Armageddon Conspiracy (25 page)

“Yessir.”

“Tell the sonofabitch to stay in Washington and let people do their jobs.”

“I’ll pass that on, sir,” Maggie said. She hung up as Steve Kosinsky stepped into her cubicle waving a sheaf of papers.

“Yes?”

“Here’s what you asked for.”

He looked over his shoulder then sat in the chair beside her desk. “Want to tell me what’s going on?” he said in a low voice.

Maggie held out her hand. “May I see what you got?”

Kosinsky handed her the papers. Prescott Biddle’s report was on top. She skimmed it, seeing that he’d spent two years at a Tennessee bible college before transferring to Harvard. From there he’d done two years of divinity study at an evangelical seminary and then attended M.I.T.’s Sloan School. Afterward, he’d worked at several different money management firms until starting Genesis Advisors. He made large donations to ultra-conservative causes and served on several corporate boards and on the national board of a church called the New Jerusalem Fellowship.

Kosinsky had marked New Jerusalem Fellowship and Genesis Advisors with a yellow highlighter, and now he put his finger on the name of the church. “I looked them up. It’s like a nut-ball
super-fundamentalist cult. They don’t dance or drink, they deny evolution, hate gays, and believe the universe was made in six days.” He pointed to the highlighted Genesis Advisors. “Everybody but Turner worked at Biddle’s firm. Everybody but Smythe is involved with that church.”

Maggie nodded. She was continuing to read Biddle’s report, thinking his wealth and political donations made him close to untouchable. He had no indictments, a single speeding ticket, and one arrest twenty-four years earlier at an antiabortion rally.

Next, she scanned Wofford’s report. He was from Nebraska, had attended a bible college, and then earned an accounting degree from Nebraska State. He’d worked for an Omaha insurance company for twenty-eight years, becoming its president. He served on the national board of the New Jerusalem Fellowship. If anything, Wofford’s record was even cleaner than Biddle’s.

Owen Smythe had attended M.I.T. and University of Chicago Business School. He’d worked for several asset managers before coming to Genesis Advisors. He had a few speeding tickets and a drunk and disorderly during college.

Reverend Turner was from Maryland, with his divinity degree from Bob Jones University. He’d served several different evangelical-sounding churches before joining the New Jerusalem Fellowship. He’d been pastor of the Lambertville, NJ church for the past fourteen years.

Elizabeth Dowager came from Wisconsin, had attended a Lutheran bible college for two years, and then worked as a secretary for the pastor of a Pentecostal church in Milwaukee. Kosinsky had added her husband’s sheet, and it said he’d worked as a municipal
employee at Milwaukee’s water works. Nothing appeared remarkable until Maggie saw that Betty Dowager had been indicted for stealing two hundred fifty thousand dollars from her church.

Accompanying newspaper articles and court records reported that the theft had occurred after the Pentecostal church ended merger negotiations with the New Jerusalem Fellowship. It came out in the trial that Ms. Dowager had donated the stolen the money to the New Jerusalem Fellowship, thinking she was following God’s will by helping to force the merger. Convicted of embezzlement, her jail term had been commuted due to appeals from her former pastor and officials in the New Jerusalem Fellowship.

By the time Maggie finished, her heart was pounding. It was right here, she thought. She raised her eyes, but Kosinsky’s chair was empty. She’d been so intent on reading that she hadn’t noticed him leave. She went back to the reports and started again from the top. A few moments later, a fresh coffee cup appeared on the corner of her desk. She glanced up as Kosinsky flopped back down.

She smiled, but his time his expression held no amusement. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I told you. I’ve got a hunch.”

“Your hunches normally work like ESP?”

“What are you talking about?” Maggie asked, feeling a vein begin to pulse at her temple.

“While you were reading, I did another search on the New Jerusalem Fellowship. Found some stuff on these wackos I thought you’d want to see. I was waiting for my job to print out when I happened to scan the law enforcement net. Amazing what came over.”

He held out a missing person’s report filed by Fred Wofford’s wife
and another report describing the apparent murder/suicide of Reverend Turner and his wife. Maggie feigned shock as she read.

