And then, all of a sudden, the full implication of this hit home, and I knew I couldn’t just sit there any longer. So, with my watch reading 2:13, and the adrenaline rising in my neck, I bolted out the door.
Chapter 11
Wednesday, February 27, 2013.
The FBI is an enormous machine. Huge. We’re talking fifty-six field offices, and more than sixty international offices; almost fourteen thousand agents, and an annual budget of over $8 billion. A mind-boggling operation. And it goes without saying that with great size comes great strength. But with size also comes chinks in the armor. Because in an operation that large, information gets lost.
And the Bureau knew all about this problem. In August 2001, an FBI agent in Minneapolis was tipped off about Zacarias Moussaoui, an Algerian national who’d been learning to fly 747s, with little interest in taking off or landing. The agent entreated Headquarters to secure a warrant. But the Radical Fundamentalist Unit was overloaded, and didn’t have time to process the request. It was only after 9/11 the Bureau realized Moussaoui had been a key conspirator.
At the FBI, information got lost along the chain of command. My plan was to head to the Field Office and exploit this vulnerability – to find out what I could about The Order. Because wars are won and lost on intelligence.
Meanwhile, as I paced south down 4th Street, I decided there were two people at the Bureau I could trust with the whole truth. One of them I’d last seen in a burger joint. I dialled him on my mobile.
‘Mort,’ I said. ‘Are you somewhere you can talk? This can’t go beyond you.’
‘One moment.’ The sound of a door opening and closing. ‘Shoot.’
I gave him a rundown of the notes from Samuel and Drexler, plus my analysis.
‘Of course I understand why you want to keep this from Parkes and go it alone,’ Giles said, after a moment’s reflection. ‘If you tell her, she’ll declare war on this cult in a heartbeat, and Samuel’s head will roll. And yes, before you ask, you can trust me to keep my lips sealed. But if innocents die in consequence – and it sounds like many could be in the line of fire – the fallout will be huge. Parkes’ll eat you alive.’
‘Well, frankly, I have no choice but to leave innocents in the line of fire – because there’s no way in hell I’m just going to let my son die,’ I replied. Then I added: ‘But besides, there’ll be no casualties. Samuel will be there tonight, and I will have him back by midnight.’
This was pure bravado, as much to reassure myself as Giles. He made a noise like he wasn’t convinced.
‘So you’re heading to Durham now?’ he asked.
‘Very shortly.’
‘And what if Parkes wants you about, or asks where you’re going?’
I grunted. ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t.’
‘Keep me in the loop, Saul.’
‘Will do.’
*
To most Field Offices, Headquarters was far enough away that its sovereignty was merely an abstraction. Consequently, these Offices operated as laws unto themselves. But the DC Field Office was unique in that it shared a town with Headquarters. So, unlike the other Field Offices, it felt the authority of Headquarters. And no more so than during major operations, when Hoover would send over staff to manage affairs and intervene in decision making.
It was with this in mind that I entered the Field Office, and mounted the stairs towards the Counterterrorism Division, hoping to find somebody from Schneider’s team whose brain I could pick.
I came into the Joint Terrorist Task Force main suite to find the large, lecture-hall-shaped venue abuzz with activity – there were maybe fifty staffers hard at work on the Aimes case, clustered in teams about the room. I looked around, and found what I was looking for.
Sitting in the corner was a pasty little man, hunched over a laptop. This was Todd Lamphere, an analyst from Headquarters who’d worked under Schneider for years. He was indicative of what was known at the Bureau as a “Brain” – a socially awkward, effacing, uneasy character, kept around for the stuff between his ears. Lamphere in particular was nothing less than a walking encyclopedia. And not only that, he liked me. The perfect prey.
I walked over, and sat down beside him.
‘Hello, Todd.’
He turned towards me. ‘Saul Marshall. Long time no see.’
‘So Schneider’s sent you over to lead the troops?’
He smiled effacingly. ‘Something like that.’
