“Do me a favor, Mrs. Ulman,” said Porter, touching her arm as they stood to leave. “Give us twenty minutes before calling.”
Mrs. Ulman stared at him in silence.
Outside, Porter tried to get the key from Alred.
“We’re going to stay alive, right?” she said, keeping the key in her pocket and a hot fist over it.
“I’ve done okay so far,” he said.
“Keep doing it. Write all you can for your dissertation. Father Time is dying early this year. Besides, they’ll still be looking for you. With some luck, I won’t be followed. Let me take care of KM-2. And I’ll get to the box.”
Porter wisely didn’t argue.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
April 26
6:03 p.m. PST
“We intercepted this letter this morning,” said Peter, passing out copies. “It’s important to realize that Porter never received this, but it does indicate the direction he’s heading. You’ll notice the letterhead of the Federal Bureau of Investigations.”
The gentlemen lifted the paper and squinted through glasses that didn’t reflect the florescent light glowing above the table.
“The letter accompanied portions of a file I didn’t feel inclined to copy…because we already have it.” Returning to his briefcase, open at the end of the long table, Peter lifted the file and read the name on the top: “Christopher Eugene Ulman, Ph. D.”
“A file from the FBI on Dr. Ulman?”
“As you will find in the letter, Porter has a friend in the bureau,” Peter said.
With their noses to the paper, they read. To: John D. Porter RE: Christopher Ulman, Ph. D. John, I wondered what it took to get you to write? The last time you contacted me, you sent a postcard of a Southern California Christmas. That wasn’t a real Christmas, you know. The holidays and beach sand are contradictory in my book. Anyway, I didn’t get your letter until it sat in my box for a few days. I’ve been a little busy out here. You’d love to know what I’m doing! But you also know I can’t reveal a thing. I can tell you Jennifer is pregnant again. She’s never been sicker, and you know all I can do is back rubs and fetch things…when I’m home! — Sorry, you wouldn’t know about that yet. Get married, Porter. I won’t bother trying to convince you to drop your scholastic emphasis again. But you’ll still finish, you know, it just might take a little longer. Look at me! Then again, I suppose you know what’s best for you. If you don’t, I sure do! Well, that will be four for us. Cameron is doing fine in kindergarten. He’s a little peeved that he has to do homework-can you believe that? Not even in the first grade yet! If you ask me, television is the bane of parents when it comes to a child’s education. You probably don’t agree with me, but I think it’s on the screen that homework receives a bad rep. Cameron’s a smart kid. He’s been tested at a third grade reading level, and he downs books like you drink hot chocolate! They’re elementary level books, of course. Jill can’t get enough of them from the library! The other tikes are wonderful. You don’t know what you’re missing. Take a look at the file. I took the liberty of noticing Ulman’s connection with your university and his focus on ancient American archaeology. It didn’t take Special Agent training to figure you have more than a professional interest in his work. According to the database, it seems your old friend, the professor, is being sought by the United States Marshals and the Customs office. Most of our file contains details of a missing person. If you know where he is, John, I’d talk him into coming in. Well, I’ve done my work now. You owe me one, and you can start by telling me your real middle name. Be thankful I let you play this game. I could gather data on you, you know, and tell everyone the truth at the mission reunion next October. Call me sometime. Ato de, hen na yatsu, Stan Clusser
“What does this mean at the end,” said one of the old men concerning the words before the typed signature.
“Japanese,” said Peter. “The best translation I found was ‘ See ya later, weirdo.’ ”
“Porter’s link with the FBI is too close,” said the old man on the end, laying the paper down, perfectly square on another manila file. “This thorn could jeopardize our entire project.”
“Actually,” said Andrews, leaning forward and smiling with gray teeth, “This thorn will bring forth roses. Nothing could be more beautiful.”
“How so,” said Smith as other quiet eyes waited like silver balls ready to fire from black cannons.
“Porter is doing our work for us.” The old man didn’t need to say anything else.
The minds in the room stormed in silence, churning possibilities and probable outcomes.
A light went on behind Peter’s eyes, and his faced warmed, but he struggled to keep the sight hidden. With calm hands placed on the edge of his closed briefcase, he said, “We give Porter slack-”
Everyone turned their gazes on the presumptuous man whose years were merely half their own.
“Just a little,” Peter added, raising a relaxed finger. “The faster Porter flees, the more he’ll kick up the dirt around him. The dust will choke all those looking on. Porter is a fanatical Mormon with enough eccentric energy to become a sore thumb in his church. He’ll bring the whole world pounding down on him.”
“Or…break it all to pieces,” said Andrews with slow words, quoting the line from Shakespeare’s Henry V.
Peter took a breath that made him stand even more upright. “Porter is one…and when his use is up, he will die.”
8:48 p.m. PST
Porter shifted in his seat as if a million termites under his clothes thought he was made of wood. He felt like a spy…or a fugitive. Thank goodness for the rain!
With the collar of his coat up, no one would recognize him…he hoped.
He’d already been to the library to get the books he needed, slipping in and out without a word or a glance of his eye to anyone. Where to then? Another motel? He couldn’t afford it. He was already dead and buried in loans. And he wasn’t used to studying in such tight quarters. His mind spun a hundred tales of men smashing in the door and filling him with deadly darts from silent guns. He had to hide in public. Bruno’s was out. If they’d found him in the library, they’d probably find him there.
But Porter couldn’t toss the feeling that they’d come after him by mistake. So why hide KM-2 and drop what the codex had been wrapped in? They wouldn’t know what snugly waited in the brown bag. He’d gotten away as they scurried like Japanese cockroaches to the bait.
Why hadn’t Clusser replied yet? Porter thought, rubbing his face. Or was Porter simply out of touch. Alred had checked his mail, but told him on the phone she’d found nothing important; no personal letters at all.
This was no matter for authorities.
It would all go away…in time.
He didn’t have the minutes he needed to read the papers to see if anyone had noticed what had happened in the library a week ago. He had to study.
Looking up he examined with red eyes the dusty cafe around him.
Certainly was quieter than Bruno’s, but too far from the university for any students to frequent. That’s why he’d decided to hide out here. He’d stay, eating and drinking amid the heaps of books and growing mass of notes, until they pushed him out.
George C. Richter’s Tales from the Amu stared up at him from beneath four yellow pages of his scribbles relating three parallel stories Porter had found. With a brown copy of Von den Bedouinen des Altertums, by Walther Molin, Tha-labai’s Qisas al-Anbiya, and of course John L. Burckhardt’s, Notes on the Bedouins and Wahabys (an oldie, but…you know), Porter wondered if he was heading up the wrong ladder. He had theories only, and as often was the case, none of the scholars agreed with him, which really didn’t matter. It was the essence of scholarship: to break traditional ideas in favor of the truth. Unless of course the truth existed in the old conclusions.