by Tom Haase
Special Agent Matthew Higgins examined the video footage for at least the fiftieth time. The technical specialist, Libby Thompson, had been patient with him for the second day. He could tell he now wore his welcome thin.
“Do you want to see it again?” Libby asked as she ran a comb through her kinky black hair. “You should have this thing ingrained in your brain by now.”
“I just don't see what I'm looking for,” Matt said. He paced as he rubbed his hands together. The video came from both ends of the platform where the man exited the train. He remained clearly visible as he waved the bag with the explosive. His face, however, remained away from the direct viewing angle of the cameras.
“What's that?” Libby asked. “You've seen that guy run out of the train carrying the bomb. He’s the bomber. Probably one of those groups that just wants to embarrass the government and not kill people, like some fanatic independent antiwar antigovernment quasi-civilian terrorist organization.”
“He's our man all right.” Matt took a sip from the umpteenth cup of coffee that morning. “But it's beyond me why he threw the bomb into that janitor room and ran up the stairs after warning everyone to get out. It just doesn't make sense. What was the motivation? Why haven't we heard someone claim credit to promulgate their cause?”
“Listen, Matt, I know that you're on special detail from Des Moines for a month. You were handpicked as your SAC's number one man. I get it that you're the best they got out there and have come here to learn how the game is played in the big city. But you're going to kill yourself if you don't back off a little. The boys in your section here will throw you to the wolves if you're not careful. It's not my place to say it, but you're a nice guy. Just a word to the wise.”
“Thanks. One more time, Libby.”
She rolled the tape from the video cameras covering the Metro train's arrival in the Smithsonian stop. The man ran from the train waving the bag and appearing to shout something to everyone in the area. Witnesses reported that he yelled for them to get out. The man had the bag up in the air right at the time his face turned towards the camera. There existed no clear face image.
The bomber threw the bag into the closet and slammed the door. When he turned to run up the escalator the film showed a slight side picture and the computer facial recognition software worked to produce a usable image. So far it had not succeeded. Matt knew this to be the bomber, he just didn't know why the man committed the act. That, however, wasn’t his problem. His problem, the one given to him by the deputy director, was to do the initial analysis of the steps needed to capture this terrorist who had traumatized the Washington, D.C. metro area by setting off a bomb in the center of the city.
“Sorry to break into your thoughts but the deputy director wants to see you right now,” Special Agent Liz Garcia shouted from the open doorway into the video room. Matt noted her slim figure silhouetted by the light in the hallway. A beautiful woman with alluring jet-black hair, perfectly shaped shoulders over an eye-candy body—and an attitude that could stop a charging wild bull.
“Okay, on the way.” Matt grabbed his suit coat, straightened his tie, and pushed back his unruly crop of black hair. He took a deep breath, extended his frame to its full six-foot-three inches, and then let it out. His energy level remained high and he tapped his chest to circulate his body energy.
Liz Garcia accompanied him to the deputy director's office and let him into the inner sanctum. He liked the view he got walking behind her. A thing of beauty, he speculated, but he had to let that thought go.
“Matt,” the director said, “have you learned anything?”
“Nothing new, sir. Our perpetrator got away by mingling with the crowd as he exited the Metro station and disappeared. Smoke shooting out of the exit blinded the external camera. Witness statements have provided conflicting and unreliable descriptions, and so far our software has not been able to produce a clear image. Libby says that by tomorrow we should be able to provide some form of identification or at least a good profile picture of the perp.”
Matt and Liz remained standing as Deputy Director Rose walked from behind his desk and looked at them with a cold intensity. His silver-streaked hair lay manicured on his head and the suit, Matt noticed, in the thousand-dollar range.
“Matt, I know that you're new here in Washington and Liz only here for a short time, but I think that may be an advantage to you. I'm assigning you two to this case. You have no preconceived notions about the District, about how things work here. Maybe you'll bring fresh eyes and approaches. I want you to take this on and I want you to catch the bastard. I don't want excuses. Do whatever it takes, use whatever means we have at our disposal, and get it done. Any questions?”
Both uttered, “No sir.” Matt had jumped at the opportunity to come to FBI Headquarters when offered this job and viewed it as a chance to see how things really got done in the agency. This little assignment propelled him to the attention of the Deputy Director, but now his career rested on the line. He hadn't asked for it, but the section chief here in D.C. volunteered him to get him out of his office. He believed that he didn't need to babysit a country bumpkin agent from some state he hoped he'd never have to visit. Now Matt needed to concentrate on the order the Deputy Director just gave them. The man implied that they’d better succeed or hit the highway and not come back.
The Deputy Director possessed the unmistakable command authority Matt experienced many times in his Army career. He did not brook small talk or excuses for failure. Either would get you fired.
They didn't move for less than a second.
“Why are you still standing in my office?” the Deputy Director bellowed.
Chapter 11
Washington, D.C.
