False Prophet: The gripping breakthrough thriller (A Saul Marshall Thriller 1)

by Richard Davis

  They both nodded.

  ‘And the second thing I need from you is to stop the car right now.’

  Matthews slammed the brakes. The car screeched to a halt directly outside the church.

  ‘Why here?’ she asked.

  ‘Because the second thing I need is a gun. The terrorists took mine, and I’m gonna need one. But I understand that while I’m claiming to be FBI, the only things you know for sure about me is that you found me among terrorists, and that I had prior knowledge of the attack. Given all this, I can hardly expect you to arm me. But I’ve got my FBI ID stashed in a bag outside this church. So how’s this: I show you my ID, then you give me a piece?’

  Matthews looked to Galbraith, saw his bottom lip quivering with uncertainty, then made the decision herself.

  ‘Deal,’ she said.

  I got out the car, and – feeling greatly recovered – sprinted to the bag, back to the car, and handed Matthews the ID through her window. She studied it for a good few seconds, then finally gave a nod and handed it back. She then produced her weapon and handed it over. It was a Swiss made Sig Sauer P229 pistol; and when I checked the magazine, I found thirteen rounds of .357 bullets. I slipped it into my pocket with a nod of thanks. Then Matthews said:

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘You get down to business,’ I said. ‘I can manage from here. Good luck.’

  She gave me another nod and then, a second later, the squad-car was powering south into town. I took a moment to transfer a few choice items from my bag to my pockets: my cash and credit cards; my phone, which said I had missed calls from both Parkes and Olivia; and, finally, the GPS receiver, which still seemed to be picking up the bug Vann had attached to Lofkin’s Ford (it was, apparently, heading north up the I-95). Then, with no time for further consideration, I bolted southwards. The sun was rising as I hit the main drag, and the deserted road – in spite of the wails of out-of-sight sirens, and the column of smoke to the west – seemed incongruously tranquil in the morning rays. But this tranquility was quickly shattered as I came through the door of my destination – the town petrol station – and was greeted by the sound of a pump-action shotgun chambering a round.

  ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’

  There was an old guy behind the counter – not the young man I’d spoken to earlier – and he was pointing an Ithaca Mag-10 at me. This was not a clever weapon. If he worked the trigger, a quantity of lead would undoubtedly perforate a wall and find a gas-pump, sending the whole place up in flames.

  ‘FBI,’ I said quickly. ‘I can show you my ID.’

  He nodded and I reached slowly for my pocket, produced my ID, and displayed it clearly. He nodded again and lowered his weapon.

  ‘I ain’t gonna shoot you, but I sure as hell ain’t pleased to see you. What do you want with me? Seems like you boys have your work cut out as it is.’

  ‘I don’t want you. I want the kid who was working here last night. Who is he? What’s his address?’

  ‘Clint Macfarlane. Lives on West 10. Number 11. Should’ve known that good-for-nothing kid was trouble.’

  The next second, I was back outside. Before I could draw breath, five ambulances screamed past in the direction of the park. Clearly, the emergency response was gathering momentum, and my instinctive reaction was to ensure I was spotted by as few first-responders as possible. So I crossed the road, turned down one of the streets to the west of the main drag, and worked my way south through this residential grid. I wanted to find my gas station guy because he’d complained about there being nowhere to park his car. And a car was exactly what I needed right now, since I felt sure the cultists, during my stint of unconsciousness, would’ve found and removed mine. After all, although it was unmarked, it was still easy enough to spot for those in the know, by virtue of it being a Ford Crown Victoria, a model unavailable for private purchase, and almost exclusively used by police and government agencies. And sure enough, no sooner had I digested this thought than I arrived at the parking space to find the car gone. So I just kept on sprinting towards West 10.

  Before long, I arrived at Clint’s house. There was a run-down red Toyota Yaris in the driveway. I rapped the door, and jabbed the doorbell repeatedly, and when Clint opened the door a moment later, I already had my FBI ID on display.

  ‘Clint, I need you to listen carefully.’

