The Hammer of Eden (26 page)

He was high on adrenaline throughout the four-hour drive to San Francisco. He had nightmare visions: the two of them being arrested, himself bundled off to a jail cell, Flower sitting alone in an interrogation room at FBI headquarters, being questioned about her parents. But fear gave him a buzz.

They reached the city at eleven
A.M
. They left the car in a parking lot on Golden Gate. At a drugstore, Priest bought Flower a spiral-bound notebook and two pencils. Then he took her to a coffee shop. While she was drinking her soda, he said, “I’ll be right back,” and stepped outside.

He walked toward Union Square, scanning the faces of passersby, searching for a man who looked like him. The streets were busy with shoppers, and he had hundreds of faces to pick from. He saw a man with a thin face and dark hair studying the menu outside a restaurant, and for a moment he thought he had found his victim. Feeling wire-taut with tension, he watched for a few seconds; then the guy turned around and Priest saw that his right eye was permanently closed by some kind of injury.

Disappointed, Priest walked on. It was not easy. There were plenty of dark men in their forties, but most of them were twenty or thirty pounds heavier than Priest. He saw another likely candidate, but the guy had a camera around his neck. A tourist was no good: Priest needed someone with local credentials.
This is one of the greatest shopping centers in the world, and it’s Saturday morning: there has to be one man here who looks like me
.

He checked his watch: eleven-thirty. He was running out of time.

At last he struck lucky: a thin-faced guy of about fifty, wearing large-framed glasses, walking briskly. He was dressed in navy slacks and a green polo shirt but carried a worn tan attaché case, and looked
miserable: Priest guessed he was going to the office to do some Saturday catching up.
Now I need his wallet
. Priest followed him around a corner, psyching himself up, waiting for an opportunity.

I’m angry, I’m desperate, I’m a crazy man escaped from the asylum, I’ve got to have twenty bucks for a fix, I hate everyone, I want to slash and kill, I’m mad, mad, mad …

The man walked past the lot where the ’Cuda was parked and turned into a street of old office buildings. For a moment there was no one else in sight. Priest drew the knife, then ran up to him and said: “Hey!”

The man stopped reflexively and turned.

Priest grabbed the guy by the shirt, shoved the knife in front of his face, and screamed: “GIMME YOUR FUCKIN’ WALLET OR I’LL SLIT YOUR FUCKIN’ THROAT!”

The guy should have collapsed in terror, but he did not.
Jesus, he’s a tough guy
. His face showed anger, not fear.

Staring into his eyes, Priest read the thought
It’s only one guy, and he doesn’t have a gun
.

Priest hesitated, suddenly fearful.
Shit, I can’t afford for this to go wrong
. There was a split-second standoff.
A casually dressed man with a briefcase heading for work on Saturday morning … could he be a police detective?

But it was too late now for second thoughts. Before the guy could move, Priest flicked the blade across his cheek, drawing a thin two-inch line of red blood just below the right lens of his spectacles.

The man’s courage evaporated, and all thought of resistance left him. His eyes widened in fear, and his body seemed to sag. “Okay! Okay!” he said in a high-pitched, shaky voice.

Not a cop, after all
.

Priest screamed: “NOW! NOW! GIMME IT NOW!”

“It’s in my case.…”

Priest grabbed the briefcase from the man’s hand. At the last minute he decided to take the guy’s glasses, too. He snatched them off his face, turned around, and ran away.

At the corner he looked back. The guy was throwing up on the sidewalk.

Priest turned right. He dropped his knife into a garbage bin and walked on. At the next corner he stopped by a building site and opened the case. Inside was a file folder, a notebook and some pens, a paper package that looked as if it contained a sandwich, and a leather billfold. Priest took the billfold and threw the case over the fence into a builder’s skip.

He returned to the coffee shop and sat down with Flower. His coffee was still warm.
I haven’t lost the touch. Thirty years since I last did that, but I can still scare the shit out of people. Way to go, Ricky
.

He opened the billfold. It contained money, credit cards, business cards, and some kind of identity card with a photo. Priest pulled out a business card and handed it to Flower. “My card, ma’am.”