The morning after the bomb explosion in the D.C. Metro, Cornelius Jake decided to call his friend whom he visited yesterday at the Smithsonian. The decision to follow up on the Donavans provided an energetic catalyst for his old bones. He now had something no one else seemed to have thought about investigating. It could be an exclusive or a dead end. This might lead to the pinnacle scoop of his career, something to hold onto besides the now ancient Pulitzer. His instincts tickled his imagination as he focused on the possibilities of a breakout story. If on the other hand nothing materialized, no one would be the wiser, and he could go out to pasture as mild as a lamb. He knew he could not bribe anyone to provide him information as he had done in the past. With no one to bribe, the Donavan story would have to be resurrected by his own efforts or not at all.
“You remember yesterday when I visited your office and that young kid came in, you know, the Donavan boy? I'd like to get a hold of him. There might be a story there.”
“Cornelius, can't help you today. Scott Donavan called in sick.”
“Has he called in sick before?”
“No, this is the first time ever. He's always been a good lad. He is a hard worker, and it's a shame about what happened to him. I feel sorry for him in many ways.”
Cornelius's mind went into overdrive on why the boy would have called in sick when yesterday he appeared perfectly healthy. A red flag went up, since the boy had never called in sick before. His reporter's mind urged him to check this out.
“Thank you. Could you tell me where he lives?” Cornelius asked. “And before you say that you can't, you know I can get it from public information or somewhere else within the Post, so please save me a little bit of time.” He copied down the address he received.
Cornelius thought of some details he needed to look into before heading to Scott's apartment building. As a reporter, he always tried to have more information than the person being interviewed. After three hours research on every aspect of the adventure Scott and Bridget Donavan experienced months ago, he felt ready with his questions. Anything new and significant he could uncover could open this story up again with a new angle. The religious fervor caused by the initial release of information about the Crown of Thorns could again reignite and propel his articles to front-page status if those tw
o were not making up their discoveries.
After lunch he made the call. What could the young man do? He would jump at an opportunity to get his name in print and maybe even get some of his former life back from a front-page story in the paper.
“My name is Cornelius Jake,” he said after Scott answered the phone. “I'm with the Washington Post. I would like an interview with you because I believe you received a raw deal.” At least that ought to get the boy's attention.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Jake, but I'm not interested.” Cornelius heard the dial tone.
That didn't go so well. Incomprehension settled on his mind for a few seconds. Why wouldn't Scott even talk to a reporter who might do him some good? He would take a different route and try to visit with the young man. He drove to the apartment building, found a place to park, and shut the car door. He stopped. The same young man he observed at the Smithsonian yesterday walked out of the entrance and got into a red taxi. Cornelius jumped back into his car determined to follow. Scott Donavan didn't appear sick at all.
It only took a few minutes for him to realize that he headed toward Reagan National Airport. As he approached the airport on the George Washington Parkway, Cornelius noticed that the taxi headed to the general aviation section instead of to the normal passenger terminals. He followed around the circuitous path to the Signature fixed base operation and watched as Scott entered the building.
Cornelius parked his car and entered through the same door after Scott. Through the glass pane windows on the far side of the terminal lounge he could see Scott Donavan being escorted to an airplane by a flight officer. He watched while the young man boarded the jet aircraft. The hatch immediately closed as soon as Scott climbed aboard. Where could Scott Donavan be going on a private jet at four in the afternoon? What was going on?
The jet's engines started up and it taxied away. Cornelius noted the N-number from the tail of the aircraft. Going over to the counter, he questioned the attendant behind the desk, giving him the tail number.
He asked, “Where is that aircraft going?”
“That one's going to New York LaGuardia.”
“Is that a private aircraft?”
“Yes, it comes in here quite often.” The man tried to look busy.
“Do you know whose plane it is?” Cornelius inquired.
“The plane belongs to Mr. Schultz,” came a short, clipped answer followed by a stern look, the man plainly implying he would give no more information.
Cornelius did a double take. This unexpected event ignited his investigative instincts like a firebomb going off. The kid had dodged his offer for an interview for a chance to get his story in the papers again. Then he gets on a private jet belonging to the multibillionaire Schultz. Maybe there was a lot more to this than originally imagined. His gut hadn't failed him in this case. He wouldn’t have to blackmail a fellow reporter to get the story this time. He would do it all by himself.
Cornelius pushed his fingers through his long white hair and cocked one eyebrow up in wonder. This could be the biggest break of his career and might even make him rich in the process. The last one did, but he squandered the money as a young man. He wouldn’t make that same mistake this time. There blossomed a story here, yes indeed, a big one, perhaps some highly secret plot.
He knew some things about the famous—or as some believed the infamous—Mr. Schultz.
Chapter 12
New York
Benjamin Schultz led Scott into his penthouse apartment after greeting him. He observed that the young man was handsome, appearing self-confident, with piercing, ice-cold blue eyes. His blue blazer and tan pants combined with his light blue shirt and yellow tie to project the appropriate image of a young academic. Shultz liked the look. Scott displayed a confident stride as he crossed the living room. He appeared to be someone on a mission.
“Can I interest you in a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Scott replied.
“I must say, Scott, if I may call you Scott, you certainly look younger than I thought you would be, especially after seeing all the pictures of you and your sister in the newspapers during that fracas last year and your recent battle with the Vatican.”