I was in a rush, but this had to be done delicately.
‘Todd, I reckon I could use your help. Parkes has hauled my ass back to Headquarters for this investigation. I’m sure you’ve been told we’re now looking for cultic activity with roots in the past four years. But obviously we have little to implicate any one group at this moment. And I think I’m right in saying that despite narrowing down the time frame, there are still many candidates to investigate?’
I paused. I wanted to ensure Todd was following my line of thinking.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Domestically speaking, about 180,000 people join some kind of cultic group each year. That’s 720,000 over four years.’
‘Right. So instead of being overwhelmed by it all, Parkes wants someone to nose about a few of these groups, without worrying about warrants, in the hope of getting lucky and sniffing out some leads…’
He nodded.
‘Obviously this is top secret work,’ I said. ‘By all means discuss it with Parkes if she brings it up – I’ll tell her you know. But nobody else needs to know.’
Another nod.
‘So I thought I might start with The Order of Babylon,’ I said.
I’d been worried about eliciting an extreme reaction: that perhaps he’d say he’d never heard of them, or that he’d think it was a ludicrous place to start. But he looked unfazed, chewing contemplatively at his inner-cheek.
‘What do you think?’ I said offhandedly.
‘Well, The Order has already crossed my mind. But while it is world-rejecting, I don’t think it’s likely to be a threat. As far as I know, it’s a post-apocalyptic cult. We’re looking for the pre-apocalyptic variety.’
I remembered what Schneider had said: groups that locate themselves before the apocalypse are the ones prone to violence.
‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘So you don’t think they’re behind it?’
He shook his head.
‘But that’s not to say someone among them might not have a lead…?’ I probed.
‘Cultic groups are unstable,’ he said. ‘They’re constantly sprouting off-shoots and inspiring copy-cats. Someone at The Order might know something. It’s a long-shot – but not impossible. There are plenty of people who might know something.’
‘Okay,’ I said, with a new resolve. As though he’d just inspired me to continue down that line of inquiry. ‘Mind giving me a brief run-down on The Order?’
He smiled awkwardly. A guy like Lamphere enjoyed sharing knowledge. He began:
‘They first came to the Bureau’s attention in early 2010, when the NYPD alerted The NYC Field Office of what appeared to be a small religion operating out of a property in Greenwich Village. The Field Office followed up with the usual checks, and found about forty youngsters, mainly white students, living as a collective. The cult’s literature identified them as The Order of Babylon, and was full of the standard stuff you’d expect of a world-rejecting, post-apocalyptic cult. It claimed, for example, that the recession had been the apocalypse (or The Deluge of Euphrates, to use their language). And that the nation’s fate was now to be governed along more moral lines by their leader, The Zahir.’
‘Why Babylon?’
‘It’s based on an age-old myth of an organization in ancient Babylon which supposedly controlled the fate of the entire state – regulating everyone’s lives, but operating completely out of sight. This organization was variously known as The Company, The Lottery, or The Order, depending on which version of the myth you go by. The Order of Babylon is billing itself as a mode
rn manifestation of this organization. And before you ask, Zahir is Arabic for “notorious” or “visible,” and has its own mythology as an object so unforgettable that it becomes all-encompassing to the viewer, inducing manic obsession.’
‘How does this Zahir character claim to shape the fate of the nation?’ I asked.
Lamphere smiled. ‘Through a daily ceremony called The Call to Taprobana. The followers sit together and chant a mantra, while one throws sand out of the window. It’s supposed to work in a manner akin to the butterfly effect.’
He said this with a chuckle. Found it funny.
He continued: ‘Their literature urged folk to join their collective; to come and live apart from the broken society of the past. And, sure enough, its membership steadily grew. So much so that by April 2010 it had to relocate to a larger property in midtown Manhattan, West 50th Street. And in July 2010, it opened up a branch in DC – just north of Dupont Circle. According to our latest figures, the New York branch now has about one-hundred residents, and Washington about eighty. They also secretively purchased a large complex in upstate New York in late 2010, which now has about one-hundred and fifty members on site. None of this is exceptional. The Unification Church and Krishna Consciousness both outnumber them by far.
