The Hammer of God (17 page)

“Well, I hope Janice can manage without you for the next couple of days.”

“Why, where is she going?”

“Not her. You, Kimosabe. You are on the next flight out to Forward Operating Base Delta Tango 1, wherever the hell that is, to personally give B&R their orders with the President's executive decree of immunity for the ambassador affair.”

“So they went for this whole cockamamie idea of yours?”

“
Ours
. This cockamamie idea of
ours
, Joey boy. Oh, we need a operational name?”

“How about ‘Stork?'”

“Thank God, Francoise, that he died up here in the street,” commented Pierre as the ambulance pulled up to the cobblestoned curb on the Saint Germain street. Many of the kitschy jazz and rock clubs went three or four stories below the street. In the past, they both had to lift deadweight up the old stone narrow and sometimes winding staircases. Those were mostly drug overdoses. Occasionally a knife fight or rare gunshot victim. Judging from the trail of blood on the sidewalk, this man had made it to the street. Unfortunately, he was apparently run over by a car as well. At 4:30 in the morning, the driver was probably drunk and didn't stop. The Sûreté would handle the hit and run. Pierre's job would have been to see if this poor soul was still alive and in need of immediate medical attention but his stethoscope remained in the large pocket of his uniform, especially made to hold it. He placed two fingers on the victim's bloodied neck, not to find a pulse, but to check the temperature. The coldness of the body meant he had been lying there for some time.

The cop's intuition of the Inspector who arrived on the scene, that this fellow was killed before the car crushed his skull, was confirmed when Pierre, pointed to the knife wound in the body's chest. That being the case, Pierre and his partner would have to wait until the police collected any evidence. From experience, he knew this would take a while, so he opened his thermos and poured two cups for Françoise and himself.

∞§∞

Bill was entering the White House at 7:32 a.m. As he swiped his I.D., a man was waiting for him at the security post.

“Mr. Hiccock, please come with me.”

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Smith, Special Assistant to the President. Please come with me now.”

“Smith?”

They headed to the Situation Room. After the usual vetting and scanning, Bill was facing the President and an older man he did not know.

“Mr. President, what can I do for you, sir?”

“Bill, I am really sorry about this.”

“Mr. Hiccock, please surrender your White House I.D. and all other federal I.D. you may have on you.”

“What?”

“Please Bill; don't make this any harder than it already is,” the President said.

Bill fished out the six I.D.s from the various agencies he was temporarily technically in charge of.

“May I ask why?”

“Bill, NSA intercepted you on a phone call. At that time you used a term on a non-secured phone that even the knowledge of is classified.”

“Sir, I certainly have the highest clearance,” Hiccock said, pointing to the pile of alphabet soup cards that started with FBI and went straight through OHS.

“Bill, only three people are cleared to know this – me, this man, and one other person who I designated. In fact, I really don't know all of the specifics myself. But I know the code words and their intent.”

“Okay, so what did I say?”

“How did you come to hear the term, ‘Jesus Factor?'” the other man asked.

“Is that what this is about? You'll have to revise your numbers. I got that from an old friend of mine, who learned it from a group of scientists. In fact, I have 10 people working on it now.”

“That's incredible,” the President said. “You could be shot!”

“Sir, this cat is well out of the bag.”

For the next five minutes, Hiccock told the story of the scientists, Peter Remo, and What Would Jesus Do.

When it was over, the President sat dumbfounded. “But he didn't tell you what it was?”

“It didn't get that far. As soon as I said I never heard of it, he freaked… and now I understand why.”

“Bill, I want his name and address. We have to contain this. I also want the 10 people you say are working on it.”

“Mr. President, please don't make that a direct order, because each of the 10 is very highly cleared on my SCIAD network, which is hyper-encrypted and random encoded. They are scientists and handle all kinds of sensitive material. Besides, most of them don't believe in UFOs.”

“Bill, what do UFOs have to do with this?”

“Wait, what? You mean the Jesus Factor isn't about UFOs?”

“No. Is that what your men are doing?”

