‘Unsurprisingly, Dallas Police didn’t find Saul’s prank quite so funny, and were only too happy to help with my counter-offensive. First, we convinced the Houston Chronicle and the Dallas Morning News to report on the arrest of FBI impersonator, Morton Giles – we wanted Saul to think his ruse had worked. Then we traced Saul’s “anonymous” tip to a motel just outside Houston. And though he was no longer there by the time we arrived, he’d read the articles and gotten complacent – just as I’d hoped – and as a result, he hadn’t gotten far. We found him a few hours later, in a second motel just down the road.’
I smiled to hear this story, but I hadn’t been smiling at the time. When Mort knocked on my motel room door on June 29, 1996, I’d cried in his arms like a baby. And it wasn’t until after I’d grown up a hell of a lot that he negotiated me out of prison and gave me a second lease of life.
I was jogged from these thoughts by my phone ringing. The screen said: Olivia Ellis. The woman I was once due to marry. The mother of my son.
‘Hello, Olivia,’ I answered.
A hysterical sentence.
‘I’m in DC,’ I said. ‘I’m heading over now.’
I hung up, trapped a twenty under my plate, then stood.
‘At all costs, keep this to yourselves. Olivia’s just received a message from Samuel.’
A second later, I was out the door.
Chapter 9
Wednesday, February 27, 2013.
I hailed a cab. ‘Chichester Lane, off New Hampshire Avenue. I’ll pay double if you get me there in under twenty.’
‘You’re on,’ said the cabbie.
The car started north.
Olivia lived in a Maryland suburb, just beyond the northernmost limit of Washington, with her husband, Lester Ellis, an attorney who worked not far from Hoover. Olivia had moved to DC in the mid-1990s, looking for a way to provide for Samuel after I’d abandoned them. Within three months she’d met Lester, who’d fallen madly in love with Olivia, and married her within the year, raising Samuel as his own.
Samuel had taken Lester’s surname. But he was still my son.
The cab arrived outside 29 Chichester Lane twenty-one minutes later, at 12:45. I paid the cabbie double – plus extra to get him to wait for my return – then strode up the well-tended lawn and knocked on the front door.
The Olivia that answered the door was calmer. And though her eyes were red from crying, she still looked beautiful: her face was clustered about by delicate brown curls; and her high-cheekbones afforded her an inimitable elegance. But by the way she wordlessly turned and marched through the house, I could tell she was still distressed. I followed her to the kitchen. Immediately my eye was drawn to a red notebook on the table. A well-worn Moleskine which I recognized as Samuel’s.
Olivia stood, arms crossed, staring at the offending item.
‘It was on the doormat when I returned from grocery shopping. I left about eleven, and got back maybe five minutes before calling you.’
‘Did it come in an envelope?’
‘No, just by itself,’ she said. ‘At first I thought it was a prank. But it’s definitely his. There’s stuff in it I remember him reading to me. His name and address are within the front cover, in his handwriting.’
I pulled back the cover. In neat handwriting was the name Samuel Ellis and his address. The blue ink had turned almost brown, indicating it was written some time ago.
‘The message is on the last page,’ Olivia added.
I flicked through the notebook. The first two thirds were used up, crammed with exam notes, book ideas, jokes, whereas the final third appeared to be unmarked. Once I was satisfied there was nothing hidden away within this final third, I turned to the last page. There I found six lines of text in blue ink. I could tell by the color of the ink, and the impression the pen had made, it’d been written recently with a fountain tip. There was no doubt in my mind it was Samuel’s handwriting. The text read:
02/25/13
I am alive, but in a desperate situation. I am a hostage. I know little of who my captors are, and do not know where I am as I write this. But I do know that Mortimer’s death in Durham, NC, this Wednesday will not be an accident, and definitely not suicide. If this message makes it to you, I pray it will be enough. It is all I know. If I never see you again, I love you, Dad, whether you have a car or not.