She giggled. “You’re Peter Shoebury, of Watkins, Colefax and Brown.”

“I’m a lawyer?”

“I guess.”

He looked at the photo on the identity card. It was about half an inch square and had been taken in an automatic photo booth. It was about ten years old, he guessed. It did not look exactly like Priest, but neither did it look much like Peter Shoebury. Photos were like that.

Still, Priest could improve the resemblance. Shoebury had straight dark hair, but it was short. Priest said: “Can I borrow your hairband?”

“Sure.” Flower took a rubber band out of her hair and shook her locks around her face. Priest did the reverse, pulling his hair back into a ponytail and tying it with the band. Then he put on the glasses.

He showed Flower the photo. “How do you like my secret identity?”

“Hmm.” She looked at the back of the card. “This will admit you to the downtown office, but not the Oakland branch.”

“I guess I can live with that.”

She grinned. “Daddy, where did you get this?”

He raised one eyebrow at her and said: “I borrowed it.”

“Did you pick someone’s pocket?”

“Sort of.” He could see she thought that was roguish rather than wicked. He let her believe what she wanted. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was eleven forty-five. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.”

They walked along the street and entered the Federal Building, a forbidding gray granite monolith occupying the entire city block. In the lobby they passed through a metal detector, and Priest was glad he had had the forethought to get rid of the knife. He asked the security guard which floor the FBI was on.

They took the elevator up. Priest felt like he was high on cocaine. The danger made him superalert.
If this elevator breaks down, I could power it with my own psychic energy
. He figured it was okay to be self-confident, maybe even a little arrogant, as he was playing the part of a lawyer.

He led Flower into the FBI office and followed a sign to a conference room off the lobby. There was a table with microphones at the far end of the room. Near the door stood four men, all tall and fit looking, wearing well-pressed business suits, white shirts, and sober ties. They had to be agents.

If they knew who I was, they’d shoot me down without even thinking about it
.

Stay cool, Priest—they ain’t mind readers, they don’t know nothing about you
.

Priest was six feet, but they were all taller. He sensed immediately that the leader was the older man whose thick white hair was meticulously parted and combed. He was talking to a man with a black mustache. Two younger men were listening, wearing deferential expressions.

A young woman carrying a clipboard approached Priest. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Well, I sure hope so,” Priest said.

The agents noticed him when he spoke. He read their reactions as they looked at him. When they took in his ponytail and blue jeans they became guarded; then they saw Flower and softened again.

One of the younger men said: “Everything okay here?”

Priest said: “My name is Peter Shoebury, I’m an attorney with Watkins, Colefax and Brown here in the city. My daughter Florence is editor of the school newspaper. She heard on the radio about your press conference, and she wanted to cover it for the paper. So I figured
hey, it’s a public information thing, let’s go along. I hope it’s okay with you.”

Everyone looked at the white-haired guy, confirming Priest’s intuition that he was the boss.

There was an awful moment of hesitation.

Hell, boy, you ain’t no lawyer! You’re Ricky Granger, used to wholesale amphetamines through a bunch of liquor stores in Los Angeles back in the sixties—are you mixed up in this earthquake shit? Frisk him, boys, and cuff his little girl, too. Let’s take ‘em in, find out what they know
.

The white-haired man held out his hand and said: “I’m Associate Special Agent in Charge Brian Kincaid, head of the San Francisco field office of the FBI.”

Priest shook hands. “Good to meet you, Brian.”

“What firm did you say you’re with, sir?”

“Watkins, Colefax and Brown.”

Kincaid frowned. “I thought they were real estate brokers, not lawyers.”

Oh, shit
.

Priest nodded and tried for a reassuring smile. “That’s correct, and it’s my job to keep them out of trouble.” There was a word for a lawyer who was employed by a corporation. Priest searched his memory and found it. “I’m in-house counsel.”

“Would you have any kind of ID?”

“Oh, sure.” He opened the stolen wallet and took out the card with the photo of Peter Shoebury. He held his breath.