“Yes. I guess I left that part out of Peter's story. So this isn't your Jesus Factor? This is just a coincidental name?”

The President looked at the man Bill didn't know. “Bill, this was harrowing, to say the least. Look, save yourself more headaches. Forget you ever heard of Jesus Factor and just call this damn thing something else, okay?”

“Yes, sir, of course sir… Er… should I take these back?” Bill asked pointing at the pile of agency I.D.s.

“Certainly,” said the President.

Bill left.

“Flying saucers,” the President said with disgust.

∞§∞

“Bonjour… Bonjour…” Yardley Haines always greeted the embassy staff with that double-metered greeting. The same way, every day, for the six years he was posted to Paris. Arriving at 7:30 in the morning gave him time to review reports and the overnights from Foggy Bottom. In fact, most of what was his overnight was midday at the State Department. His usual routine of getting the first cup of coffee from the morning brew then settling in behind his desk for at least 30 minutes of precious solitude was immediately shattered by a man who he spied already awaiting him in his office.

“Bonjour… Bonjour… Emily, who is that in my office?”

Emily, a secretary whom he shared with his counterpart, explained, “He's a policeman. An inspector, I think. He was very insistent. Your computer is off and there are no documents on your desk. All your drawers are locked and I took your calendar out with me. It's right here.”

“Very good; but what does he want?”

“I think a tourist died last night.”

“So? Was this tourist an FSO?”

“No. He didn't mention that.”

“Okay, give us five minutes and then buzz me with my next appointment.”

“Sure.”

Approaching his office, Yardley took in the man seated across from his desk. He was around 50, broad-shouldered, balding spot emerging from thinning, once brown, hair. He had a small scar off the left ear in a jagged design, the kind a broken bottle would make. There was a tilt to his shoulders that the fledgling crime novelist within Yardley might ascribe to the weight of his firearm snugged in his shoulder holster. Shoes were worn but well-polished. He wore a wedding ring and had suffered a break of his left pinky.
Why do policemen everywhere insist on those ratty trench coats?

“Inspector! So sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Ah, Mr. Haines; it's Lieutenant. And not to worry; I am actually at the end of my day.”

“Night shift! Keeping Parisians safe while they sleep.”

“Unfortunately, I am sorry to say, I could not keep one American safe last night.”

“Yes, I heard. A tourist, I believe?”

“Seemingly so. Do you know this man?” He handed Haines the driver's license retrieved from the wallet of the American. It was a New York State license with a picture.

“No, no, I can't say I know the man.”

“Forgive me, but because you are Embassy staff and a diplomat, I must request more specificity. You cannot say you know him because you are under orders not to say, or you mean you don't know who he is.”

Yardley was thrown.
What was this cop getting at?
Maybe he should look again; maybe he should wait until the Chief of Station got in and clear any answer to the local authorities through him. After all, at Yardley's FSO pay grade, he didn‘t know everything America was doing in France.

“I don't believe I caught your name, Lieutenant.”

“Malveau; Tristan Malveau.”

“Well, Lieutenant Malveau, I am just a mid-level Foreign Service Officer. The chances of me knowing the dead man only extend to the random possibility of having gone to school with him back in the States. May I ask why you are here? Last year we had more than 30 Americans who died in France and I don't recall the police ever being here once.”

“A mere courtesy, monsieur. This was also found on his person.” Malveau handed a business card to Haines.

All Yardley saw was the seal of the President of the United States on the card and he was off. “Would you be so kind as to wait here, Lieutenant, while I check into this?”

“Of course.”

∞§∞

“The baby is not made out of glass. Although you have to be mindful of certain developmental issues, don't overcompensate. In fact, the more you make the child a part of your life, the better the child's development. That doesn't mean you take a six-month old to the stock car races and then for a steak dinner, but for your sake and the child's, you should try not to change everything all at once. Many parents… Many par... Please make sure all cell phones are off or switched to vibrate please.”

“Sorry, excuse me,” Hiccock said as he retrieved his ringing cell phone from his pocket under the glaring eyes of Janice. “I'll just take this outside…”

He wedged his way past two other expectant couples in his row and headed for the exit in the back of the room. “Hold on,” he whispered into the phone.