  ‘You’re with the FBI?’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew there was something—’

  I cut him short. ‘Clint, listen. There’s been a terrorist attack in the town park. The organizers put live ammunition in the muskets, and the participants unwittingly gunned each other down. We’re talking front-page news the world over. But the terrorists stole my car and that leaves me high and dry. So I need to borrow yours.’

  For an instant, he just looked at me blank-faced. But then he took himself in hand, and said: ‘Of course.’

  He darted into the house, and quickly returned with the keys.

  ‘Thank you, Clint. I’ll look you up when all this blows over, and see to it you’re fully reimbursed.’ I paused. I wanted to tell him to lie to anyone from the FBI who asked after me – in order to delay them working out my movements. But I knew that getting Clint to mislead the Bureau could land him in serious hot-water. So I decided on a middle line.

  ‘And when the law enforcement agencies arrive here throughout the day, tell them what you know. But don’t go looking for them. Wait for them to come to you. That way you’ll know you’re talking to the right people. Understand?’

  ‘Got it.’

  I gave a final nod of thanks. Then, with no time to lose, I ran to the Yaris, threw my bag on the back seat, and started the engine. A few seconds later, I was belting down West 10th, with Clint fading away in the rear-view mirror. I was surprised, however, when I turned left onto the main drag, to find it still empty and tranquil – this façade of calm maintained by the wall of trees blocking the park from view. But as I headed north, I shot a glance down the road leading to the park, and caught sight of a scene that turned my stomach. A man was sitting on the ground, and in his arms he held a small child drenched in blood. Immediately I understood that the man must’ve carried the child the 600 yards or so from the park to the main road, perhaps in search of aid, perhaps merely to escape the trauma. And though the pair passed from my sight a moment later, I’d seen enough.

  *

  Soon I was on a country road, heading north, with the dashboard clock reading 6:55 a.m., and the I-95 in mind as my immediate destination. I was recovered enough from the Ketamine to think clearly and function with coordination; but it had still left a nasty hangover, which was combining with the ache to the back of my head to induce an unrelenting assault of nausea. And the thick stream of emergency vehicles passing by in the opposite direction with sirens whirring were only exacerbating my condition. But I was glad to simply be out of town – away from the gathering storm.

  I’d chosen to head for the I-95 because the GPS receiver had told me the bug Vann had placed on Lofkin’s car was traveling north along that route; and, even now, the receiver said it was continuing to do so and was just outside DC. And though there was obviously a possibility that somebody else was now driving the Ford, or that the cultists had discovered the bug, it was my only lead…

  Of course, another possibility had also occurred to me: that perhaps Lofkin knew about the bug, but had neither removed it nor taken another vehicle – that perhaps he wanted me to follow him. But even if this was the case, the I-95 remained my only option.

  It wasn’t until I’d gotten onto the Interstate and put a good few miles between myself and Mineral that I decided I was ready to talk. But it wasn’t Olivia or Parkes I called – it was Morton Giles. And when he answered, I could hear the news playing in the background.

  ‘Do I really want to know what you’re about to tell me?’

  Chapter 22

  Thursday, February 28, 2013, 6 a.m. CST – 7505 South Laflin Street, Englewood, Chicago.

&n
bsp; ‘Francis, the reason you’re sitting here,’ said Drexler slowly, ‘is because I’m not convinced we have your full cooperation. But you see, Francis, your full cooperation is vital. So, to secure it, I’ve decided to demonstrate to you how serious we are. And the reason you’re bound and gagged is to show you that once I make a decision, there’s nothing you can say or do to change my mind.’

  Drexler paused. Francis looked at him, expressionless. Drexler then stood, and moved to the monitors.

  ‘The first thing I have to show you is this.’

  Drexler pressed a button below one of the monitors. The screen jumped to life. It was a recording from the news, taken from perhaps ten minutes prior. First, it gave a rundown on events in Mineral – a rundown which included graphic amateur footage of townsfolk gunning each other down. Next, it summarized the event that had happened a few hours previously in Durham, which the experts now realized was not an accident, but a terrorist attack; a precursor to the events in Mineral. Finally, it briefly recapped the six deaths of two days beforehand. Francis watched this stoic-faced. After eight minutes of footage, Drexler shut it off and returned to his seat.