Samuel Marshall
I read it once, fast, then a second time, more slowly. I may have looked calm, but it hit me hard. My son was probably alive – a hostage, but alive – and with that came hope. And what’s more, he’d called himself Samuel Marshall – something he’d never done before.
And there was more here than just the handwriting to indicate it was actually Samuel – namely, the comment about me not having a car. On August 7, 2005, Samuel’s eleventh birthday, Olivia and Lester decided I could meet Samuel for the first time since I’d abandoned Olivia, so long as I didn’t tell him who I truly was. Olivia had introduced me to Samuel as an old friend with whom she’d lost contact. Samuel had asked why we’d drifted apart. ‘I suppose because Saul was too pedestrian,’ she’d said, thinking on her feet, to which Samuel had replied: ‘I can’t believe mom stopped being friends with you because you didn’t have a car!’ These words were still fresh in my mind eight years on.
I looked up. Olivia was staring at me intently.
‘It’s got to be him, right?’ she asked imploringly.
I nodded. ‘So you’ve no idea who delivered this?’
‘As much idea as you have,’ she replied.
‘Have you asked the neighbors?’
‘I called up the three houses opposite, and two on either side. Nobody saw a thing.’
I nodded.
‘I haven’t shown this to anyone else, not even Lester,’ she added. ‘It was clearly meant for you.’
I looked at the page again.
Somebody had my son, and that somebody was going to die. Drexler was prime suspect. And before I knew it, I was imagining tearing him limb from limb. But I quickly dismissed this from my mind: I wasn’t going to get Samuel back that way. I had to assess the situation. Most central was the issue of how the notebook had gotten to Olivia’s. Had some completely unrelated good Samaritan just found it and delivered it to the address within? Not impossible, but very unlikely. More likely Samuel had managed to get it to a friend of some kind – a friend who, for whatever reason, couldn’t make himself known.
Alternatively, it might’ve been an enemy who’d delivered this message. And if this was the case, it raised doubts as to whether I could trust it. The reference to our first meeting told me it was unlikely Samuel had been coerced into writing this with a gun to his head – a man in such a position would hardly think to write something so intimate. But it was entirely possible that Samuel’s captors had intentionally fed him erroneous information, then ensured this message got to me. Then again, even had an enemy not been behind the delivery, it still didn’t mean I could trust it. Perhaps Samuel had misheard the information; perhaps it had once been correct information, but the plans had changed. So much was in doubt.
‘Saul,’ said Olivia. ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’
‘Which bit?’ I replied.
‘Mortimer’s death will be neither an accident nor suicide? Durham?’
‘Nothing springs to mind,’ I said. This was partially true. I didn’t know who Mortimer was, nor the significance of Durham. But it did remind me of something: of the six deaths I’d just been briefed about. They too had been neither suicides nor accidents.
‘I think I might have some idea,’ said Olivia.
I looked at her inquisitively.
‘I googled Mortimer, Durham and suicide,’ she continued. ‘It came up with a theater review on the website for Duke University’s student newspaper – for a play that’s been on all week. Tonight’s its final showing.’
She fetched her laptop, opened it on the table, and I read the webpage.
The play un
der review was entitled Suicide in Stages, by a guy named Antony Lerman, and produced by students at the university. From what I could glean, it was about a man called Mortimer who kills himself in the first scene – the rest of the play comprising a series of flashbacks revealing what had taken him to such extremes. The final performance was due to start at 9 p.m. that evening, at a venue called The Carolina Theater. To the right of the monitor was a photo of the cast and stage designers, with their names below. In it, the brown-haired boy playing Mortimer was smiling broadly. Around his shoulder was the arm of a red-headed gawky-looking friend.
This information was useful only up to a point. Because if the message wasn’t a trap or diversion, and something was really set to happen at the theater, there were still a thousand possibilities as to what it might be: a bomb; a fire; a lone gunman; a mass hostage situation – to name a few. And the allusion to Mortimer didn’t narrow it down much. A bomb would kill the actor playing Mortimer, plus a whole lot more. So too would a shooter with a sub-machine gun. And neither of these situations could be considered suicide. However, I had a feeling that if Drexler had decided to make this theater the scene of his next terrorist event, the results would be spectacular. Sensational terror and the theater have always gone hand-in-hand – from Lincoln’s assassination to the shooting in Aurora, Colorado just last year.