Out in the lobby, he went toward the doors of the learning center to get a better signal. “Hello.”

“White House switchboard. I have Joseph Palumbo on the line.”

“Put him through, operator. Hey Joey, We're auditing a baby catching class. What's up?”

“They let you audit those now? Listen, we just got a call from State. There is a deceased American citizen in Paris and somehow he is connected to you.”

“Me? Who is it?”

“Don't know but they want you over there.”

“Over where -- Paris?”

“No, the State Department.”

“Now?”

“They were very insistent.”

“Okay, thanks Joe.” Bill hung up and walked back to the room. He hesitated at the door. He hated to bother everybody again, but he was practically ordered to the State Department. He entered and squeezed past the two couples again, then sat beside Janice.

“Honey, I have to go.”

“What? Now?”

“I have to get to State. Somebody died in Europe and they want to talk to me.”

“That doesn't make any sense…”

“I know.” He handed her the keys. “You take the car. I'll catch a cab.”

The instructor once again stopped in her dissertation. “Is there something the matter?”

“Uh, I'm sorry. I have to get back to work. So sorry to interrupt.”

With that announcement, the other two couples in the row got up and moved out to avoid further butt-facing from Hiccock.

Bill kissed Janice on the cheek. “Love you; see ya at home.”

∞§∞

As Bill approached the security post on the C Street entrance of the State Department, he flashed his White House I.D. A man on the other side of the magnetometer greeted him. “Mr. Hiccock, I'm Martin Kelsh, Undersecretary of State for European and Eurasian Affairs. Come this way, please.”

Four minutes later, they were in a secure videoconference room. As soon as they walked in, the grainy image on the left of two videoscreens caused Bill to utter, “Oh, no!”

On the other screen, to the right, were Yardley Haines and Frank Randall. Frank was the Station Chief of the Paris Embassy. Once Bill sat in the chair, his own image came up on a smaller monitor below the two big ones.

Frank spoke first. “Mr. Hiccock, do you know this man?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Is there anything about him or his purpose here in France that affects the national Security of the United States?”

“Nothing I know of. I mean, I doubt it, but I can't be 100 percent certain. Why are you asking? And how did you know I knew him?”

“We found your card in his personal effects. We have to make sure that we are not dealing with a potential security incident or secret envoy.”

“No. He met with me recently, but it was not in any way connected to my job at the White House.” As soon as he said it, Bill's mind started to race.

“There was a notation made on the back.” Frank turned and addressed an embassy staffer. “Can we put that under the camera?” On the left monitor, large fingers swiped away the license and replaced it with the back of the card. The words “Prof. Ensiling” were scrawled across the width. “Do any of these references mean anything to you?”

“I believe the professor was a friend of his who died recently. That's what he came to see me about.”

“We know of this professor. Why was the deceased seeing you about him?”

“Peter Remo was a bit of a conspiracy… lover.” Bill couldn't bring himself to use the word “nut” in relation to his dead friend. “I had my department's investigator find out if there was any foul play.”

“And what did you find?”

“That the professor died of natural causes.”

Even through the video screen, Bill saw the slightest of hints of “really” emanating from Frank Randall's face. It immediately bothered him, but he thought not to go down that road at this time.

“Is there anything else we should know, Mr. Hiccock?”

Bill was about to correct him to his proper bona fide title of Professor Hiccock, but decided it wasn't worth bringing another Ph.D. into the mix. “No, nothing else I can think of.”

“Well then, thank you sir. Sorry you lost your friend.”

“Thank you. How did he die?”

“That's a little murky right now, but it appears he was murdered.”

“Murdered? By who?”

“All we know was that it was at a nightclub. We are waiting for the police to finish their investigation.”

“Can you keep my office informed as well? I would appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

∞§∞

Bill got home and saw the pamphlets on baby care on the kitchen table. He opened the fridge, considered the potato salad, but just grabbed a Dos Equis instead. He screwed off the top and tossed it into the kitchen basket. He took a long draw, then did the lip-smack thing.