The Eye of Moloch (24 page)
“What else do you want me to say, Noah?”
“I was honest with you, with the full knowledge that what I was telling you might sound completely off-the-wall. Now I’d like for you to tell me what you’re going to do.”
“Okay.” She moved a little closer and looked at him directly. “I believe that you believe that what you’ve told me is true. You’ve been through a series of traumas, the kind that could cloud the mind of the strongest person I know. You’re emotionally involved and that can add another layer that’s very hard to see past.
“But trust me, I’m going to find the truth. Whatever their reasons were for bringing me into this, whatever their agenda was, I do my own thinking and I know right from wrong. And if I can bring Molly in alive, that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Thank you,” Noah said. “You know, my father—whom I don’t trust at all—he said that when I met you I’d know I could rely on you. I didn’t have much faith in that, but now I do.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Virginia gathered up her papers, returned them to the folder, and then edged to the side of the bed and lowered herself to a solid footing on the floor. “Now I’m going to need for you to reach out to Molly. Has she contacted you at all since you last saw her, or has she tried to?”
“I used to get notes from her, one of them had an e-mail address that I remember, but they always came through a third party.”
“What sort of notes?”
“Mostly appeals for help with her work. There wasn’t much I could do, just little breaches of security at the lockup where they were holding me before. Honestly, except for one or two of them in the beginning, I wasn’t sure the messages were even coming from her at all. It might have been some underling of my dad’s, testing my loyalty or whatever. Anyway, the notes stopped coming quite a while ago.”
“Well, use your imagination. Try to reestablish a connection with her. Don’t mention any of this, of course, and don’t apply any pressure.
Just make contact so you’ll know for sure you can get a message to her when the time comes, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Great.” She shook his hand, a good solid clasp, and then she headed for the door.
“How are you and I going to stay in touch?”
“I’ll be around,” Virginia said. “In my briefing here it says they’ve arranged some light work for you during your rehab, is that right?”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Someone will probably come by in the morning to tell you more about that. It should be good for you, though, to be around people. Anyway, I know where you’ll be and you’ll see me again soon. I’ll let you know how things are going.”
“Okay, but one last thing,” Noah said.
“What’s that?”
“Two things, really. First, I don’t think you or anyone else can stop what these men are trying to do. Molly thought she could, and I thought so, too, for a while. That part of what you said about me is right, I got caught up in it and I was fooling myself, but I’m not anymore. It’s too big, and the handful of people who actually know what’s coming are too weak. So, even when you see it for yourself, I don’t think you’ll be able to stop it, and for your sake I hope you don’t try. I don’t care about myself or anything else anymore; I just don’t want Molly to get hurt.”
“I understand,” Virginia said. “And what’s the other thing?”
“Do you play chess?”
“I do. I’m pretty good.”
“Then you know how this works. While you’re thinking about your next move, the other guy’s thinking, too. Against a superior opponent your moves are always enfolded in his.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“If you’re in this now, whether you believe it or not, you’re already being manipulated. So am I. And if I’m right, then whatever move you’re
about to make they’ve already anticipated it and are three moves ahead of you. If you get into this game then you’d better win, and that means you’ve got to be ready to do something completely unexpected.”
• • •
When she returned to her room the message light on her phone was flashing. She had thirteen new voice mails, all on the same subject and left in the order of ascending power and rank.
It seemed that Warren Landers hadn’t been confident that he’d made the needed impression on her, so he’d kicked the matter upstairs as soon as he departed.
The undercurrent of these messages was all the same. The choice was still hers, naturally, but if she knew what was good for her, this Molly Ross business was a mission she should take on without delay.
Well, how about that.
These thirteen very important people had all taken the time to call Virginia Ward at 2 a.m. on a weeknight to express their strong support for what they put forth as a matter of unmatched importance. With oddly similar language they were calling for the immediate capture and incarceration of a blind girl who seemed to be nothing more than the last fading light in a patriot movement that had come too small and too late to make a difference.
Now you’ve got me interested,
Virginia thought.
So let’s see where this dark road leads.
M
ost killers get caught because they neglect the most important part of their job. You don’t have to be a genius; the key to a clean getaway is long preparation before the fact. You plan to get out of there with all your bases covered, and then you do the deed, stow your weapon, grab your kit, and go.
It sure seemed like more, but until very recently Olin Simmons had committed murder only four other times. Two he’d gotten away with clean, but he’d been clipped for the third, and then one had been done from necessity in the ugly tile showers at Lewisburg.
Those acts were different than these current ones; they’d all been up close and personal. The first was hard only because it had been the first. The second was a robbery gone bad and that guy got what he deserved for trying to fight back. The next had been an ex-girlfriend; she’d made it so much easier just by being the malignant little bitch that she was, right up to the end. And the last had been a rite of passage in the joint, just some unlucky fish who got picked from the general population so a better man could earn his yard credentials. Everybody serves their role; that blood initiation had brought Olin Simmons into the brotherhood with
George Pierce, and he couldn’t remember feeling much of anything but pride when it was done.