Kincaid looked at it, then checked the resemblance to Priest. Priest could tell what he was thinking:
Could be him, I guess
. He handed it back. Priest breathed again.

Kincaid turned to Flower. “What school are you at, Florence?”

Priest’s heart beat faster.
Just make something up, kid
.

“Um.…” Flower hesitated. Priest was about to answer for her, then she said: “Eisenhower Junior High.”

Priest felt a surge of pride. She had inherited his nerve. Just in case Kincaid should happen to know the schools in San Francisco, he added: “That’s in Oakland.”

Kincaid seemed satisfied. “Well, we’d be delighted to have you join us, Florence,” he said.

We did it!

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“If there are any questions I can answer now, before the press conference starts …”

Priest had been careful not to overprepare Flower. If she appeared shy, or fumbled her questions, it would seem only natural, he figured; whereas if she were too poised and seemed well rehearsed, she might arouse suspicion. But now he felt a surge of anxiety on her behalf, and he had to suppress the paternal urge to step in and tell her what to do. He bit his lip.

She opened her notebook. “Are you in charge of this investigation?”

Priest relaxed a little. She would be fine.

“This is only one of many inquiries that I have to keep an eye on,” Kincaid answered. He pointed to the man with the black mustache. “Special Agent Marvin Hayes has this assignment.”

Flower turned to Hayes. “I think the school would like to know what kind of person you are, Mr. Hayes. Could I ask you some questions about yourself?”

Priest was shocked to observe a hint of coquettishness in the way she tilted her head and smiled at Hayes.
She’s too young to flirt with grown men, for God’s sake!

But Hayes bought it. He looked pleased and said: “Sure, go ahead.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes. I have two children, a boy around your age and a girl a little younger.”

“Do you have any hobbies?”

“I collect boxing memorabilia.”

“That’s unusual.”

“I guess it is.”

Priest was both pleased and dismayed by how naturally Flower fell into the role.
She’s good at this. Hell, I hope I haven’t raised her all these years to become a cheap magazine writer
.

He studied Hayes while the agent answered Flower’s innocent questions. This was his opponent. Hayes was carefully dressed in conventional style. His tan lightweight suit, white shirt, and dark silk tie had probably come from Brooks Brothers. He wore black oxford shoes, highly shined and tightly laced. His hair and mustache were neatly trimmed.

Yet Priest sensed that the ultraconservative look was fake. The tie was too striking, there was an overlarge ruby ring on the pinky of his left hand, and the mustache was a raffish touch. Also, Priest thought that the kind of American Brahmin Hayes was trying to imitate would not be so dressed up on a Saturday morning, even for a press conference.

“What’s your favorite restaurant?” Flower asked.

“A lot of us go to Everton’s, which is really more of a pub.”

The conference room was filling up with men and women with notebooks and cassette recorders, photographers encumbered with cameras and flashguns, radio reporters with large microphones, and a couple of TV crews with handheld videocameras. As they came in, the young woman with the clipboard asked them to sign a book. Priest and Flower seemed to have bypassed that. He was thankful. He could not write “Peter Shoebury” to save his life.

Kincaid, the boss, touched Hayes’s elbow. “We need to prepare for our press conference now, Florence. I hope you’ll stay to hear what we have to announce.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

Priest said: “You’ve really been very kind, Mr. Hayes. Florence’s teachers will be truly grateful.”

The agents moved to the table at the far end.
My God, we fooled them
. Priest and Flower sat at the back and waited. Priest’s tension eased. He really had got away with it.

I knew I would
.

He had not gained much hard information yet, but that would come with the formal press announcement. What he did have was a sense of the people he was dealing with. He was reassured by what he had
learned. Neither Kincaid nor Hayes struck him as brilliant. They seemed like ordinary plodding cops, the kind who got by with a mixture of dogged routine and occasional corruption. He had little to fear from them.

Kincaid stood up and introduced himself. He sounded confident but a touch overassertive. Maybe he had not been the boss very long. He said: “I would like to begin by making one thing very clear. The FBI does not believe that yesterday’s earthquake was triggered by a terrorist group.”