  ‘As you might’ve guessed, Francis, we were behind what you’ve just seen. But of course I was planning to show you this anyway, since it seemed likely to crop up in conversation with Muldoon. Now, however, I’d like to show you something to help you understand what the consequences will be if you don’t achieve the results we want.’

  Again, Drexler paused. This time there was emotion in Francis’s eyes – fear. Drexler licked his lips.

  ‘We’re about to welcome Fred Vitelli. When he enters, he’s going to be gagged, nailed to the wall, then castrated. Then we’ll let the blood loss run its course. And the reason for all this, Francis, is so that you may see precisely what’ll happen to you, Ali Haddad, and your brother, Liam, if you don’t play ball. So I do hope you pay attention.’

  Drexler nodded to Shin. She opened the door to the corridor and called out. By the time Lamed and Beth arrived with Fred Vitelli, tears were streaming down Francis’s cheeks.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, Fred’s body had been removed from the main office, and only three people were now present: Francis, no longer bound or gagged, but still in cuffs, sitting by the telephone; Drexler, sitting opposite; and Dalet, standing at Drexler’s side, training a Beretta at Francis’s head. Francis had been horrified by what he’d seen – disgusted. But he had now taken himself in hand, and was ready to put in the performance of his life. It was, after all, his only option. Because there was no way he could let what’d happened to Fred Vitelli happen to his brother. No way in hell.

  At seven, the phone rang. Francis, as he’d been instructed, let it ring once before activating the speakerphone.

  ‘Hello, Robin.’

  ‘Francis,’ said Muldoon. ‘How are you keeping?’

  ‘Just fine. Yourself?’

  ‘Well, other than having to deal with the worst terrorist attacks on American soil since 9/11, I can’t grumble.’

  Francis made a sympathetic noise. Muldoon continued:

  ‘It’s a madhouse over here, Francis. We’re completely out of our depth. We still don’t even know who’s behind this all. And unsurprisingly, The White House isn’t impressed.’

  ‘If anyone can handle it,’ replied Francis, ‘it’s the man who had 9/11 fall into his lap a week after becoming Director.’

  Muldoon grunted.

  ‘Robin, I know you have some big fish to fry right now, but there’s been a development with our Chicago lot; in fact, precisely the development we were hoping for. And I don’t think it can be seen as an unlucky coincidence that it’s happened now. Rather, I think the drama of the past few days was exactly what put wind in their sails.’

  ‘Tell me the details,’ said Muldoon.

  Francis proceeded to tell Muldoon everything he’d been told to relay.

  ‘Obviously, it could scarcely be a worse time for this,’ Muldoon sighed, after a moment’s contemplation. ‘It must be said, however, that this was exactly the result we wanted. And we’re America, for God’s sake. Given the number of enemies we have, we simply have to be prepared to deal with multiple threats at once. And like you said, a successful string of terrorist attacks is precisely the sort of thing that galvanizes another enemy into action.’

  Francis hummed his agreement. ‘All they want is some cash and the ego trip of dealing with the FBI Director. In return, we’re getting two serious catches served up on a plate. The CIA have been trying to find AQAP’s Norwegian convert for five years now.’

  There was a pause. Even the level-headed Director wasn’t above the one-upmanship which had long existed between the FBI and the CIA. Then Muldoon said:

  ‘Francis, if we’re going to go ahead with this, then I need you to take the reins. I’m talking making sure everyone’s in the right place at the right time, sorting out the cash, and organizing with the guys in Yemen precisely what’s going to happen. All I want to worry about is showing my face. I simply don’t have time for anything more. Okay?’

  ‘I’ve already been thinking along those lines,’ said Francis assuredly. ‘I intend to use Glenview here in Chicago, away from prying eyes in Washington, as our starting point on March 5, and, of course, to book you onto a flight to Chicago earlier that day. And I’m confident that getting the money together and liaising with the boys at the embassy in Yemen shouldn’t present a problem. All would be in hand.’

