by Clay Farrow
12:
Los Angeles, California – Tuesday
Bob Boggs sat slumped behind the wheel of a green Ford, parked across the street from the Trinity of Light Cathedral. His partner, Wayne Knowlton, aimlessly tossed a baseball from one hand to the other. The two FBI agents sharing the Crown Victoria might have stood out in many areas of the city, but given the church was located in the racially-mixed Palms district of West Los Angeles, they blended right in.
"Gantry's been in there for hours. Are we going to spend the whole morning sitting here?" Bob asked, restlessly drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel.
Wayne shrugged. "If we ask him to come down to the office and he refuses, what then? Arrest him? Receiving a single phone call is pretty thin. We need something more than that."
"There was something," Bob said as he flipped open the file lying on the seat between them. "Here it is. A kid that was a resident of Gantry's Runaways to Christ home was charged with an abortion clinic bombing in Dallas three months ago. We can start out asking him about that."
"I saw the report. The kid hadn't lived at the home for more than a year."
"Hey," Bob exclaimed. "The guy preaches anti-abortion on a weekly basis. He heads up letter writing campaigns against stem cell research. My sister's life was saved by Stanford Med research. Hell, he advocates burning any book with the word sex in it. What more do you want?"
"Maybe some evidence he actually broke the law."
"The call was made to his cell phone from Seattle. That should be enough," Bob countered, flicking the folder closed. "I hate sitting around."
"His ministry's membership is nationwide. We take our time, go by the book, and don't make any mistakes. Gantry has powerful friends in Washington and Sacramento."
An older car cruised past them and swung into the parking lot of the cathedral.
"Oh, oh," Bob said, sitting up. "I think our odds just got better. If I'm not mistaken that's our Grand Marquis. We should have enough now."
"You're too eager. Don't rush to judgment."
"C'mon, that's one coincidence too many."
Wayne hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, let's go."
A young man and a girl climbed out of the Mercury and strolled toward the rectory as the agents jogged across the street, dodging the mid-morning traffic.
"Sir, Miss, one moment please. We want to talk to you," Wayne called out.
The couple turned, then looked at each other.
The agents slowed to a walk as they approached them. In a well choreographed maneuver, they simultaneously withdrew their badges and showed them to the couple. Bob watched the young man's vacant expression turn to a scowl.
"FBI Agents Boggs and Knowlton," Bob said. "We want to ask you a few questions."
Bob caught the nervous glance the girl gave her companion.
"W-W-Why? What’s this about?" she stammered.
"Could we please see some identification?" Wayne asked.
The man reached into his back pocket for his wallet, removed his driver's license, and gave it to Wayne. The girl dug into her purse and handed over hers.
Wayne scrutinized the licenses. "Gilles Wren and Julie McDonald?"
Bob saw a scowl flash across the face of Wren.
The two nodded.
"Where were you Sunday morning between nine and eleven?"
"Right here," Wren replied.
"In Los Angeles?" Bob asked.
"In church," Gilles answered, indicating the Trinity of Light with a nod of his head.
"No, we weren't," the girl said. "Remember, Gilles, we missed the service. We ran a errand for Jeremiah and didn't get back until noon. We watched the service later on TV."
"You're right, Julie. Sorry, I totally forgot."
"What was the errand?" Bob asked, observing the two young people silently glance at each other. He sensed they each hoped the other would come up with a plausible explanation.
"They were collecting a rather substantial donation from an infirm member of my congregation," said a voice behind the two youngsters.
Wren and McDonald spun around. "Jeremiah," they exclaimed in unison.
Bob shifted his gaze and immediately recognized the approaching man.
"I hope that answers your question, gentlemen," Gantry said, walking between the couple and putting an arm around each of their shoulders. "Who are you? Why are you interested in my young acolytes?"
"Mr. ... ," Bob said.
"It's Reverend," Gantry corrected as he placed himself between the agents and the two teenagers.
"Reverend Gantry, we're Agents Knowlton and Boggs," Wayne said. "Is Brad Ferry a member of your church?"