“Check the time,” Kosinsky said. The bottom of the report showed the date and time of filing. “That’s about thirty-five minutes
after
I did my search. Plus that guy, Smythe. He’s dead, too. Pretty big coincidence, all these dead guys, huh?”

Maggie nodded but did not meet his stare.

Kosinsky sat back in his chair. “You better tell me what’s going on.”

Maggie looked directly into his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”

Kosinsky shook his head. “Not a good answer.”

She saw several other pieces of paper rolled in his fist. She reached out and tugged them free. “If my theory proves out, I’ll tell you everything.” She flattened out the pages and read about the New Jerusalem Fellowship, how it was based on a belief in the approaching End of Days, involving the cataclysmic battle of Armageddon and the Second Coming. When she finished she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Talk to me,” Kosinsky demanded.

“It’s inconclusive.”

Kosinsky studied her for a long moment. “Bullshit.” He reached into the rear pocket of his trousers and brought out several additional pages. He threw them face down on her desk. She continued to hold his stare, but she thought she knew what they were.

“Let me try,” Kosinsky said. He held up a finger. “Two days ago somebody stole eight hundred and fifty million dollars from a client account at Genesis Advisors.” He held up a second finger. “A recently hired portfolio manager was implicated in the theft.” He held up a
third finger. “The client, a prominent Egyptian peace activist was found murdered.” He held up a fourth finger. “The same portfolio manager was implicated.” He held up his thumb. “The New Jerusalem Fellowship believes in this Armageddon and Second Coming stuff, which makes them the opposite of peaceniks when it comes to the Mideast.”

He paused, glanced at his extended fingers, and then held up the first finger of his second hand. “The CIA says those stolen missiles probably cost something short of a billion dollars once you add in the cost of a few pounds of depleted nuclear fuel.” He held up a seventh finger. “Oh yeah, almost forgot . . . the CIA said the Wahaddi Brotherhood, who supposedly paid for all that stuff, doesn’t have any money.” He looked at his seven upheld fingers and raised his eyebrows, as if amazed that he had made so many points. “Nice bit of detective work,” he said. “For a desk jockey.”

Maggie shrugged. “Told you it was kind of a crazy idea.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. Kosinsky reached out and flipped the pages he’d thrown on her desk. He slapped them with his palm. “Brings up the question, detective, of why you didn’t ask for anything on the one guy who seems to be implicated in all this stuff.” He let the silence hang, finally asking, “Well?”

“Well what?” Maggie asked.

“Is he guilty or innocent?”

She glanced down at the bulletin calling for Brent’s apprehension and arrest. “Innocent,” she croaked.

Kosinsky’s expression softened. “I did a background check on my own,” he said. He started to read, “Yale, played football, two years All-Ivy, Stanford Business School, worked for some fund manager in
Boston, blew the whistle on some bad guys, and then went to work with Biddle. Sounds like a super-successful guy with unusually strong ethics. Not a nut or a criminal. He comes from Morristown, New Jersey—coincidentally, so do you. He seems to be approximately your age.” He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “Any chance this is the phantom boyfriend?”

Maggie held his gaze. “He was. We broke up a while ago.”

Kosinsky sighed. “You know where he is?”

She nodded.

“You’re betting everything on this guy. What if he’s guilty?”

Maggie felt her uncertainty vanish. “He’s being framed,” she said in a firm voice.

Kosinsky reached for the stack of papers, put them in his lap, and looked them over. “I think I see where you’re going with this. It’s not going to make you popular.” He gave her a skeptical look. “Fundamentalist Christians helping Muslim terrorists?”

“It’s consistent with their Armageddon philosophy.”

Kosinsky shrugged.

“It’s consistent with the amount of money involved and with the CIA’s claim that they’d frozen the Wahaddi Brotherhood’s accounts.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s consistent with targeting an Arab peace activist, and it’s consistent with framing someone else for the theft and murder.”

Kosinsky sat forward and put his chin on his hands. “The Christian Coalition is gonna want you burned at the stake.”

Maggie said nothing.

“I should turn you in,” Kosinsky muttered. “I should have turned you in ten minutes ago.”

“That’s your call.” She handed him a copy of the memo she’d sent to Jenkins two days earlier. “I tried to push this upstairs, but I’ve heard nothing.”