‘Perhaps the most curious thing about The Order is the identity of its leader. It’s common practice for cultic groups to shroud their leader in mystery: what one doesn’t understand always seems more impressive. But The Order goes a step further. Nobody is allowed to see The Zahir, aside from two groups: first, his original fifteen followers, known as the Inner Sanctum; and second, a select few who’ve since been granted the dubious honor of seeing him. When The Zahir is with anyone else he wears a purple hood. But the situation is more complex still. Because anyone who’s been allowed to see The Zahir also has the option of wearing a purple hood. The upshot? Twenty or so people in purple hoods, and any one of them could be The Zahir.’
‘So not knowing the identity of their leader hasn’t dampened the devotion of these followers?’
Lamphere shook his head. ‘People are intrigued by things hidden from view. If there is a Zahir, he’s using God’s very own tactics.’
‘If there’s a Zahir?’ I asked.
‘I have a theory that there is no Zahir; that the leadership has created this figure of The Zahir as a symbol of their collective identity. Of course, I’ve no proof. But it’s feasible. Wouldn’t be the first cult run by a group.’
I nodded.
He continued: ‘Aside from that, much of what they do is familiar territory. It makes money by pooling its members’ resources, and by getting newer members to do something akin to slave labor – such as twenty hour shifts selling flowers on the street. And it employs a number of tactics to bind individuals to the group: giving each follower a new name; enforcing a dress code of all grey; dictating sexual relationships; running group confessionals which foster camaraderie through vulnerability; and, of course, teaching them a new, constricted vocabulary – some of which you’ve just heard – which functions not only as a private language, but also to stifle independent thought.
‘In short, like many cults, it functions like a little totalitarian state. Arguably it abuses its followers. But it does nothing that isn’t safeguarded by the first amendment. And as a post-apocalyptic group, it’s unlikely to exhibit external violence any time soon.’
Lamphere was winding down. I had what I needed. Time to bail.
‘Right,’ I said, leaning back. ‘So I’m looking for folk in purple hoods?’
‘Right,’ he said.
I lumbered to my feet.
‘Time to take a shot in the dark,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help. Let’s hope we find these bastards quick.’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘Remember, mum’s the word,’ I said.
He nodded solemnly. I turned, and walked briskly away.
*
I started my car – a black, unmarked Ford Crown Victoria, owned by the Bureau, but mine to do with as I wished – and hustled her out the Field Office parking lot and onto the road.
Drexler had played a shrewd hand. By having The Order appear post-apocalyptic, he’d been able to openly grow and strengthen his cult without arousing the Bureau’s suspicions – a simple ruse, but an effective one. And the purple hood tactic was nothing short of ingenious: not only did it create a mystery that enticed followers, but it also guaranteed that as and when war was declared on The Order, their leader would be difficult to find. And when combined with Drexler’s faked death, it meant nobody was ever likely to realize that The Zahir was the same guy who’d spent two years in an asylum, and thirteen in prison.
Of course, I’d taken a risk by quizzing Lamphere about all this: he needed only to mention my fictional mission to Parkes, and it’d be clear that something was amiss. But given what I knew about Lamphere, it seemed unlikely he’d initiate such a conversation any time soon – and so, for now, I was safe. In the meantime, I wasn’t going to lose sleep over exploiting the Bureau’s weaknesses. If it were up to them, Samuel would already be dead.
It was 3:15 p.m. by the time I joined the southbound lane of I-395. My destination was Durham, North Carolina. But first I needed to make a pit-stop at Quantico, Virginia. Because it was there I would find the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, and the second person I could trust with the whole truth.
Chapter 12
Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 2:30 p.m. CST – 7505 South Laflin Street, Englewood, Chicago.
