by Ian Rankin
“No names, Mike. I still don’t know that I can trust you.”
“Could we meet? I want to talk about the Disciples.”
“I don’t know . . . Do you have any proof you could give me?
I mean, proof of anything you’ve said, of who you are?”
I thought about this. The answer was no. “I think you’d find the murdered man’s daughter proof enough, Sam.”
He sighed. “Is she there with you?”
“She’s right here.”
“Put her on.”
I passed the phone to Bel. “He needs convincing we’re genuine.”
“Mr. Clancy?” said Bel. “You’ve got to help us. If you saw what they did to my father. I mean, they didn’t just kill him, that wasn’t enough for them. I want them caught . . . whatever it takes. With you or without you, we’re going after them.” She handed me the receiver.
“All right,” said Clancy, “let’s have dinner.”
“Where?”
“There’s a little Mexican place near Green Lake. Do you know where that is?”
“I can find it.” He gave me the name and address of the restaurant. We agreed eight o’clock, and the call ended there.
“Sounds promising,” I told Bel, giving her a kiss. “Is there a street map in that pile of stuff ?”
“Only a downtown one.”
“Then let’s go do some shopping.”
It’s very hard to get lost in American cities, so long as you stick to the grid system. You’ll nearly always find the right road, though you may then have trouble finding the right building, since there doesn’t always seem to be much sense to the way street numbers run.
That evening, we got onto Aurora and followed it for miles.
I don’t think Bel had ever seen a street so long, and when we came off at Green Lake, Aurora still had a long way to run.
Green Lake was busy with joggers and walkers, skateboarders and roller skaters, and people just enjoying the air.
We’d had a good afternoon, walking the streets, sitting in coffee shops, making new friends. As I’d promised Bel, the coffee here was definitely a class above the stuff they doled out in diners. She’d already had three cups of Starbucks, and the caffeine was showing. Every café we sat in, when people heard our accents they wanted to talk to us. So we learned a bit more about the city. Ballard was the district where the descendants of the Norsemen lived. The streets east of where the Kingdome used to be were to be avoided. The Mariners were having another lousy season, and were now owned by Nintendo. We’d missed the an-nual folk festival. There was a drought. A couple of local micro-breweries were producing excellent dark beers . . . Some of this I already knew, but some of it was new to me, and I appreciated all the information I could get. Jeremiah Provost, after all, was on home ground. It was important to know as much about the city as he did. That way, we’d be less likely to fall into any traps.
So far, Seattle had looked distinctly free from traps. I showed Bel Pike Place Market, pointed out the bicycle cops in Pioneer Square, and steered her around the street people and pan-handlers milling around the streets near the waterfront. The pawnshops were doing good business in Seattle. They had guns and guitars in their windows, but I didn’t stop to look. I wasn’t carrying a gun with me, but when we headed off for dinner with Sam Clancy, I hid the pistol under the Trans Am’s front seat.
The car was sounding ropy. It needed another tune, oil change, and maybe a new exhaust. Probably it also needed a complete rest. We’d pushed it hard, and it had served us well, but we needed it healthy for a while longer.
We’d overestimated the weight of traffic and were early at the restaurant, so we parked the car and walked back down to the lake. Bel pulled off her cowboy boots to walk barefoot on the grass. She looked okay, not tired or stressed out. She was keen for something to happen, for some showdown to arrive, but she managed not to look too impatient.
By the time we got back to the restaurant she declared herself ready for a drink. There was still no sign of Clancy, but a table had been reserved in the name of West, so we took it. It was laid out for three diners. The waiter asked if we wanted a margarita while we waited. Bel nodded that we did.
“Large or small?”
“Large,” she stated, before plowing through the menu.
“What’s the difference between all these things?” she asked me.
“Tacos, burritos, fajitas, tortillas . . . ?”
“Ask the waiter.”
But instead she took her very large margarita from him and ran her finger around the rim.
“It’s salt,” I said.
