Rising Phoenix (35 page)

“Nice to see you, Reverend,” John Hobart said. His back was pressed against the wall, so he could remain out of sight with the door ajar.

“This has to stop, John.”

Hobart slipped gracefully around him, and sat at a table next to the door. He picked up a can of Coke and took a long swig. With his free hand he pointed to the seat across from him. Blake took it.

“Did anyone see you come in here?”

Blake shook his head. “The parking lot was empty. It’s raining pretty hard.”

“Your car?” He knew that Blake drove a rather conspicuous Cadillac with AMEN on the plates.

“Erica’s.”

Hobart set the can down. “This isn’t such a good idea, Reverend. For you I mean. You’re risking a lot.”

“I know, but I had to talk to you.” Blake’s eyes silently scanned the room, though there wasn’t anything to see. Hobart had seen him do this a hundred times. He was rehearsing a speech.

“I saw a news report a few days ago. It looked like the hand of God had reached down and was twisting people’s bodies—trying to rip them apart.” His eyes had become unfocused. He didn’t seem to realize that Hobart was still in the room. It was as if he was talking to himself.

“Let me explain about that, Reverend …”

“Twenty thousand people are dead, John. I heard twenty thousand people are dead.” His eyes finally came up. “It has to stop, John. Everything stops now.”

Hobart pushed the half-empty Coke can around the table with his index finger.

“Little late for that now, isn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question. Nothing was going to get between him and the success of this operation.

“This ends now,” Blake repeated.

Hobart looked up and suppressed a smile. Blake’s voice was thin and he looked sick and weak. His attempt to give an order was a joke. Control of the situation had shifted.

“Have you seen the report that CNN started running today?”

Blake shook his head “Did you hear what I said, John? We’ve got to …”

Hobart cut him off. “They quote anonymous sources in the DEA. Casual use of cocaine is down seventy
percent—habitual’s down thirty-five. Heroin use is down forty percent. Enrollment in drug rehab programs is up nine hundred percent—hell, they got people sleeping on the floors.” He took another swig of his Coke and threw the empty can into a wastebasket across the room. The clattering of the can punctuated the Reverend’s words.

“Didn’t you hear me, John? Twenty thousand people are dead! We’ve killed twenty thousand people!” Speaking the words out loud seemed to jar Blake fully back into reality. He put his head in his hands.

“Christ, Reverend. There are probably fifty drug-related deaths every day in the U.S. We’ll be net ahead in two years.” He looked at Blake with what passed for sympathy. “Look, the big stuff’s over. People know we’re serious. Now all we’re going to do is hit a few shipments here and there. Keep people scared. You don’t really want to stop now. If we do, all those people would have died for nothing. Drug use would go right back to where it had been before.”

Blake nodded and began studying the room again. His entire demeanor had suddenly changed. Behind the pale face, a flicker of his powerful television persona appeared.

“What’s this maintenance phase going to entail?”

Hobart relaxed slightly. “Not that much, really. We’ll hit a shipment every month or so probably. I want to do some manufactured stuff here soon, too. Amphetamines, X—that kind of stuff. You’ve heard of Anthony DiPrizzio, haven’t you?”

Blake nodded. “Some kind of Mafia don in New York.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a man working in one of his warehouses on the waterfront. Word is that there’s a good-sized shipment of coke that’s going to be passing through there on the twenty-eighth. I’ve authorized my guy to hit it. Then that’ll be it for another month or so.”

Blake stood and moved for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “Where on earth did you find that poison? The papers say it takes two weeks for it to work.”

“It wasn’t easy. A few hours west of Warsaw.”

“Poland?”

“Yeah.”

Blake pulled the door open. The clouds had parted, and the sun blinded him for a moment as he walked quickly to his car. Once inside, he took a deep breath and held it for a moment. It shook as it came out. He rested his head against the steering wheel, fighting the urge to vomit. The image of hell came flooding back. Could he ever redeem himself in the eyes of the Lord?

