False Prophet

by Richard Davis

  Vann nodded slowly. But he wasn’t quite ready to talk battle plans.

  ‘It’s always been a worry for the Bureau,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that the bad guys should gain leverage over their agents. Not because of any concern about their agents’ wellbeing, of course. But because of the breach of national security that could result.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m a case in point,’ I said.

  ‘Parkes is lucky you’re only trying to rescue your son,’ he replied. ‘Imagine the rule-breaking that’d be going on if it was your old buddy Vann they’d taken?’

  I grinned. ‘Or if they’d taken Schneider. Then there’d be real trouble.’

  Vann knew all about my frosty relationship with Alex Schneider. He shot me a grin.

  ‘I imagine after an hour or so with her, it’d be Drexler and his lot taking their own lives,’ he said.

  I grinned again. I hadn’t seen Vannevar for months, but it hadn’t taken long to fall back into our usual patter.

  Then, with a characteristic change of tone, Vann said:

  ‘Getting to someone through the people they love – it’s something else, isn’t it? I know I’ve become desensitized to this stuff, but when you stop and think about it…’

  He trailed off, shaking his head.

  Like Vann, I’d similarly been desensitized to hostage situations. After just a few days on the HRT, you have to make the choice between blocking out the emotion, or simply becoming unable to function. But now it was happening to me – now I was being targeted through someone I loved – there was no suppressing the emotion.

  Suddenly, a memory – one that hadn’t crossed my mind for nearly two decades – came rushing back. I began to speak:

  ‘I was fifteen. It was a January afternoon, and somebody knocked at the front door of my Brooklyn home. I answered to find my mother: her eye swollen, pantyhose torn, arm broken. Without a word, I bundled her into the car, and had her direct me to where she’d been attacked. Soon enough, I spotted the culprit, swaggering along with her purse. The next thing I knew, I’d swerved the car off the road, crushing this guy against a wall, and breaking his legs. I can still remember the noise of the fender crumpling in – of his bones turning to pulp. Then I got out and laid into him. Reduced his face to a liquid mess. Eventually, a cop intervened. But he knew what the guy had done, and so he turned a blind eye…’

  I trailed off. I’d never told Vann this story before. I looked at him for a response.

  ‘Sounds like you still needed to fine-tune your insurance fraud technique,’ he said. ‘Crashing the car was fine; but I’m not sure you had to beat up the eye-witness, too.’

  Vann’s response was glib, but I could see in his face that he got the point – that if you pick on someone I love, the response will be merciless. That’s not to say I was proud of this incident. But I was feeling painfully similar to how I’d felt that day.

  Presently, Vann said: ‘I’m not sure our friend Ivan will be quite so easy to deal with as some guy on the street. The way Drexler operates his cult – with the homogenous uniforms, the name-changing, the demand to leave individualism at the door – it’s familiar, right? They’re the techniques the Bureau uses when training its elite – the techniques they used on us when we auditioned for the HRT. And they’re used precisely because they foster unquestioning adherence and loyalty. We’re dealing with some committed, single-minded motherfuckers. Drexler knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘So not just your casual cult enthusiast, roped in off the guided tour?’ I said.

  He smiled.

  Vannevar’s point was an interesting one – though, really, it was no less than you’d expect from a man with anthropology degrees from Princeton and Cambridge. His education was just a short chapter in his privileged upbringing. He was born on May 7, 1977, into exceptional wealth: his mother a Scandinavian-American from old money; his father a Chinese-American who’d made a killing on Wall Street. As a result, after a more than comfortable childhood in a brownstone on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, he was treated to the best schooling money could buy. And when it turned out he had a good head on his shoulders, his enrolment at Princeton, and then Cambridge, had been the next logical steps. What might’ve seemed less logical to an outsider, however, was his decision after graduation to join the rough-and-tumble world of the FBI…

  What led him to this decision was, in fact, pure chance. It was because his father’s brother happened to work in IT solutions, and in August 1998 his company happened to send him to Nairobi, where they’d been commissioned by the US embassy to update their technology. And it was during his time in Nairobi that two Jihadists happened to detonate a ton of explosives in the embassy’s parking lot.