Kosinsky read it and shook his head. “Nobody’s gonna pursue this Biddle guy until the bombs go off.”

“Probably true.”

“If I keep my mouth shut I’m risking my career for a guy I don’t know and a woman who won’t date me.”

“That sounds about right.”

He gave her a humorless smile. “Damned if I’m not a self-destructive fool.”

BRENT DROPPED THE LAST ITEM
in the canvas bag he’d found in Maggie’s closet. It was a meager collection, but it contained everything he’d been able to find that looked potentially useful: a flashlight, crowbar, wire cutters, and several rusty screwdrivers. He had no plan for sneaking past Biddle’s security guards and minimal expectations for what he could accomplish even if he succeeded. But if Maggie’s theory was right and Biddle’s allies were anything like the people who killed Harry and took the down the Trade Centers, he had to try.

He put the bag on the kitchen table, then pulled up his shirt and checked the pistol stuffed in his waistband, ensuring yet again that the safety was on. He smiled bitterly, thinking his precautions would at least prevent him from shooting off his own balls. He’d leave that task to someone else.

He took a last look around. It was late afternoon, when weekend
traffic would be building on the main roads and the best time to make his move. His hair was scruffy, and he now had the better part of a beard, so he no longer looked like his pictures. His first stop would be a nearby shopping center where he hoped to switch the Volvo’s New York plates with a pair snatched off a New Jersey car. It should allow him to make it to Long Island.

Last night, making love to Maggie and then holding her in his arms had changed everything. He understood the risks of what he was about to attempt, but also that he had no other choice. Ever since he’d awakened this morning he’d had the renewed sense of time running out, the last grains of sand dropping through the neck of the hourglass. Maggie had called twice to tell him she was working on things and not to lose hope, but he’d heard the increasing hollowness in her voice. Her superiors would never agree to go after Biddle, and that meant it was up to him.

The morning papers reported that Biddle had cut short his vacation and returned to the United States, and that meant he was within reach. Brent had visited Biddle’s estate, so he had at least minimal knowledge of the layout. Also, in spite of the psychiatrist’s report that called him, “very competitive, resourceful, highly intelligent, unusually devoted to principle but perhaps with insufficient impulse control,” he thought no one would expect a lone fugitive to attack. His goal was utterly simplistic: grab Biddle and force a confession. It was a desperate move, but the only chance he had.

He had the Volvo keys in his pocket and his hand on the doorknob when a sound came from the driveway. He froze. A car door opened and thumped closed. Sun flooded through the closed curtains of Maggie’s little kitchen, and he watched a man’s silhouette
move past the side windows toward the back door.

He tiptoed out of the room, his heart hammering. If it was the police, he had no chance. But what if it was someone Biddle had sent to kill him? He slid the pistol from his waistband.

The latch turned, and the door rattled against the lock. A knock followed. Brent tensed and waited for a boot to kick in the door, but after a few seconds he heard a loud whisper, “Goddammit, open the door!”

His uncle! Brent felt a wild blast of relief. He rushed into the kitchen, jerked open the door, and saw the familiar scowl. “Are you alone?”

“No, I brought the FBI,” Fred Lucas shot back as he stepped quickly inside. He went to the side window, pulled the curtain aside and glanced at the neighbor’s house. “The damn FBI
will
be here if people saw me creeping around the back door,” he snapped.

His uncle’s cantankerousness was a balm, and for a second Brent actually smiled. “What are you doing here?”

His uncle had a big paper shopping bag in one hand, and he hoisted it onto the kitchen table. “Maggie told me to keep an eye on you. She said you’re about to do something stupid.” He spotted the canvas bag beside the door then tipped it and examined the contents. “Looks like she’s got your number.”

“I’m getting out of here,” Brent said.

Fred Lucas leaned back against the door. “To do what?” His uncle shook his head. “These guys already tagged you for stealing the money and set you up for murder. Whoever they are, they ain’t stupid. You try something by yourself, they’re gonna plaster your ass on a wall.”

“There’s no other option,” Brent said, reaching around Fred for the doorknob.

His uncle didn’t move. “What do I do with the spade?”

Brent blinked. “The
what?”

“You heard me—the giant kid. DeLeyon f-ing Jones.”