“I knew that.” Having wiped a portion of the rim clean, she sipped, considered, then took another sip.
There was a man at the front of the restaurant. He’d been studying the takeout menu when we’d come in, and he was still studying it. I got up from the table and walked over to him.
“Why don’t you join us?” I said.
He tried to look puzzled, then gave up and smiled. “Have you known all the time?”
“More or less.”
I led him to the table. Sam Clancy was tall and thin with a ca-daverous face and sunken eyes. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, with thinning brown hair combed across his forehead.
From his voice, I’d imagined he’d be older. He took Bel’s hand before sitting down. The waiter arrived, and Clancy nodded toward her drink.
“Looks good,” he said. The waiter nodded and moved off.
“So, I guess I wouldn’t make a career working undercover, huh?
Do you want some introductory conversation, or shall we get down to work?”
“Let’s consider ourselves introduced,” said Bel.
“Right. So, you want to know what I know. Well, here goes.
Jeremiah Provost takes a bit of a back seat these days as far as the day-to-day running of the Disciples is concerned. You know a bit about his background?”
“Rich family,” I said, “bad college professor.”
“That’s not a bad précis. Also completely nuts. He’s been in and out of expensive clinics. No sign that he does heavy drugs or booze, so there has to be some other reason, like pure mental instability.”
“So if he’s in the back seat,” asked Bel, “who’s behind the wheel?”
“On the business side, a man called Nathan. I don’t even know if that’s his first or last name, he’s just called Nathan. You know a couple of reporters got attacked by the Disciples? That was Nathan. He didn’t like them, so he whacked them.”
“He’s a bit handy then?” I said.
“He’s a tough mother. Then there’s Alisha, she’s an earth-mother type with just a streak of junta. She runs the people, makes them do what needs to be done.”
“And this is all out on the Olympic Peninsula?”
Clancy nodded. “The most beautiful spot on the continent.
But Provost isn’t there much. He’s taken on a Howard Hughes existence in a brand-new house up on Queen Anne Hill. Terrific view of downtown, a few thousand square feet and a swimming pool. Rumor has it Kiefer Sutherland wanted to rent the place when he was here filming The Vanishing. Anyway, that’s where Provost spends his time, surrounded by phones and fax machines and computers, so he can keep in touch with his minions overseas.”
“There was a fax machine in Oban,” I recalled, “it had at least two Washington State numbers on its memory.”
“Olympic Peninsula and Queen Anne,” Clancy stated with authority.
“Have you ever spoken to Provost?” Bel asked him.
“I’ve tried, but he’s ringed with steel.”
“But who runs the show really, him or his lieutenants?”
“Now that’s a good question.”
Clancy broke off so we could order. Bel took his advice when her turn came, and we ordered another round of drinks to go with the meal. Some tortilla chips and dip had been placed on the table, so we munched as we spoke.
; “The men who killed my father,” said Bel, “if they were the same men who stopped us on the road out of Oban, then they were Americans.”
“They didn’t look like cult members though,” I told Clancy.
“They seemed more like government types.”
“Which brings me to my research,” Clancy said, beginning to enjoy himself. “You know that the Disciples suddenly took off late in 1985? I mean, they started buying land and real estate.
Which means Provost had money to spend. Where did it come from? Nobody knows. Did a bunch of rich relatives suddenly and conveniently die? No. Did he win some state lottery? No. A lucky week at Vegas? Uh-uh. It’s been driving people nuts, wondering where that money suddenly came from.”
“You’ve found out?” Bel asked.
“Not exactly, not yet. But I think I was getting close.” So maybe Eleanor Ricks had been getting close too. “I do know this.” Clancy made a melodramatic point, glancing around the restaurant then leaning forward across the table. I wondered if he could always differentiate between gossip and fact. “Provost went to Washington, D.C. Please, don’t ask how I know this. I have sources to protect and my . . . uh, techniques weren’t always strictly legit. He was in D.C. for a meeting with some lawyers and other fat cats. But while he was there he had a couple of visitors, two men called Elyot and Kline. They visited him on more than one occasion. This was in January 1986, a few months after Provost started spending.
