know it was...left behind?”
“We’re sorry, but we can’t tell you that,” Taylor said stiffly.
“Are you suggesting the button may have been put there by one of my employees or a member of the organization?”
“We have to consider it a possibility,” Patton said. “It’s also possible the killer isn’t affiliated with AMP, but has some personal reason for bringing attention to the organization, like revenge. Or maybe he has no connection whatsoever and planted a clue to mislead us.” His expression narrowed slightly. “Why do you think the button was left behind, Mr. Locke?”
He felt their eyes heavily upon him and, again, resisted the urge to loosen his tie. He decided the best response would be to appear mildly affronted. “I don’t have a clue, gentlemen. You’re asking the wrong man. I have no idea what goes on in the mind of an assassin. And the truth is I don’t want to know.”
That seemed to satisfy them. But inside Locke felt a growing anger. He was furious at Gomez for leaving the damned clues behind in the first place. Phase One had come off so smoothly, why did he have to do it? It made no sense. What was he trying to prove? All he had accomplished with his stupid prank was to forfeit the balance of his payment. The Executive Committee’s vote on the matter early this morning had been unanimous.
Patton typed a note on his iPad and looked up. “Is there anyone, presently or formerly with AMP, who might have a grudge against the organization? Someone with a military background?”
Locke did his best to look surprised. “Agent Patton, we are a Christian organization. The individual you are describing is not the kind of person who joins our flock.”
“We understand. But we’d appreciate it if you’d have your human resources people look into it. Every group has its fringe element. More often than not, it’s this element that poses danger.”
“Of course I will do what I can.”
The agents studied him in silence, waiting for him to say something more. Locke knew it was a deliberate tactic to sweat him out, in the hopes that he would volunteer something. He felt uncomfortable. He had never been on the receiving end of an interrogation before—in ’Nam he had grilled the VC, not the other way around—and he realized how difficult it was to remain clearheaded and not blurt out something incriminating when under even mild duress.
Patton broke the silence. “Mr. Locke, we didn’t tell you this before, but the button in question was found several inches to the right of three other buttons. Political campaign buttons, to be precise. Our criminal profiler thinks this may have been done deliberately to make a political point. Are there any outside groups that have threatened AMP? Anti-religious groups, that sort of thing?”
Be careful here. You don’t want to seem vindictive or eager to blame. Still, it shouldn’t be a problem to give up a few of the usual suspects.
“We are under constant attack by any number of left-wing groups, if that’s what you mean. People for the American Way, Americans United for Separation of Church and State, the Freedom from Religion Foundation, the ACLU, and many others have been attacking us for years. There’s even an Anti-American Patriots group. They have their own website and spin outrageous lies about our organization. Then, of course, there’s the FEC and National Democratic Party. They’ll stop at nothing to undermine people of faith . Personally, I can’t imagine any one of these groups going so far as to assassinate a president-elect. But I suppose stranger things have happened.”
There was a knock at the door. Locke frowned. He had left explicit instructions to Marlene “Suie” Tanner, his executive secretary, not to be disturbed.
The door opened. To Locke’s surprise, it was not Marlene, but his son—an almost exact replica of him but three inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter—who poked his head in.
“Yes, what is it?” demanded Locke, unable to conceal his irritation.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Benjamin Jr. said, “but it looks like some group has claimed responsibility for the assassination.”
CHAPTER 22
PATTON’S CELL PHONE WAS OUT IN A FLASH. After politely asking Locke and his son to leave the room so he and Taylor could confirm the report in private, he dialed John Sawyer, the Domestic Terrorism desk supervisor, at the field office and was quickly filled in on the details.
The Green Freedom Brigade, a radical environmental cell Patton knew little about, had issued a statement claiming responsibility for the assassination. Cyber sleuths with the U.S. Computer Emergency Response Team had already determined that the statement had originated as a computer virus released “in the wild.” The virus had spread to hundreds of thousands of personal computers across the country as one worker after another opened up the file from his email inbox. The virus had even been given its own name: Ares, the Greek god of war. Though the statement’s authenticity had yet to be verified, it seemed to be the genuine article.