  Twelve Americans died that day. Vannevar’s uncle was one of them.

  After that, any plans Vannevar had had went out the window. All he was interested in was preventing such a thing from happening again. So once he’d returned to New York after his Masters in England, he’d joined the city’s FBI Field Office. It didn’t take the Field Office long to realize that Vann was someone special and, soon enough, they’d placed him with the Joint Terrorism Task Force – the front-line at Field Office level. Vann was happy there. He was making a difference. But then came 9/11, and with it Vann’s decision that he had to do more. The HRT was the answer.

  ‘It’s the all-or-nothing mentality – that’s the kicker,’ Vannevar continued. ‘In mainstream religions, there’s a mentality of moderation: here are the rules, follow them as best you can, don’t sweat it if you fall short. But in a cult like Drexler’s, it’s all-or-nothing: every rule must be followed to the letter, you must seek absolute purity, or you cannot be said to exist in the eyes of the religion. This is known in academic circles as “dispensing of existence” and it’s a sure-fire way of radicalizing followers.’

  I thought back to what Lamphere had said about The Order’s membership at last count. The image of over three-hundred wide-eyed fanatics flashed before my eyes.

  ‘We can’t possibly be looking at three-hundred entirely obedient fanatics…’ I said tentatively.

  Vannevar shook his head.

  ‘Unlikely. It doesn’t work that way. There are different levels of susceptibility to this sort of thing. Whereas some completely submit themselves to an ideology, others simply don’t have the discipline. And still others will turn against an ideology if pushed too hard to obey. Drexler will have handpicked the ones most susceptible to full-blown radicalization in order to create his core, while still radicalizing others to varying degrees, depending on how far he can push them. The result will be, no doubt, different levels of radicalization within the one religion… Though you’d think his core must be pretty large, given the amount of bravado with which he’s declared his war.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And if The Order is as much like the Jihadists as you’re making them sound,’ I said, ‘then there will surely be unequal knowledge within the movement about what’s going on. A great deal of the rank-and-file will be blissfully unaware because it’s foolhardy to spread vital information among those only tentatively involved. Whereas more radical followers will’ve been told more, and sent out to get their hands dirty.’

  ‘But nobody told too much,’ said Vannevar, ‘in case someone winds up captured.’

  A few minutes later, at 6:07, we hit the stretch of the I-95 which cuts through the heart of Richmond. And as we did so, my mind turned to Olivia. It’d been almost five hours since I’d left her home and I felt I owed her an update. However, I decided I was better off keeping her in the dark about Drexler’s note.

  ‘Going to check in with Olivia,’ I said to Vann as I dialled her number.

  She answered after a single ring.

  ‘One moment,’ she said hastily. Then the sound of footsteps, and a door slamming.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Lester’s been home ten minutes. I didn’t think I could conceal my distress under ordinary circumstances, so I told him I’m sick. I
’m doing my best to keep him from calling a doctor.’

  ‘So he’s still in the dark?’

  She paused. ‘I hate lying to him.’

  ‘So he’s still in the dark?’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mustn’t tell him, Olivia.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I appreciate this is difficult and I know the urge to do something is strong. But you need to keep quiet. Vannevar and I are passing through Richmond as we speak. We’ll be in Durham before you know it.’

  Silence. I could sense she was working up to saying something.

  ‘And you’re sure we shouldn’t tell Lucinda Parkes?’ she said.

  Olivia didn’t know about Drexler’s note nor The Order, so were she to reveal what she knew to Parkes, she wouldn’t be putting Samuel’s life immediately at risk. But it’d certainly make things messy.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, stepping up the bravado. ‘Vann and I are experts. There’s nobody better at this. We’ve got all the equipment, and we’re prepared to do things that Parkes would never allow. I’m going to get our boy back, okay?’

