Storming Heaven (27 page)

“It gets more interesting,” Michaels promised.
“They lose a lot of money—every year I looked at, so the last three. There isn’t a lot of financial data on this type of long distance company, but when you compare them to RMA and some other data I was able to dig up, they’re really out of whack.”

“Huh?”

“RMA gets financial statements from all kinds of companies and creates a database for financial statistics on different types of businesses. So you can take the statements of any given company and compare them to an average for that industry.”

“And they don’t line up?”

Michaels shook his head. “For one thing, Vericomm has absolutely no debt. They fund everything—including their losses—through the sale of stock.”

“I don’t know much about this stuff, but it seems like if you lost money every year, people would stop investing.”

“Normally they would. The other thing that’s funky is that they have too many fixed assets.”

“Come again?”

“They have too much, uh, stuff. All companies have a different makeup of assets and liabilities. Take, say, a consulting firm. You wouldn’t expect them to have, oh, I don’t know, inventory, say, as high as a grocery store’s. A grocery store has tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of food and a consultant has, like, a computer and some reference materials.”

“Makes sense.”

“Well, Vericomm has way too many fixed assets. It’s like they have enough equipment to run a company five times as big.”

“Maybe they’re setting up for a growth spurt?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. It looks like they’ve had about the same number of customers for the last three years.”

“Okay, good job, Chet. I wouldn’t have gotten any of that. Do me a favor; put it in writing. Give me the numbers and details—so I can understand them, though, okay?”

Beamon watched Michaels walk from the office and pulled out his wallet. He searched through his credit cards and the other junk that had accumulated, finally coming up with a bright yellow laminated card. His name and a ten-digit number were emblazoned across it, beneath an orange box with bright red letters spelling out
“NICKELINEAZ.
”

T
HE SNOW-COVERED HILLS STRETCHED OUT
as far as Beamon could see, broken only occasionally by a thick stand of pines. He eased the car to a stop in front of a tall iron gate, reluctantly rolling down the window and letting the wind whip the inevitable fine mist of snow through the opening.

The guard who stepped from the small wooden booth to greet him was dressed in the standard garb—blue pants with a stripe running down the length of each leg, solid blue tie, and a down parka with an official-looking patch on the shoulder. The man himself, though, was a little less typical. The way the heaviness in his arms and shoulders tapered to a minute waist was obvious even through his bulky coat. He walked with a relaxed, businesslike stride that said he was more than an eight-dollar-an- hour rent-a-cop. A hell of a lot more.

“I’m sorry, sir. Albert is not available to take visitors right now. If you give me your name and e-mail address, I’ll be happy to have him contact you as soon as possible,” the man said, putting his hands on the car’s windowsill and flashing a courteous smile.

Beamon examined the guard’s right wrist, wondering if this might be one of the phantom protectors of the faith that Ernie had told him about.
Unfortunately, if there was an iron bracelet welded there, it was hidden by his sleeve.

The guard’s polite speech had a practiced air, suggesting he’d repeated it at least a thousand times before. Obviously, there was a problem with Albert Kneiss’s awestruck followers coming to his compound to try to get an audience. Beamon had to admit to being a little impressed by the reaction to his uninvited visit. It wasn’t every church that offered timely e-mail access to the Messiah.

Beamon reached into his jacket, noting the slight tensing of the guard’s body.

“I’m Mark Beamon with the FBI,” he said, pulling his credentials from his pocket and flipping them open. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Kneiss on an official matter.”

The guard examined Beamon’s ID carefully. “Just a moment, please, sir.” He walked back to the guardhouse and picked up a phone. Beamon rolled up his window and dusted off the snow that had accumulated on his dashboard while he waited. It didn’t take long.

“Sir, if you continue up this road, you’ll come to the main house. Just park right under the portico. There’ll be someone waiting for you there.”

The man stepped away from the car, and Beamon accelerated through the gate. It was almost a half-mile on the narrow road before he crested a hill that afforded a spectacular view of a small valley dominated by an enormous Tudor-style mansion. The house was beautifully constructed and meticulously maintained, but it sprawled out a bit unnaturally, suggesting that the expansive wings on either side had been an afterthought.