"The name isn't familiar, but my parishioners number in the hundreds of thousands."
"You received a phone call from Seattle on Sunday morning from a cell phone owned by Ferry. What did you discuss?" Bob asked.
"From Seattle? I don't know where the call came from and I didn't discuss anything. It was a wrong number and the call lasted no longer than a few seconds."
"Fifteen seconds to be exact," Bob said. "With triangulation, we placed that phone in a laboratory an hour before it was destroyed by a bomb."
"Was this scientist, Ferry, killed in the blast?" Gantry asked.
"Who said anything about Ferry being a scientist?" Bob inquired, searching Gantry's eyes for a lie.
"I, ahh, just assumed. Laboratories have scientists."
"We haven't turned up anything yet, and Ferry's phone was also answered on Sunday afternoon, just north of Salem, Oregon," Wayne added.
Bob stepped around the preacher and moved in on McDonald, his face inches from hers. "The individual who called Ferry's phone is positive he heard a female voice in the background before the line went dead. Could that person have been you, Miss McDonald?"
He smiled when she lowered her head to avoid his stare. He could smell fear oozing from every pore.
* * * *
Jeremiah Gantry, sensing Julie's alarm, was thankful Michael had left for India this morning. The young man would have caved in on being asked his name. "Gentlemen, is this really necessary?"
"She hasn't answered the question."
"Neither one was anywhere near Salem."
"There is also the matter of your Grand Marquis," Wayne said. "A vehicle exactly matching this one, down to the color, was parked in front of the building two and a half hours before the bomb exploded."
"How many 1992 Grand Marquises are still on the road?" Jeremiah asked.
"This Grand Marquis had license plates that belonged to a Washington state Jeep Cherokee," Boggs answered.
He strolled over to the vehicle and ran his hand over the hood, and then continued, "The report we received from the Seattle office mentioned one of the Cherokee's plates was covered with tiny scratches that appeared to be recent. The hood and windshield of your Marquis is similarly covered with nicks, and not a hint of rust."
Boggs regarded Gilles and patted the hood. "The vehicle looks like it was recently hit by debris from a bomb. Too coincidental, don't you think?" He stepped closer to the young couple. "You two are coming downtown with us. Under arrest if necessary."
"Reverend, we would also like you to accompany us to our Wilshire office," Knowlton said.
Jeremiah was ready to throttle the two. Gilles was responsible for the call and the car. He'd told him to be at least a half mile away when the detonator was triggered. And what about Julie? Although he hadn't spoken to her directly, she should've had some idea of what the blast's strength would be. Her job was to think, evaluate the situation on the ground, and act to protect Gilles, and by extension, himself.
He glowered at the girl. The color had drained from her face and she was fidgeting with her hands. These agents would turn her into a babbling basket case in five minutes if she was separated from Gilles. What other evidence had they left behind?
He weighed his options. The agents had little reason to believe he was criminally involved, exc
ept for the phone call. As for Gilles and Julie, if he threw them to the wolves, they might talk, or in Julie's case, would talk. If he co-operated with the agents, he could conceivably do some damage control.
"Gentlemen," Jeremiah said, taking his cell phone out of his pocket. "We're at your disposal, but first I'd like to make a call."
Boggs laid a hand on Jeremiah's arm. "You can do that downtown, Reverend Gantry."
Knowlton added, "The kids are riding with us. You're welcome to join them or follow us in your own vehicle."
"I'll ride with you gentlemen, if you don't mind."
As Jeremiah shepherded Gilles and Julie toward the agent's car he overheard Boggs.
"I'll get a search warrant for the Marquis. See how far you can get with Gantry and the kids before they lawyer-up."
Jeremiah slipped his arms through Gilles' and Julie's, drawing them closer. In a whisper, he said, "Understand, you've done nothing wrong. You were doing God's work. The church will stand behind you 100 percent. If they separate us, don't say a word. I'll do all the talking, I have powerful friends who will protect us."