“Mr. Schultz, that fracas cost us a lot of money and ended our academic careers and subtracted years from my life.”
Shultz walked over to a small Cabinet, opened it, and withdrew a bottle of scotch with two glasses. He poured scotch into both glasses. After setting the decanter down, he picked both glasses up and offered one to Scott.
“Come on young man have a drink with me. You look somewhat restored from that misadventure. Let's sit down and discuss your mythical Bible of Constantine.” Scott took the glass from his hand and waited. He led Scott over to the divan and took a seat across from him.
“From what you're saying I guess you did a little research on me before I arrived. Can't say I blame you. We're not exactly the flavor of the month in academia these days,” Scott said.
Scott did not rise to answer his probe at the Bible. The boy had a brain.
He watched as Scott took a sip from the Scotch. From his actions, Schultz guessed that the kid must be a beer drinker instead of Scotch. No use in wasting time, he chugged his back in one swallow.
“Young man,” he said. “What is this about the Bible of Constantine?”
Benjamin relaxed as he listened to the story. Scott started with, “First of all, it's not mythical.” Then he proceeded to relay his sister's discovery in a small village in the upper Amazon and on her findings in the Coptic Church in Egypt. Her research indicated that such a treasured sacred book did exist. The story that the young man told contained a definite ring of truth about it, but he remained skeptical. And he didn't want to rush into this venture, but he did want to know more about Bridget Donavan, especially her location.
“So why have you come to me with this story?”
“You realize that such an undertaking will be a large financial burden. My sister and I don't have the means to conduct this in a manner that would ensure success,” Scott said.
“In other words, you’ve come to me for funding.” Benjamin stood up poured himself another small Scotch. He returned to sit down and looked at Scott to see if the young man faltered under his stare. He didn't.
“Didn't you receive a large sum from the Vatican? I thought that’s what the papers reported. Why do you need my assistance?”
“Mr. Schultz, we did receive a large amount of money but, unfortunately, we attempted to clear our names. The lawyers pretty much took almost all of the money trying to accomplish that. They didn't succeed, and we were left with very little.”
Schultz experienced great joy from that news. He engineered that result by paying for the universities to string out the proceedings to deplete the Donavans’ cash. That route he designed to ruin Bridget Donavan before he extracted his final vengeance on her for his son’s death. He waited for Scott to continue.
“My sister estimates that for us to be successful we would need approximately half a million dollars.” Having said this, he sat back and locked his eyes with Schultz. “We also want twenty percent of the sale value.”
Schultz laughed before continuing. “Surely you don't expect me to hand over $500,000 for you to go off chasing a book that up until now has been considered nonexistent. Perhaps is still nonexistent as most notable academicians contend? As far as a percentage, we'll discuss that after you get the Bible.” A plan began to emerge based on the information the young man provided. To acquire that Bible would be a financial gold mine. He already tested that premise with some of his clandestine buyers earlier in the day.
Scott crossed and then uncrossed his legs in a nervous manner. Schultz knew he figuratively clinched the boy by the throat, and if he could get the Bible and pay back the sister it would be a win-win for him. He would fund this venture to get them to go after the book but he had already decided to do that. In the arrangement he would propose all the movements of Bridget Donavan would be his to
know.
The time arrived to go in for the kill. The young man needed to give in. He wanted this too much to not succumb to Schultz’s plan. Schultz reclined in his chair and put his hands together in the church steeple mode and waited.
“Sir,” Scott said, “you would get the credit for being a sponsor of this important discovery, but we insist on our twenty percent when sold.”
Benjamin laughed. The young man didn’t give in without a fight. He made it a controlled laugh but laughed enough to make Scott uncomfortable. He deliberately played out a role. The time arrived to turn this dialogue to his favor.
“Scott, I think you're seeing it the wrong way. For that amount of money I get the total credit and you get to be the ones who are employed by me to find it. I think—”
Scott interrupted him, speaking with deliberate purpose and tone. “No way, you don't get credit for finding something you don't find. If we go, we get the credit.”
“If I may continue … I would put it in this context. If I do not provide the money, you will not get to go, nor will you get any credit. Word will leak out, it always does. The cat is out of the bag concerning your bible, and others will surely take up the trail to it. If you want to get it first you need to get started at once.” He waited for this to sink in.
“You expect us to give you the entire credit?”
“No, I expect you to give me the book,” Benjamin stated. He watched the shocked expression on Scott's face. He calculated what must come and planned to sit here for at least a full minute without saying a thing.
Scott sank back into his seat and raised the Scotch glass. He took a big sip. He didn't say a word. Benjamin Schultz could see Scott's mind racing, trying to figure out an alternative path, a different way, a counter proposition but obviously failing to reach one.
“You and your sister would get fame. The whole world would know that you're the ones who found this Bible. Perhaps from that you can redeem your academic credentials. That's what you're ultimately after, I believe. I'm willing to assist you in that venture if you are successful. The successful conclusion of your hunt could solve your problems. I'll agree to finance the expedition, you’ll agree to turn over the Bible of Constantine to me when you find it.”