  ‘Thank you, Saul,’ she said, her voice cracking with relief.

  Then, in the background, I heard footsteps, followed by Lester’s muffled voice.

  ‘Good luck,’ Olivia garbled, before abruptly hanging up.

  I could see Vann was about to say something, but before he could, my cell started ringing. It was Lucinda Parkes. And immediately I felt tense. Because when it came to Parkes, I could afford to give nothing away.

  ‘Hello,’ I answered.

  ‘You’ve not been seen at Hoover since eleven,’ she said curtly. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Have there been any breakthroughs?’ I said, in a tone implying she was wasting my time if there was nothing new to go on.

  ‘Not yet. But I want you here as soon as we get one.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Where are you driving to?’ she snapped, picking up on the sound of the engine.

  ‘Back to DC from Olivia’s. Can’t a guy visit the mother of his son without the third degree?’

  ‘I hope you haven’t told her anything. No matter what theories you have about your son, classified is classified.’

  ‘I’m not an amateur, Lucinda.’

  Parkes paused a beat.

  ‘I heard you visited the Field Office,’ she said. ‘Any particular reason?’

  For a moment, this question put me on edge, because I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d heard anything specific. But her tone wasn’t accusatory, so I reckoned I was safe. I opted for a tactic of sarcasm and nonchalance.

  ‘I know, it’s strange that an FBI employee should turn up at his place of work, isn’t it?’ I said coolly. ‘Unless, of course, you’re asking why I was there instead of New Orleans?’

  ‘Funny,’ she said with equal sarcasm. ‘Look, I want you nearby. Understood?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said what I did about Samuel if I didn’t think there was something to it. So I can assure you, I intend to stick around.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ she said brusquely before hanging up.

  Parkes clearly didn’t have time to talk in circles with a stubborn agent. Undoubtedly, she had Muldoon breathing down her neck; who, in turn, no doubt had The President breathing down his. But meanwhile, Drexler’s neck was getting off scot-free. And it was high-time I did something about it.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, we got to work on our battle plans.

  We immediately decided to work on the premise that we were dealing with neither a trap nor a diversion. But even then, it was obvious – considering the sheer number of possibilities we faced – that it was impossible for two men to make sure all bases were covered. However, we didn’t bemoan our situation. We began methodically sizing things up.

  It didn’t take long for Vann to get photos of the exterior and interior of The Carolina Theater – plus a floor plan, and map of the surrounding area – on his phone. It was located on West Morgan Street: a stretch of road in downtown Durham, running from east to west. The building was side-on to the road and was accessible by foot via a diagonal walkway which ran from the sidewalk to the front door. On the opposite side of the building from the road was a car-park, which was accessible via a service road which ran behind the theater.

  The building was comprised of three stories. Immediately beyond the front door was the main lobby – on the far side of which there were doors to the main theater and the orchestra seats – while on the left-hand side of the lobby there were doors leading to offices and backstage facilities. On the second floor, however, there was not only a second lobby, with doors to the Lower Balcony, but also two small cinemas. The third floor, by comparison, was considerably smaller, and consisted only of a modest third lobby, with doors to the Upper Balcony. The theater itself – when you combined the orchestra seats, two balconies, and the boxes – sat a total of 1,016. Yet according to the theater’s website, only about 700 tickets had been sold for that night’s show, meaning the Upper Balcony was due to be closed.

  We kept our plan simple and adaptable. On our arrival, I would exit the car with the discreet suitcase containing the sniper-rifle, and enter the theater, while Vannevar parked in a second parking-lot a little further up the road. I would then buy a ticket, before stealing into the offices on the first floor, and the cinemas on the second – to survey these areas for threats. Meanwhile, Vann would take up a position outside the front of the building where he could monitor people arriving at the premises – both by foot and car – and keep me updated via the Invisio M4s. And while Vann held his ground, I would then head to the Upper Balcony, and use this vantage point to keep an eye on things, with the PSG1 at the ready.