And if something was due to happen, how would it involve Samuel? A victim? An unwilling accomplice? Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe he’d be nowhere near North Carolina.
If the message had gotten to me without Samuel’s captors knowing, and the information was legitimate, then I had an advantage. But even in this scenario, my advantage was slight. There was still so much I didn’t know.
‘So what’s our next move?’ said Olivia. ‘Do you take the notebook in for analysis? Does the Bureau send a team to the theater? What?’
Olivia was urgent – caught midway between hope and desperation.
But there was a problem. I couldn’t show Parkes the notebook. Because now Samuel was a hostage, the case was personal. As a result, there wasn’t a chance in hell Parkes would let me be part of the investigation, let alone lead it. It’s protocol: never send a parent in after their own child, because with so much at stake, you can’t guarantee they’ll follow orders.
The thought of being unable to control the situation made me sick to my stomach.
I wasn’t sure Olivia would understand.
‘What’s our next move?’ she repeated.
‘Okay, here’s what,’ I said calmly, placing my hands on her upper arms. ‘I’m going to take the notebook, and head to the theater myself. I don’t trust anyone else to do the job.’
Olivia looked at me hard. She understood I was asking her to trust me. But though I had won back some semblance of her trust over the years, my betrayal was never far from her mind – and so I was unsurprised to see the doubts forming behind her eyes.
I needed her to see that things were different now – that this time, I wouldn’t let her or Samuel down.
‘Listen, Olivia,’ I said. ‘When Samuel was born, I wasn’t there for him. Then, all those years later, when I re-entered his life, it was too late: so far as he was concerned, I’d missed my chance. As a result, he saw me at best as a vague friend – at worst, as an object of resentment. And I didn’t have the first idea of how to fix it; of how to be his father.
‘And then there was the day he went missing. I know we’ve been over this a thousand times and that I wasn’t to blame. But the fact of the matter remains: I wasn’t there for him. I was supposed to pick him up that day, but I forgot, and then he vanished.
‘But now, by some miracle, he’s resurfaced, and his message is asking me to be there for him. So you have to let me be the one to go after him. Not as a favour to me – to make me feel better about myself. But because I will go to any lengths to repay my debt to him and get him back; will do things that Parkes would never dream of.’
Olivia was silent a moment. Then, making her decision, she gave a tight nod.
‘In the meantime, you mustn’t tell a soul about this,’ I said. ‘Not even Lester. Understand?’
Lester was a good guy, and I knew he loved Samuel. But I also knew that if he found out, the first thing he’d do would be to alert the authorities. And clearly Olivia understood this too, since again she gave me a nod, before crying quietly into my shoulder. I placed a gentle hand on her head. This was the woman I loved. The woman I’d always love.
‘I’ll get him back,’ I said. ‘Mark my words.’
After a moment, I released Olivia. Time was of the essence, and she appreciated that as well as I did. And so she handed me the notebook, walked me to the front door, and watched as I headed for the cab.
‘Keep me updated,’ she called after me. ‘Please.’
‘I will,’ I promised over my shoulder.
I told the cabbie I wanted the corner of 4th Street NW and I Street NW. In no time, we were blitzing down New Hampshire Avenue.
Chapter 10
Wednesday, February 27, 2013.
Vigilantism: when an individual takes the law into his own hands. By not telling Parkes about the note and going it alone, I was playing the vigilante and I was breaking the rules in a big way. I knew I had an obligation to tell Parkes. Hundreds of lives could be at risk – a theater full. And Parkes could send a fully equipped team, capable of dealing with any eventuality. But it wasn’t so simple. Because telling meant standing down, and that I couldn’t stomach.