  Muldoon took a moment to absorb. ‘Okay, let’s do it. I want you to get everything sorted over the next twenty-four hours. I’ll call tomorrow, same time, for the details. Meanwhile, I’ll organize for you to have the powers of The Office of the Director at your disposal for the next seven days so you can get things authorized.’

  ‘You can count on me,’ said Francis.

  ‘I know I can, Francis. You’re one of the rare few I can trust.’

  *

  Without ceremony, Shin and Dalet escorted Francis back to his cell. Alone once more, Drexler felt more than pleased – he felt ecstatic. Never had he imagined everything, every little detail, to go this smoothly. And as he turned on the news, his mood only improved. Because the provisional figures from Mineral were in.

  Six dead, eighteen injured.

  Not bad at all.

  Chapter 23

  Thursday, February 28, 2013, 12:16 p.m. EST – Holland Tunnel.

  It was just gone quarter past twelve when I entered The Holland Tunnel, the subterranean highway connecting New Jersey with Manhattan Island. About an hour earlier, the bug had come to a rest on Manhattan’s West 59th Street, just to the south of Central Park. And this worried me. Because Drexler undoubtedly knew that in November 1991 – after selling my forgery of Stephen Daye’s ‘The Oath of a Freeman’ (the first printed document to be produced in the colonies) to The Library of Congress for $1 million – I had moved into a suite at The Essex House Hotel on West 59th Street, and stayed for four months. And the only reason I could think of why Drexler would want to include a place from my past in his designs was to use it to torment and outdo me.

  In other words, I had a feeling Drexler had plans to take my old haunt and somehow make it his own. And my gut told me his methods would be extreme…

  Before long, I was working my way up 6th Avenue with urgency, all too aware that if Drexler did have something planned, the shit could hit the fan at any moment. Then, when I got as far as West 58th Street, and found myself caught in traffic, impatience got the better of me and I abandoned my car and continued on foot at a dead run. But this short sprint – because of my sleep deprivation and hangover – exhausted me far more than it should have. And so, when I arrived outside The Essex House, my head was swimming.

  The next thing I knew, a man with a headset and clipboard was approaching me. He said curtly:

  ‘Are you a wacko or an extra? Because if you’re a wacko, then, I’m sorry, but you need to leave. We’re shooting a film.’
>
  I wasn’t surprised my appearance elicited this reaction: my clothes were creased to hell, my face unshaven, and I was trembling with fatigue. But I was surprised by his comment about shooting a film. And in the next second, I realized the stretch of road outside the hotel had been cordoned off, and no vehicles were passing through.

  ‘Saul Marshall, FBI,’ I thundered, displaying my ID. ‘I’ve reason to believe a terrorist attack may occur imminently within this location. Tell me exactly what’s happening.’

  The guy saw I wasn’t kidding.

  ‘I’m with Paramount,’ he said quickly. ‘We’re producing an action film. We’ve rented a metro train, and the portion of track directly beneath us. We’re shooting a scene involving the release of nerve gas into a number of carriages.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The shooting should begin any second now, if it hasn’t already.’

  ‘Where’s the director?’ I growled.

  He pointed westward, where one-hundred yards up the road a small marquee had been erected on the sidewalk. About fifteen people were standing in its vicinity, crowded around a number of monitors outside the tent. Immediately I started running towards them.

  ‘Stop production,’ I yelled. ‘The nerve gas you’re using is real.’

  Chapter 24

  Thursday, February 28, 2013.

  I was fifty yards off, still bellowing, when I heard a shrill, blood-curdling scream. Its source was one of the women standing before the monitors. Then others joined in.

  Five seconds later, I was among the crowd, watching the tragedy unfold on three screens. Minus sound, they showed nerve-gas filling every inch of two separate carriages, each one crammed with actors. And there was no ambiguity: these people, with their bodies twisting and seizing, and their faces contorting into expressions of fear and panic no actor could simulate were dying before our eyes. I was watching a mass execution.