M
ark Beamon pulled his briefcase from the back seat of the car and made a grab for the door handle. “Here is good, Stan,” he said to the young agent driving.

“This traffic’ll let up just ahead, Mr. Beamon. I’ll have you there in less than five minutes,” he pleaded.

“Yeah. I’d just like to get some fresh air, you know?”

“Lots of people on the streets this time of morning—somebody’s bound to recognize you.”

The controversy regarding the effectiveness and morality of the CDFS’s actions had reached a fevered pitch in the media, and Mark Beamon was right in the middle of the debate. His face had been plastered across nearly every newspaper, magazine, and TV screen in the country over the past few weeks. In fact, it was rumored that GQ was running an article on him in their next issue and would be giving him two thumbs up on his fashion sense. It appeared that his nine-year-old, too-tight suits were considered “retro.”

“Don’t worry about it, Stan. Nobody’ll recognize me. I’m told that I look much smaller in person.” He
jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and leaned in through the open window. Horns began to sound behind him. “Call Laura and tell her I’ll be a few minutes late. Thanks.” He slapped the windowsill and disappeared into the herd of people shuffling off to begin their workday.

Special Agent Stan Paulous frowned deeply. The party line was that Beamon had been provided a car and driver because of his well-known hatred for and lack of skill in maneuvering an automobile. Paulous had later been informed that the real reason was to impose a more predictable schedule on the investigator. His job was, in essence, to keep tabs on Beamon and make sure he was where he was supposed to be, when he was supposed to be there. He dialed the phone slowly, silently composing a report that would deflect the wrath of Laura Vilechi.

Mark Beamon jammed his free hand inside his raincoat and breathed the late winter air deeply into his lungs. It smelled of car exhaust and aftershave.

He had felt too confined lately. House to car to office to house over and over again—no doubt, exactly what Laura had in mind. What she didn’t understand was that that kind of rigidity eventually imposed itself on his mind. His thoughts became confined, commonplace. Beamon’s haphazard lifestyle was designed to keep the hemispheres of his brain slightly off center. Just where they should be for artists, and investigators.

Beamon took a right, escaping the thick crowd, and headed directly away from the JEH Building. He would treat himself to a quick trip around the block.

Halfway around, he ducked into a small convenience store.

“Pack of Marlboros in a box, please,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a tattered wallet.

The old man behind the counter eyed him curiously as he reached under the counter for the cigarettes. He placed them on the counter and punched the price into an ornate old cash register. One eighty popped up in the registers window on what looked like miniature tombstones.

Beamon handed him a five and watched the man’s expression as he counted out the change. He could see that the clerk was desperately trying to make a connection. The face in front of him must be irritatingly familiar.

Back out in the cool air, Beamon cupped his hand against the wind and lit a cigarette. He quickened his pace slightly, beginning to feel a little guilty about ducking out on his driver. He seemed like a good kid.

As he approached headquarters, the normal D.C. morning chaos melted into the background, eclipsed by the ongoing activity around the building. Beamon paused, tapping ashes onto the sidewalk. It got worse every day.

There were two camps. Directly across the street from the building were the pro-CDFS demonstrators. Beamon counted heads and came up with roughly fifty. About a third were holding signs that poked up from the crowd like the sharp spines of a poisonous sea animal. Their organization had improved, Beamon noted. When they had first appeared, it had been just
a bunch of right-wing loudmouths with a few hand-painted signs. For a day there had actually been a guy in a fucking Klan robe.

Things had changed. The group was now more uniformly dressed in dark suits and skirts. Their signs were clever and professional. The wind changed slightly, making their chant intelligible from where he stood.
You roll the dice, you pay the price.

About fifty yards farther down the street were the anti-CDFS protesters. They were equally well dressed, with equally clever and professional signs. Beamon couldn’t make out their chant.

The two groups looked well matched. The five or six policemen keeping them apart looked as though they were in danger of being swallowed up—or worse, choosing sides. Beamon tossed what was left of his cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it out with his shoe. He immediately lit another.