“Now, I think I’ve tracked down who Elyot and Kline were and are. There’s an agent called Richard Elyot works for the CIA.
And at the NSC there used to be a cat called Kline.”
“Used to be?”
“He resigned officially in 1986. Since then he’s been on the fringes, only his name’s not on the books any longer. Nobody knows why he resigned, whether he was forced out or what. I’m going to describe Kline to you.”
He did. I nodded halfway through and continued nodding.
“Sounds familiar,” I conceded.
“The guy in the rear car, right?” Clancy surmised.
“Right,” I confirmed. “What about Elyot?”
“Elyot’s posted in some overseas embassy just now, not a very prestigious one. He’s been getting shitty assignments for about the past five years. I even hear that he was in the U.S. consulate in Scotland for a couple of months.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s all interesting,” said Bel, finishing her second margarita.
“But where does it get us?”
“The Disciples,” Clancy said, “are somehow connected to the CIA and the NSC. How come? What could they possibly have in common?”
“And whatever it is,” I added, “does it add up to Provost being in their pay?”
“Absolutely,” said Clancy, sitting back.
“I wouldn’t mind a word with Jeremiah Provost.”
Clancy laughed. “Get in line, fella.”
“Michael has ways,” Bel said quietly, staring at me.
“Oh, yeah?” Clancy was interested.
“But his techniques,” she went on, “aren’t ever strictly legit.”
Clancy looked more interested. “Bel,” I said, “it’s been a long day.”
“A long day’s journey,” she agreed.
“Maybe we should get the bill?”
She didn’t say no. I asked Clancy how he wanted to play it.
He shrugged, so I made a couple of suggestions. We agreed he’d meet us at our hotel in the morning. I settled the bill with cash.
On the back of the check there was a little form asking for comments. We’d seen them before in diners. Bel had filled one of them in. She’d put, Service overfriendly, food big but tasteless, have a nice day. This time she got a pen from Clancy and wrote: I love tequila.
At the bottom she drew a little heart, broken into halves.
TWENTY-TWO
We met Clancy next morning in the hotel lobby. His first words were “I made a few calls to England. Nobody I spoke to has heard of you.”
“Michael does magazine work,” Bel said. “Let’s go get some coffee.” We ordered three caffe lattes at a nearby coffee shop and sat at a table inside, even though the proprietor assured us we’d be better off sitting at one of the sidewalk tables. We had a view across the street to the Seattle Art Museum. Clancy just called it “SAM.”
“There’s a porno theater one block down,” he said. “It used to advertise SAM exhibitions on its awning. Only in Seattle, friends.”
He told us that Seattle’s main industries were Boeing, fish processing, and Microsoft, and that things at Boeing were extremely shaky just now. “We used to be world leaders in grunge music. You know what that is? Torn jeans, drug habits, and sneers.”
“Didn’t Keith Richards patent that?”
Clancy laughed and looked at his watch. I knew he didn’t altogether trust us yet, and I didn’t like it that he’d been asking about us in London. Word there could get to anyone. “Come on,” he said, “time to rock and roll.”
We took the Trans Am to a mechanic Clancy knew near the U-Dub. “He’s a Christian mechanic,” Clancy said. “Every job he does comes with a blessing and a guarantee from above.”
The man was young, stocky, and bearded. He reminded me of the Amish. He said the car would take a day or so, and meantime we could have a VW Rabbit. It was a small brown car, perfect for the trip we were about to make. There was a plastic litterbag hanging from the dashboard. It had Uncle Sam’s hat on one side, and the Pledge of Allegiance on the other. I took my bag from the Trans Am and locked it in the trunk of the Rabbit.
Nobody asked what was in it, and I wouldn’t have answered if they had.