  And then we’d wait and see.

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 7:17 p.m. CST – Englewood, Chicago.

  Liam Bindle was feeling good as he swung his sedan off West 76th Street and onto South Laflin. Planting those microphones and cameras in an apartment occupied almost twenty-three hours a day hadn’t been easy. The task had required not only subtlety and precision, but also a steady nerve, since the operation was entirely off the books – meaning that had he been caught by police, he would’ve been treated like a common crook. In short, there’d been no safety net.

  But the job was done now, and Liam felt eager to soak up the kudos from his colleagues and, more importantly, his older brother. Because although Liam was now well into his thirties, he still sought the approval of his older brother, the person he admired most in the world. In fact, he’d only become interested in joining the Bureau after his brother had taken up a post at the New York Field Office all those years ago…

  Liam parked in the large parking lot which catered to the back-end of both their warehouse, and the warehouse next door. And as he walked the passageway between the two warehouses and towards the front entrance, all that passed through his mind was how fortunate it was that their neighbors, a metal-cutting company called Lakeside Steel, seemed to be having a quiet evening. All too often the agents had been kept up at night by the sound of metal cutting metal and, after sleeping two nights in the back of the car, Liam felt he’d earned a night without disturbances.

  Liam unlocked the warehouse’s front door and entered. But as he lumbered through the arch into the main control room, and announced his arrival with ‘Honey, I’m home,’ he wasn’t met with familiar faces. He was met with the sweet smell of chloroform, and overpowering darkness.

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 8:28 p.m. EST – West Morgan Street, Durham.

  The moment we arrived at West Morgan Street at 8:28, I jumped out the car with the sniper suitcase. Then, as Vann drove on ahead to park, I made my way along the sidewalk, and across the diagonal walkway leading to the theater’s entrance, keeping my head down.

  The main lobby was the perfect amount of busy – filled with enough bodies for me not to be conspicuous
, but not so many as to disorientate me. I strode to the box-office, bought a ticket, then headed out of the lobby towards the toilets. Then, once I was sure nobody was looking, I stole away into the private area, placing the Invisio M4 in my ear.

  ‘Vann, I’m in. Commencing surveillance. Do you copy?’

  ‘I copy,’ he said, his voice loud and clear. ‘Just parked. Heading over now.’

  I spent the next eight minutes searching every room I could access on the first floor, with the exception of the backstage areas, to avoid arousing suspicions among the actors. Once satisfied the coast was clear, I leapt up a staff stairwell, and proceeded to investigate the cinemas on the second floor. Beyond a pair of teens fooling around, I found nothing.

  ‘Nothing as far as I can see,’ I whispered. ‘Heading to the Upper Balcony.’

  ‘People are arriving,’ Vannevar replied. ‘Plenty by both foot and car. But, likewise, nothing doing.’

  ‘Fire escapes?’ I asked.

  ‘Three in all. One at the back, two on either side. They’re all shut, and can only be opened from the inside, so anyone wishing to enter by one needs internal help.’

  I headed to the third floor, where I found the lobby deserted, and the door to the balcony unlocked. I crept through the door at a crouch, and remained hunched as I moved down the steps, towards the front of the balcony, and the murmur of audience chatter.

  When I came to the bottom, I crouched behind the parapet at the centermost point of the balcony. Then I began putting together the rifle and within a minute, it was ready. But while I was reluctant to start poking its muzzle over the parapet until the lights went down for the start of the show, I decided I was happy to take a glance – so I did.

  On the face of it, the place looked like any theater in the minutes before a production: people filing in; people already sitting and talking. From my vantage point, the entire stage and the orchestra seating area (which was divided into three sections – left, right, and center) was in clear view. However, I could see nothing of the Lower Balcony, which was tucked beneath me – and there was nothing I could do but accept this considerable blind-spot.