The country hadn’t been as divided since the Vietnam War, and the U.S. government, in its infinite wisdom, had seen fit to charge him with repairing the rift. He laughed quietly to himself.

The President seemed to be doing everything in his power to ignore the issue. Sure, the papers ran quotes about his devotion to finding the people responsible, his horror at the deaths, and so on and so on. What Jameson didn’t seem to realize was that something had started here, and its momentum was increasing geometrically. Beamon pictured it as a large rock rolling down a hill. If he’d been able to apprehend the members of the CDFS a week after they’d started this thing, the rock might have been stopped.

But it wasn’t the first week anymore. He would catch these guys eventually, of that he had no doubt. But when he did, and he threw himself in front of that rock—it might just roll right over him. Did the issues relating to Vietnam end when the helicopters pulled the last Americans from Saigon? No, they grew to define a generation.

And this was no different. The growing problems of drugs and crime in America had been receiving lip service for years. But now somebody had offered an effective solution. America seemed to be finding that it liked the taste of blood and the changes it could bring.

Beamon held up his hands, attempting to silence Laura before her mouth was fully open. There was no chance of it working, of course, but it was worth a try.

“Out for a stroll, I hear?”

“Fresh air. Good for the little gray cells,” Beamon replied, tapping his head and imitating the Belgian accent of his favorite fictional detective.

She grabbed his elbow and leaned in close to his ear. “You can’t keep doing this, Mark. Every time you’re late for a staff meeting, Tom and the rest of them end up running around loose, looking over people’s shoulders and making them nervous. Takes me an hour to get everyone calmed down and back on track.”

“I just do it so I can watch the tops of your ears turn red.”

Her right hand went up to her ear and then immediately back to her side. “You just live to get under my skin, don’t you.”

He grinned and made an exaggerated gesture toward the conference room, where the other members of their morning meeting were already gathered.

“Out for a little stroll?”

Frank Richter and Laura had obviously been talking.

Beamon ignored him and turned to Tom Sherman. “Sorry I’m late.” Sherman shrugged.

Besides Richter and Sherman, Dick Trevor and Trace Fontain were the only other people present. Beamon squeezed into his chair. The table they had chosen was a bit too small for the group.

“So what have you got for us, Mark?” Sherman asked.

“Good stuff, actually. Things are starting to look up a little.” He snapped open his oversized briefcase and pulled out a complicated-looking portable stereo and a slightly crumpled piece of paper that contained his most recent notes on the investigation.

“The first good news is that poisoning deaths are way down. Coke-related deaths are almost nonexistent—not counting that recent episode in D.C. That seems to have been an isolated incident. Heroin deaths seem to be slowing down.”

Laura’s graphs had proven to be surprisingly accurate, and had become popular tools in estimating future deaths. The fact that estimating future deaths was a pointless exercise seemed to have been lost in the FBI’s sheer love of statistics.

“What have you been able to find out about the episode here?” Richter interrupted.

“Not much. Strychnine was the poison—probably
household rat poison—we should have confirmation on that this afternoon. Obviously, we’re working to track it back to its source, but as you know, that line of investigation is turning out to be a disaster.”

“Why?” Sherman cut in.

“Well, three quarters of the witnesses are dead and the other quarter won’t talk. It seems that the narcotics-using community has convinced itself that this is all the government’s doing and that we’re just pretending to investigate, when what we actually want is to collect intelligence on distribution lines …” He left the sentence hanging.

Tom Sherman looked at him strangely. “Is there something else?”

“Well, yeah. Laura has a theory on the strychnine poisoning. And I hate to admit it, but she might be right.”

All eyes turned to her.

“Um, yes. Well, it seems like this was a pretty sloppy operation. The fact that now, two days later, we haven’t seen any more of this type of poison appear, and the isolated geography—one housing project—seems to indicate that the drugs were hit pretty far downstream. Also, the poison was unsophisticated, probably something that anybody could pick up at any of a hundred stores in the D.C. area. It makes me—us—wonder if the CDFS was behind it at all.”

“A copycat,” Sherman proposed.