Bel sat in the back of the car, and I let Clancy drive. We drove south on Aurora into Queen Anne Hill. This was a prime residential area, mostly bungalow-style housing. A precious few lots sat on the very edge of the hill, looking down onto the city. This was where Jeremiah Provost had his house.
It was big, even by the standards of the area, and it was on an incline so steep it made you giddy.
“I wouldn’t fancy walking back from the shops,” Bel said.
Clancy looked at her. “Walk? Nobody walks, Bel. Nobody ever walks.”
We parked across the road from Provost’s house. Even with the Rabbit’s hand brake on and the car left in gear, I wasn’t sure I trusted it not to start careering downhill. We all wore sunglasses, and as further disguise Clancy was wearing a red baseball cap. There was a sheen of nervous sweat on his face. We knew we were taking a big risk coming here. But the time had come to take risks. We were parked outside a house with its own turret.
We couldn’t see much of Provost’s house though. Steps led up through a bristling garden to a white concrete wall, showing no windows or doors.
“There’s only one entrance,” said Clancy, “around the side of the house. There are French windows leading onto the pool and patio, so I suppose that makes it two entrances really.”
“And two exits,” I added. “Where are the security cameras?”
He looked at me, perhaps wondering how I knew. “Just as you turn the corner.”
“Is there an infrared trip?”
“I don’t know, could be.”
“It’s just that on the surface, it looks like there’s no security at all. So I take it what security there is, is high-tech.”
“Sure, plus the muscleman at the door.”
“Just the one?”
“Hey, Provost’s a religious nut, not a Middle East guerrilla.”
“What about at night? He’s got approach lights?”
“Yeah, if a hedgehog so much as inspects the lawn, the place lights up like the Fourth of July.” Clancy was still looking at me.
“You’re asking all the right questions, only I’m not sure they’re questions a reporter would think to ask.”
“I’m not your everyday reporter,” I said. “He spends most of his time in there?”
“Yeah. There’
s a house out on Hood Canal belongs to Nathan. That’s hot real estate too. Sometimes Provost goes there for the weekend. He doesn’t do much, digs clams, picks oysters at low tide. Mr. Microsoft has a compound a few houses down.”
“How much do you know about Nathan?”
“Not much. I got a name and a face.”
“When did he join the Disciples?”
“I don’t know. The problem is, only having one of his names, I can’t even begin to do a trace back.”
“He handles the business—does that mean the money?”
“Yeah, there’s an accountant too, but Nathan does the day-to-day balance sheet. Thing is, there’s very little on the profit side. Very little income compared to the expenditures.”
“Maybe we should talk to Nathan rather than Provost.”
“He’s no easier to get to, Mike. And he has this look like he’s just waiting to break someone’s face open. These cults, they’re always suspicious. I mean, someone comes sniffing around them for a story, chances are it isn’t going to be a panegyric.”
I looked out at Provost’s house. “Can we see it from another angle?”
“Yeah, if you walk downhill and take a left. But frankly, you won’t see much more than you can from here. More concrete and the top of a window, that’s about it. It’s a smart design, completely open but totally private. He doesn’t even have a fence, but he could he filming hard-core in his pool and none of the neighbors would know.”
“Some of these cult leaders like to initiate new recruits,” said Bel, who’d done her reading.
Clancy shrugged. “I don’t know if Provost shafts the women in the cult. I mean, with a name like Disciples of Love, and starting off where it did and how it did, it’s got to be a good bet. But he’s never gone public on humping politics.”
“That sounds like a quote from one of your own stories.”
He grinned. “It is, only the paper spiked it as defamatory.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go buy what we need.”
The shop we wanted was on Aurora, way north of Green Lake.
It was called Ed’s Guns and Sporting Goods and was run by a man named Archie with a trace of a Scots accent. I knew pretty much what we needed: camouflage jackets, overtrousers, boots, a couple of tents, a small stove and pot, plates, mugs and cutlery, binoculars, and a couple of backpacks to put everything in.