Patton recalled the Green Freedom Brigade from the Silver Springs Ski Area arson case a year earlier, but the Bureau’s dossier on the group was thin at best. Based in Northern California, the group was made up of militant ex-members of EarthFirst!, the Earth and Animal Liberation Fronts, and the Ruckus Society, although the FBI had never actually been able to track down any of its members. The Brigade had claimed responsibility for several arsons across the West—in Colorado, Arizona, Utah, and California—but it had never resorted to killing before, to the best of Patton’s knowledge. He recalled that two office cleaners had died during the bombing of an animal testing lab in Salt Lake City; however, the deaths were believed to be accidental.
The group hadn’t made any demands; it had simply claimed responsibility for the assassination and rambled on about how evil assassinated President-elect Kieger had been because of his loathsome environmental record. The governor was to blame for California’s clogged freeways, toxic air pollution, offshore drilling, endless housing tracts, deforestation, and other “ecocatastrophes.” But what caught Patton’s attention was the mention of the man who would continue to hold the White House for the next three months until the new president, Republican Katherine Fowler, was officially sworn in. The statement ended by giving thanks to “our comrade, current Democratic President Gregory Osborne, for exposing Kieger as an anti-environmentalist, for showing us the way to achieve real change, and for providing inspired leadership in environmental policy.”
Patton pictured tomorrow’s newspaper headline: PRESIDENT LINKED TO ECOTERRORISTS, ASSASSIN.
They finished up the call by going over the new assignments. The FBI Regional Computer Forensic Laboratory, Google, and two computer science professors from prestigious Colorado School of Mines were to get cracking ASAP. Their job would be to break down the source code line by line, looking for the key “fingerprints” of Ares’s author, to pinpoint the source of the virus. Additionally, a special FBI team would be assembled to work exclusively on the virus angle and track down members of the Brigade; this would be handled largely by the San Francisco field office, which was more up to speed on the Brigade.
When Patton punched off, he and Taylor spent a few minutes discussing the ramifications of the shocking new development before summoning Locke and his son back into the room.
“We’re finished here,” Patton said to the Christian leader. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
They shook hands. “Glad to be of service. Can you tell me though, what do you make of this new development? Is this radical Green Freedom Brigade behind the assassination?”
“We can’t comment at this time,” Taylor said. “All we can say is we are taking it very seriously.”
“I see. Will you require any further assistance from me?”
“We might,” Patton said. “We’ll call you.”
“Well, I guess that’s it, then. I’ll show you out.”
Stepping from the room, they walked down a plush hallway toward the elevators. Halfway there, an older man in a blue blazer and another man who looked as thoug
h he had just stumbled in off the street came walking up to them. Patton saw Locke’s face light up at the sight of the heavily-bearded, dirty-looking younger man.
“Mr. Brown, good to see you again today. May I ask how things are going?” asked Locke with a genuine note of affection in his voice.
“Great, Mr. Locke, things are going great. Mr. Johnson here has been a big help.”
Johnson nodded. “Mr. Brown is catching on quickly.”
Locke touched the man kindly on the shoulder. “Just take it one day at a time, Mr. Brown. We’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Locke, sir. You have been a godsend. And please call me Pedro. All my friends do.”
The man reached out and hugged him, tears of gratitude in his eyes. Patton was surprised to see Locke’s eyes water up too as he patted the man on the shoulder. After a moment they gently broke apart and Locke started down the hallway with Patton and Taylor in tow.
“Mind if I ask you something, Mr. Locke?” asked Patton. “Who was that man?”
“That was Peter Brown. Only yesterday afternoon he was a homeless thief—and today he is a gainfully employed member of our society, reaching out to others in need. I pray that he sticks with it and carves something out for himself. Unfortunately, not all of them do. But I have a good feeling about my new friend Pedro here.”
Patton saw the tender look in Locke’s eye and realized that there was far more to the man than what was reported in the media. True, the new millennium’s second most important Christian power player—second only to the Pope—seemed at first glance to be more of an A-list celebrity than a humble servant of the Lord. But there was no doubt that he was a deeply caring person who held strong convictions about helping those suffering in the world.
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