The car skidded a bit as Beamon maneuvered it
down the other side of the hill and pulled up beneath the wide portico at the front of the building.

“Mr. Beamon. Please come in,” the woman standing at the front door said as he stepped from the car and started up the steps. “My name is Sara Renslier.” She walked through the door and motioned to a beautifully wrought antique coat rack. Beamon hung his jacket on one of the brass pegs and stretched out his hand. “Mark Beamon.”

The strength of her grip belied her small stature. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Beamon. Please follow me.”

The mansion was spectacular. It was decorated with an unlikely combination of artifacts from all over the world that seemed to melt into an odd harmony. The pieces all looked fantastically expensive, but they were laid out sparsely enough to maintain a vaguely monastic atmosphere.

Beamon followed the woman obediently as they progressed into the heart of the house. There was nothing that looked even remotely suspicious, but he couldn’t help wondering what the chances were that he was within two hundred yards of Jennifer Davis. By the time they entered the small room at the end of the hall, he’d decided they were probably better than fifty-fifty.

“Please take a seat,” Sara said, pointing to a heavy-looking leather chair in front of a roaring fire. “Warm yourself.”

Beamon sat down and looked around him as Sara made coffee in an ornate press. The room was perhaps a bit more opulent, but beyond that, it differed very little from the one he’d been taken to at the recruiting station. Obviously, the church had figured out the formula that worked, and then didn’t deviate from it.

Beamon took the offered coffee and watched Sara settle into the chair across from him. Her short dark hair was not unstylish, but screamed utilitarian. She was perfectly groomed and neatly dressed, as he would have expected from the leader of the perfectly groomed and neatly dressed hordes that had taken over Flagstaff. What he hadn’t expected was the air of power and self-control she exuded. He’d met more than a handful of the most powerful men in the world, and there weren’t many who sucked the air out of a room like she did. Now that he had met her, he didn’t find it the least bit surprising that this woman had been able to take an esoteric cult and turn it into the fastest-growing religion in the world.

What did surprise him was the fact that she was there meeting with him. Undoubtedly she was about to provide a perfectly logical reason why it was going to be impossible for him to speak to Kneiss. The question was, why would a woman who controlled debat- ably the most efficient religious machine in history meet personally with a lowly ASAC?

She seemed to be waiting for him to speak, so he took a sip of his coffee and started. “As I told the man at the gate, I’d like a few minutes of Mr. Kneiss’s time.”

“May I ask what about?”

“It’s a private matter relating to a case I’m working on.”

“Jennifer Davis?”

“Excuse me?” Beamon said, slipping into a suitably coy expression.

“The disappearance of that little girl,” Sara said. “I read about it in the papers almost every day.”

He considered lying—telling her that it was a
different case—but it was obvious that she knew exactly why he was there. And it was even more obvious that she didn’t really care. There was something in her posture, the way she sipped at her cup, that was infinitely condescending.

“Jennifer Davis, yes,” he said, pulling a pad from his pocket and flipping though it, purely for show. “Sara Renslier. You pretty much run the church. Is that right?”

She smiled at him as though he was a child who had just added two and two and come up with five. “No. No, it’s not. Albert is in control of all parts of his church. I just carry out his wishes as best I can.”

“And what are those wishes?”

“That’s a fairly broad question,” she said, laying her cup down on the leather insert in the table next to her. “Albert is obviously very committed to world charities and the purity of the faith he started. I help translate his ideas into reality. I watch after the mundane details.”

“And will you take over the church when he dies?”

“Ascends,” she corrected.

“Right. Just a little more than two weeks now, isn’t it?”

She nodded politely. “He’ll rejoin God on Good Friday, as he has in the past. Who will lead the church when he’s gone? That’s entirely up to him.”

It seemed a bit unlikely that she wouldn’t have given that matter a little more thought, but Beamon decided not to press the issue. “May I speak to him?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s in Turkey meditating.”

“Really? Turkey? How long’s he been there?”