I arrived at my apartment – located just round the corner from the DC Field Office – at quarter to two. My plan, as it stood, was to get my shit together, collect my car from the Field Office, then drive like hell – so immediately I made a start on phase one. First, I spent five minutes showering, shaving, and throwing on a fresh suit. Next, I pocketed from the safe by my bed a clip of cash – $4,000 – and two untraceable credit cards issued to nonexistent men. And then I moved onto the serious stuff: I removed a wooden box from the chest of drawers and pulled back the lid.
Within was a Ruger Mark III: a wonderfully subtle little pistol, with ten rounds to the magazine, taking .22 Long Rifle bullets – soft-nosed shells which slip easily into the target, but come out the other side in style, tearing an opening the size of your fist. And crucially, unlike the Bureau’s standard issue Glock, the Ruger’s bullets don’t break the sound-barrier and move noiselessly through the air – meaning the weapon, when used with a suppressor, functions in perfect silence.
I took a key from the box, unlocked the gun’s internal safety lock, and loaded it with ten shells, after which, I affixed a suppressor to the muzzle, before slotting the weapon into my pocket, along with ten spare shells. Then, throwing on my trench coat and grabbing a fresh pack of Dunhills, I made for the front door.
But then, just as I was about to step out, I looked down for a second. It was only a glance, but it was enough for it to catch my eye.
On my doormat was a small pile of mail which had accumulated while I was away. But the top item – a white envelope with my name and address spelt out in black ink, and a New York postmark – was written in what appeared to be my handwriting. And this was no mean feat, since I’d invented my handwriting anew a few years ago to make it near impossible to imitate.
I snatched up the envelope, and extracted the single page within. It was filled with this imitation handwriting, in the same ink as on the envelope:
Saul Marshall. Born 01.24.1975. The day the FALN bombed the Fraunces Tavern, Manhattan. Four dead, fifty injured.
Ivan Drexler. Born 06.21.1964. The day the KKK lynched three men, inspiring the Mississippi Burning Investigation.
The specter of the past casts a long shadow. It defines us. Those born on 02.26.2013 will hear how their birthday was the day Ivan Drexler – the leader of The Order of Babylon – began his ingenious week-long assault on America. They will hear how Drexler’s followers knew him as The Zahir, and how they believed they were serving God.
But Drexler did not believe. He had created The Order as a means of control, in his effort to become the greatest manipulator of men.
They will hear how Drexler magnanimously included Marshall in this competition by taking his son, and giving him a week to live – until midnight of March 4. That is, unless Marshall told the authorities about The Order. In which case, Marshall’s son would die immediately, as punishment for Marshall’s cowardice.
They will hear how Marshall was bested, and how hundreds died. And they will understand that these deaths were a testament to Drexler’s genius, since these victims were never simply killed. Rather, their demise was self-inflicted. The result of Drexler’s awe-inspiring designs.
Because, unlike Hugh Marshall, some need just a little persuasion.
Hugh Marshall was my father. He’d shot himself three months before I was born, after a severe bout of depression. For a moment the red mist came down, and I furiously paced the apartment. But I understood this was what Drexler had wanted. So I sat down at the kitchen table and cleared my head, before reading the message again, more slowly.
There was no doubt Drexler was a psychopath. The way he talked about himself in the third person, and canonized himself in the history of terror, couldn’t have been more archetypal. And his overarching motives tallied with those of a psychopath. He wasn’t motivated, like most, by love, or money, or duty to nation or ideology: he was motivated simply by a cold, calculated desire to win – to be the greatest manipulator – and unfortunately he was quantifying his success by how many people he killed, and how spectacular he could make their deaths. Any yet there was clearly also a second, more focused motive driving him – a desire to see me suffer.
But this insight into Drexler’s mentality aside, the important thing here was that Drexler and his cult – The Order of Babylon – had my son, were giving him just a week to live, and had issued a threat that’d given me a far greater reason to keep Parkes in the dark.
False Prophet Page 6