13:
Flores International Airport, Guatemala – Tuesday
Senator Alberto Guerra walked down the steps of the Byers private jet before the engines had completely shutdown. Striding across the tarmac toward him was an army officer.
"Welcome to Guatemala, Señor Guerra. Captain Romero at your service."
The two men shook hands.
"How was your flight from Washington?" Romero inquired as he reached for the senator's two pieces of luggage.
"Uneventful," Alberto replied, letting Romero take the suitcase, but refusing to give-up his black leather attaché case. "I'll keep this with me. How far is it to the prison?"
"Five minutes in my Huey," Romero said pointing to an olive-green UH-1 Iroquois helicopter with the Guatemalan Army insignia on the fuselage.
"Good, I'm anxious to see to my cousin."
The captain stowed the suitcase in a compartment in the helicopter's cabin then prepared for takeoff.
Alberto dropped onto a bench behind the pilot's cockpit and was strapping himself in when he saw Sam, one of the two Byers flight officers, emerge from the Bombardier Challenger 650 and run over to the helicopter.
"Senator Guerra," Sam shouted over the roar of the chopper's engines, "we just heard from Dr. Byers again. We'll be returning to Flores with him early tomorrow."
"Good. When you have an ETA, get in touch with my cousin at the prison. I'll be sure to have someone here to meet him."
As the flight officer trotted back to the jet, the helicopter lifted off.
The five-minute flight estimate proved accurate. When the pilot pulled back on the chopper's joystick to clear a 100-foot high hill on the shores of Lake Petén Itzá, Alberto had his initial glimpse of the Santa Elena prison. This was his first visit to the penal farm; in fact, he hadn't been back to Guatemala in more than a decade. His cousin, Miguel, preferred the States or the Cayman Islands for their reunions.
Looking out through the open cabin door, Alberto noticed a cemetery extending up the side of the 100-foot high mound near the shoreline of the lake, just beyond the prison's helipad. A number of graves had been recently dug and appeared to be at least fifteen feet deep.
The senator loosened his safety harness then leaned over and tapped Romero on the shoulder. He pointed at the graves. "Why so deep?"
"More economical. They're able to bury six or seven bodies. A single grave should last a week."
"Seven deaths a week? The prison doesn't look that big. What's the inmate population?"
"Probably 1200 to 1400. The prison was only intended to hold 480. Overcrowding causes tempers to flare. Then there are accidents, intentional or otherwise, and disease. It all takes its toll."
Alberto slipped off his sunglasses in order to get a better look at the prison farm. The largest structure was the prison itself, a two story fortress constructed of concrete block and stucco, surrounding a large courtyard. There were also three white stucco outbuildings, which he reasoned were the barracks, a maintenance shed, and a barn. Fields of crops and fenced-off pastures surrounded the prison and outbuildings.
"Take it down so I can have a closer look," Alberto instructed.
The five hundred or so inmates in the compound looked up as the helicopter hovered over the prison. Alberto estimated the prison yard was 200 by 200 feet. The cellblocks, which made up three sides of the square, each contained twenty cells per story. Two staircases, one on each side of the yard were the only access to the upper tier walkway.
The fourth side of the prison compound had a pair of administration buildings and the main entrance to the prison. A catwalk with an eight-foot high razor wire fence extended out over the second story cells and was patrolled by a handful of soldiers armed with rifles. One guard waved to Romero, who returned the greeting. The chopper glided toward the front of the prison.
The entrance to the prison was a laneway between the two administration buildings. The twenty-foot wide dusty track allowed the largest of trucks passage through to the prison compound. A pair of iron gates attached to the administration buildings at each end of the lane allowed vehicles and persons to be isolated and searched before exiting or entering the prison yard. The exterior and entrance lane walls of the prison had a fresh coat of whitewash, and the scaffolding in the front of one of the administration buildings had yet to be dismantled.
"Why aren't they locked up?"
"The colonel tried that when he first arrived and the weekly death toll doubled. Prisoners not working in the fields are now free to come and go from their cells during the day," Romero said, pulling up on the joystick and circling the chopper toward the back of the prison helipad.