The final task Dalet had left to carry out before leading The Call to Taprobana was to feed The False Prophets…
The morning and early afternoon had been busy for Dalet, Shin, Lamed, and Beth. After briefly settling into their bedrooms, they’d returned to preparing the rooms containing the False Prophets. Maneuvering around the tied and blindfolded agents, they furnished each room with an army cot and a bucket for a toilet; then they fastened steel sheets over the windows and fitted peepholes into the doors. A fourth room was prepared in identical fashion in preparation for the False Prophet yet to be captured.
With the doors locked, the rooms were utterly secure.
After this, it was Shin who’d had her work cut out. As the only one with medical experience, The Zahir had given her the responsibility of tending to Ali’s knee. Yet after operating for just ninety minutes with primitive materials (Ketamine, alcohol, tweezers, pliers), she’d managed to remove all the bits of shattered tibia and bullet from the wound and get it disinfected, covered in gauze, and splinted and bandaged. It was a makeshift job. But when paired with a round of antibiotics, it was likely to keep infection at bay.
These basic medical provisions were among a stockpile of items the invading team had brought along in their innocuous white van which was now parked outside the back entrance to the warehouse. Also among these provisions (as well as the army cots, steel sheets and peephole glass) was a supply of milk, bread, cheese, and tinned foods; spare Berettas and ammunition; civilian clothes; and power tools. When added to the items already brought on site by the agents, these supplies ensured that the vessel was more than well equipped to weather The Deluge.
But on top of all this, the cultists had also brought five explosive vests. And once Shin had finished operating on Ali, she’d gone into each of the agents’ rooms in turn, accompanied by Lamed and Beth, and put each of them in a vest, after which, she’d untied them, put them in hand-cuffs and foot-cuffs, and removed their blindfolds. In this state, the agents were allowed to move around their cells as they wished.
But Dalet had not appeared before the agents since their blindfolds were removed. And now, with the clock in the main control room showing 2:30 p.m., the final task left for him before leading The Call to Taprobana was to feed the captives.
*
Shin had laid down the ground rules while fitting their vests: their doors would be knocked on twice when food was to be delivered, and they were to sit on their beds as the provisions
were dropped off. Failure to comply would equal forfeiture.
When Dalet entered Ali’s room – with Shin covering him with her Beretta – and deposited bread, cheese, water, and a dose of antibiotics at the end of the cot, Ali was too dazed from the anesthetic to acknowledge the pair, let alone engage them. Fred Vitelli, however, was not so passive: though he stayed on his cot, he let loose a stream of vitriol, calling Dalet a ‘fucking traitor,’ a ‘treasonous cretin.’ Francis, too, didn’t hold his peace. But he was calmer, greeting Dalet with ‘Hello, Dennis’, before telling him that his grandfather and father would be disappointed. That it wasn’t too late to do the right thing.
It sickened Dalet to hear their hypocrisy. It was these agents with their degraded mentalities who’d made The Deluge of Euphrates necessary – who’d created and maintained this sinful society. They were the traitors. They were the ones who’d sold their country out. And it was Dalet who’d long since been disappointed in his father and grandfather.
It was because of these two men that Dalet had felt from an early age that his life had been determined for him – he was to be an FBI agent. He’d kept to script for years, studying hard at school and winning a place at The University of Pennsylvania. Indeed, he did everything he could to put himself on track to becoming the third generation of Ericsons with the FBI. But all the while, he felt empty and unfulfilled. As though his learnt-by-rote opinions were insufficient to explain the chaos, meaninglessness, and suffering of the wider world.
It was while he was in this muddled state that an old friend of his, studying at Georgetown University, had told him about The Order of Babylon, and the preachings of The Zahir – who spoke of the servants of big business and government dictating the lives of Americans for their own selfish ends. Dalet had seen truth in this. And in September 2010 – having just started his fourth and final year of study – he felt curious enough to attend an Order lecture in Washington.
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