“You don’t drink.”
“Bars serve coffee. I’ll watch you drink.”
She still hedged. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“And that’ll change our relationship how?” He clapped her on the shoulder. “C’mon, Doc. Crazy one buys the first round.”
They sat in the T-Town canteen, huddled together in a private corner. She drank white wine; he drank hot tea. She told him everything that she had found online, and she told him all of her speculations.
Chief Petty Officer Abdul Muhammad did not think she was crazy. “I can see it,” he said after careful thought. “On both sides of this thing there are enough hotheads ready to pull a trigger or throw a firebomb, and that’s as true now as it was during the Crusades and maybe back to Moses and the Pharaoh.”
“What do you think about the Protocols and all that?”
He sipped his tea. “What, do I think that there are radical Jews out there planning the downfall of the free world?” He shrugged. “Yeah, probably. Just like there are radical Muslims, Buddhists, Lutherans, and Hindus. There’s radical everything. That’s why there’s always a war somewhere. But if you’re asking if I think that these Web posts are being made by a vast secret society of Jews, then no. I don’t buy that for a moment.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Interstate Route 95 South
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
December 18, 5:37 A.M. EST
Dr. Rudy Sanchez hurried through the terminal, collected his suitcase, and picked up the late-model Ford. His annoyance at having been sent back to the States before even setting foot in England had long since passed, replaced by a growing sense of unease about the man named Nicodemus.
Once he was on the road in Pennsylvania, Rudy called Mr. Church.
“Bug called me a few minutes ago,” Rudy explained. “We had another call from the psychiatrist at Graterford. Have you read the transcript?”
“No, and I can’t read it now. Give me the highlights.”
Rudy did. When he was finished, Church said, “He actually mentioned the Kings?”
“His exact words, as Dr. Stankevi
ius recited them to me, were: ‘Lo! And behold the rise of the Seven Kings. All shall fall before them!’”
“Interesting,” murmured Church. “I’ll see that and raise you one.” He told Rudy about the Kings symbol on Plympton’s door and the reference in the note the man had left in his murdered wife’s hand.
“What does it all mean?”
“I would give a lot to be able to answer that question, Doctor. Maybe you can coax some answers out of Nicodemus.”
“I hope so, but I’m not optimistic. Nicodemus is supposed to be in isolation, without TV or newspaper privileges, and yet he’s making references to the London Hospital and the Seven Kings. He shouldn’t be able to get outside information.”
“You question the likelihood of an information leak in a prison?” Church said. “That’s almost funny.”
“Almost,” Rudy agreed sourly. He absently wondered what Mr. Church would look like laughing. Rudy had never seen the man do anything more than smile, and even then the emotion looked unwelcome and unwanted on his features. “Someone at the prison must be feeding him information, and I doubt they’re doing it just so he can stick pins in the prison therapist.”
“While you’re there, don’t assume trust in anyone, and that includes the prison doctor and the warden.”
Rudy sighed. “It’s sad that paranoia has become an indispensable quality of good job performance here in the DMS. I’m finding it very hard to trust anyone.”
“It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you,” said Church.
Rudy thought, Why is it you only have a sense of humor when things are really bad? But he didn’t say it.
“I’d like your full read on Nicodemus,” said Church, “as well as any observations you care to share about the staff.”
“What do you want me to look for?”
“I’ll leave you to determine that, Doctor. I don’t want to pollute your perceptions by sharing my speculations. We can compare notes later.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing, Doctor. I’m bringing in a consultant. Dr. Circe O’Tree. Are you familiar with her?”
“Not personally, but I know her work. I’ve seen her on TV, read her books. The new one, The Terrorist Sophist, should be required reading by everyone in the DMS. She makes some very important points on how terrorists rationalize what they do. She’s rather brilliant.”
“Yes. She’s also being largely wasted working as Hugo Vox’s assistant. I think she has more potential than Hugo gives her credit for. Do you have a problem with her consulting on this?”
“God, no. In fact, I welcome her insight.”
“Good. She’s already agreed and it’s our good fortune that she is currently in London working on another matter.”
He disconnected.
Rudy made the turn from I-95 to 476 West. He turned on the news and listened to the latest rehash of the London disaster. Nothing new, so he dialed through Sirius until he found a Mexican ska band, cranked the sound way up, and put the pedal down. As a driver, Rudy was usually careful to the point where Joe called him Tia when he was behind the wheel. He wasn’t feeling like an old aunt right now. As Joe was so fond of saying, the clock was ticking.
Chapter Twenty-five
Whitechapel
London, England
December 18, 11:21 A.M. GMT
When Ghost and I came out of the apartment complex the street was crowded with police vehicles, ambulances, and a variety of nondescript government cars that were probably licensed to the various counterterrorism teams I’d met yesterday. Lots of stone-faced guys with wires behind their ears were watching up and down the street while local cops struggled to keep the crowd well back. Everyone looked scraped raw by the unrelenting winds.
I saw a limo idling down the street, well out of the press and angled for a quick departure. The driver gave the headlights a quick flash, so I headed that way, at times having to be ungentle with the rubberneckers who thronged the bystreet. By the time I reached it the driver—in the form of the squat and muscular Sgt. Gus Dietrich—had gotten out and stood by the rear passenger door. Not sure what Dietrich’s job description was with the DMS. He was gruff, tough, honest, and as dependable as the bulldog that he closely resembled.
“Good to see you, Captain.” He offered me a rock-hard hand.
“Skip the ‘Captain’ crap, Gus. Good to see you, too. Wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Ha! Let me know when those ‘better circumstances’ roll around, Joe. I’ll take the day off and go get a massage. In the meantime … good luck with this one. It’s going to be a real nut buster.”
He opened the door and we climbed inside, happy to be out of the vicious cold. I slid onto the bench seat and Dietrich closed the door and ran around to climb behind the wheel. There were two men on the opposite seat. One big, one small, neither smiling fuzzy-bunny warmth at me.
Guy on the left was Mr. Church. He was north of sixty, but he made it look like a fit forty. Blocky, hard, with big hands and a face you wouldn’t want to see across a poker table from you. Tinted sunglasses even in the backseat of the limo. He gave me a fraction of a nod and there was no expression at all on his face.