"What are most serving time for?"
"There's the usual assortment of thieves and perverts, but the majority are farmers who launched land claims against wealthy landowners," the pilot said laughing. "The civil war may have ended in 1996, but not much has changed."
"I read a United Nations report that accused the army of responsibility for the vast majority of the 200 thousand deaths during the war. Bleeding-heart liberal propaganda," Alberto sneered. "The world is made up of those destined to rule and those born to obey, and even the dumbest campesino understands that it's God's way."
The pilot continued, "The colonel collects a fee from landowners to make the complaining farmers disappear. After they have been suitably re-educated, the most able-bodied are rented back to the landowners as day laborers. The rest of the inmates till the prison fields or are left to rot in the yard."
The helicopter nose-dived for the prison helipad which was located fifty yards from the rear of the prison. The sudden plunge caused Alberto to desperately cling to the briefcase between his legs to prevent it from tumbling out of the chopper.
"Hey cowboy."
Ignoring Alberto, Romero pulled back on the joystick at the last instant and the landing skids settled onto the circular tarmac.
Alberto waved to his cousin, Miguel Rodriguez, standing on the edge of the helipad. His service cap was pulled low over his eyes, the chin strap tightened in place. He wore crisply starched fatigues with a pair of spit polished boots. Around his waist was a wide gun belt with a holster and a sheathed 10-inch Bowie knife. Miguel stood ramrod straight against the gale of dust and debris raised by the helicopter's rotors. As soon as the chopper touched down, he marched to the aircraft, paying no attention to the whirling blades.
Alberto jumped to the ground, clasping his valise. The two men embraced.
"It's good to see you, Miguel."
"It's been too long, cousin," Miguel replied, leading the way towards a nearby jeep.
Alberto threw his arm around his cousin's shoulder. "This is my first chance to personally congratulate you on being promoted to a full colonel and commandant of the prison."
Although Miguel was nine years his junior, they were the same height and bore a familial re
semblance. He glanced at his cousin's broad shoulders and narrow waist, which made him look like a much fitter version of himself. Miguel's weathered face also reinforced the notion that not a great deal of his life had been spent behind a desk.
"Someone in your office called. She asked that you call her as soon as you landed."
Alberto settled into in one of the two overstuffed easy chairs in front of his cousin's desk and pressed the receiver of a rotary dial telephone to his ear. He set the black leather briefcase on the floor next to him. His suit and tie had been exchanged for jeans, cowboy boots, and a striped shirt. Miguel lounged in a swivel chair on the opposite side of the large wooden desk.
"Justine, what have they charged him with?" Alberto asked.
"The FBI hasn't charged him yet, but there's talk about holding him indefinitely as a domestic terrorist under the Patriot Act. I think it may be only a matter of time before charges are filed."
"Jerry isn't a terrorist. He's a God-fearing American. A patriot of the highest order. Why's the FBI even involved?”
“Byers' federal contracts, or that’s the excuse they’re using.”
”What proof do they have?"
"Reverend Gantry received a call from a cell phone that was at the scene of the bombing, close to the time of the explosion. The phone belonged to a missing scientist who might have been in the lab at the time."
"Means nothing."
"The FBI says there's evidence that members of his congregation may have been involved."
"His followers, not him. Do whatever it takes to get him out. Call the director and if you have to, use my name."
Yes, Senator. I'll do my best."
"I don't want your best, Justine. I want Jerry out and on the next plane down here."
"Yes, boss."
Alberto slammed the receiver into its cradle, but even before letting go of the phone, he knew he had a problem. Years earlier, Ken’s company had come up with a remedy to treat multiple strains of drug-resistant gonorrhea. Jerry had made threats and led protests outside Byers' facilities. He had even tried to strong-arm politicians to ban the vaccine as promoting promiscuity. Vowing to keep a close eye on Byers in the future, Jerry had been a thorn in Ken's side ever since.