“He left in January. He has a great deal to prepare for.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Sara crossed her legs and leaned back into the chair. “If you have a message you want to get to him, I will do my best to pass it along. I can’t promise anything, though.”

Beamon nodded absently, watching the writhing of the flames next to him. It was pretty much the answer he’d expected. “Does Mr. Kneiss have any living relatives?”

“None that I’m aware of. He’s certainly never spoken of any.” Her answer was too easy. She’d been ready for that question.

It was time to make a decision on how to play this. There was the smart way, of course—stand up, thank her for her time, and leave. But that seemed kind of boring. The other option was to shoot himself in the foot and see if he could make the ice princess sweat a little.

“I’m afraid I have to insist on speaking with Mr. Kneiss,” he said, deciding that the low road had always worked for him before.

Sara’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I don’t know what you want me to do. He’s incommunicado. I already told you that.”

“Then make him communicado,” Beamon said, wondering idly if Jake Layman was going to put him in front of a firing squad for this or opt for the more traditional hanging. “I have to admit I’m finding it a little hard to believe that you’ve misplaced your messiah. I suggest you take a couple of thousand bucks from the ten billion you make every year and rent a helicopter. Fly it to whatever mountaintop he’s sitting on and hand him a cell phone.”

He had to give her credit. For a woman who had probably never been spoken to like that, she
retained her self-control admirably. The slight quiver in her jaw and a nearly imperceptible crinkling around her eyes, though, told Beamon he’d just crossed the line. There would be no going back

“I’ll be back to check on your progress in a couple of days,” he said, standing and offering his hand.

That same irritating smile he’d seen earlier reappeared on her lips. “Oh, you will, will you?”

“Yeah. I will.”

Beamon dialed his cell phone with one hand and tried to maneuver the car around a slick corner with the other, all while trying to calculate how long it would take for his meeting with Sara Renslier to get back to Layman.

“Mark Beamon’s office.”

“D.! I want you to get Ken Hirayami on the phone for me. He’s our guy in Athens.” “Greece?”

“Yeah. You may have to get him on his home number—it’s probably the middle of the night there.”

“Okay. That’s going to take a few minutes, though.”

“No problem. Put me through to Chet while you work on it.”

The phone went dead for a few seconds.

“Chet Michaels, can I help you?” came the earnest voice.

“Jesus, Chet, you sound like the guy at the McDonald’s drive-through.”

“Thanks, Mark.”

“Here’s what I need you to do for me. Check the
passenger manifests on all flights going to Turkey last month. You’re looking for the name Albeit Kneiss.”

“You think he’s fled the country?”

“Hardly. Also, find out if the church has a private jet. If they do, call our guys in Oklahoma City and get ‘em to find out If they registered a flight plan for Turkey—you’ll need the numbers off the plane’s tall.”

“How do you suggest I find out if they have a plane?”

“I don’t know, be resourceful. Tell them you’re from
Corporate Jet
magazine and you heard they’ve got the biggest cockpit In town. I don’t care—”

“Hey, Mark,” Michaels said, cutting him off. “D.’s waving at me. I think I have to transfer you back.”

“Drop everything and get on this, Chet. I want it tomorrow morning. Understand?”

The phone clicked again and his secretary’s voice came on. “Mark. I’ve got Ken.”

“Great. Hey, D.—How’re you coming on those copies?”

“You’ll have them, Mark.”

“You’re a goddess.”

“Uh-huh. Here he is.”

“Ken!” Nothing. “Hey, Ken!”

“Mark? Yeah, I’m here. Do you know what time It Is?”

Beamon looked at his watch. “Four-thirty in the afternoon.”

”—hole.” There was a slight delay on the line that cut off the first part of Hirayami’s reply, but Beamon could guess at it.

“Ken, I need a favor. Actually, I need two.”

“What?”

“I need you to get the cops in Turkey to find out if there’s any record of Albert Kneiss coming in there in January.”

“You got a date?”

“Nope.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Everyone has to get a visa when they come in. They either get it here or at one of the consulates. When do you need it by?”