Now he was killing with a purpose—two purposes, really. Warren Landers had said his first job was to “generate conflict,” and that concept had taken some explaining before Simmons finally understood. The second job was pinning these soulless acts on someone else, and that was actually the only part of all this that was beginning to feel like a chore.
These weren’t to be random killings, though they’d look that way until the cops pulled their heads out of their asses.
He’d started in D.C. with a young white mother who’d been filling up her hybrid SUV at the corner Gas ’n’ Go. He waited from long-distance cover until she’d come out of the minimart with some chips and sodas for the kids in the back, and then he’d shot her through the heart as she opened up the side door.
She’d been chosen because of her many bumper stickers, all of which identified her as a proud supporter of the incumbent President and his many clever slogans. Her good looks and her gender would be a media bonus; she represented what they call a sympathetic demographic. This young blond mother of two, cut down in her prime by a deranged political extremist, would tug at America’s heartstrings and be sure to make a splash on the nightly news.
He followed up as he’d been directed with a typewritten note to the newspapers. The text included threats of further violence, a blistering manifesto giving full credit to Molly Ross and the Founders’ Keepers, and several ridiculous demands. One of these was a call for the President to withdraw his name from the upcoming ballot to clear the way to the Oval Office for an obscure candidate from the Libertarian Party.
The paper and the envelope carried another hidden message: partial fingerprints and a fleck of harvested DNA from the fall guy, Thom Hollis. For good measure Simmons had also tucked in an ounce of benign white powder to spread a little panic and ensure the ready involvement of even more government agencies.
There’d been a few other shootings that first day, meant to be linked only later to this same cold-blooded minuteman and his patriot accomplices. Near each location Simmons had hired a hooker of about the right size and shape to walk around with him for the benefit of the surveillance cameras on the street. Upon review of their footage the authorities would see a large bearded man in fatigues and a pretty young woman in dark glasses, apparently scoping out the area before their crimes.
Now on his path west he’d arrived in the windy city of Chicago.
This day’s activity was more elaborate and had required a good deal of advance work and participation from other friendly local factions. Despite all the details, getting away with murder here should be a cakewalk compared to the previous day’s work. A full-scale riot would make it so much easier to get lost and disappear toward the next assignment.
A protest march was scheduled for that morning. This was no small mob; it was part of a well-funded, centrally coordinated “grassroots” citizen uprising that was coincidentally popping up in many places nationwide. As times got worse their crowds had gotten bigger and bigger and the liberal press was continually showering these mobs with completely unbiased, universally positive coverage.
A lot of these people came out just because they were angry or scared. Many were hired or otherwise lured into involvement by promises of future favors in return. Those few marchers who actually understood why they were there were waving signs and calling for “direct democracy.”
What a pack of pinko dumb-asses.
As Mr. Pierce might put it, a direct democracy was like asking a group of ten Nazis and two Jews to vote on their plans for Passover.
Well, if that’s what they wanted, by God that’s what they’d get.
The best thing that he’d learned from Warren Landers so far is that you don’t have to aim at your foes to do them harm. Instead, if you shoot at the people you support while loudly endorsing your enemies, you can
kill two birds with one stone. To make the heroes and villains real in the eyes of the public, sometimes you have to hurt the ones you love.
The protest organizers had published their route so that interested followers and new recruits could more easily join them. The police had also announced their crowd-control plans with lines of blue barricades put in place at vulnerable sites the night before. These sites included a financial landmark where a major confrontation was supposedly anticipated. And so Olin Simmons had known exactly where he needed to be.
He was crouched at the seventh-floor window of a vacant downtown office space near the mouth of the LaSalle Street canyon. He had the rifle by his side and was enjoying an unimpeded view of the riot line and the restless crowd beginning to swell to capacity in the street below the towering Chicago Board of Trade.
Everything was in place.
The police were out in force, with their commissioner and other higher-ups standing resolutely behind them. The rank and file were equipped for hand-to-hand violence, dressed in padded black, visors down, shields up, and weapons ready. The crowd was chanting louder—
they got bailed out, we got sold out
—and a few planted among them would occasionally shout particularly fiery and profane epithets and threats right into the faces of the nearby lawmen. The area news teams were there, too, ready with mic and camera to capture any developments, no doubt with hopes to parlay any minor conflict into an on-scene report for the national network feed.
Because of its sheer size the throng of protesters periodically shifted and came into physical contact with the thin blue line. In response the police would push back against them, moving in solidarity at a bullhorned command. With each such cycle the anger was growing on both sides; the tension was becoming electric at the volatile border between opposing forces. This tinderbox was primed to ignite, and so it was time.
Simmons took out his flashlight, brought it up to the open window,
and sent three quick high-intensity blinks down toward the street. Seconds later three flashes came back in answer to his signal. With that the action was under way, though there wasn’t an agreed-upon instant when it all would come down. With just a little prompting the crowd itself would decide that moment.
He’d chosen several potential victims among the rabble. If you settle on only one, sure enough the lucky bastard’ll get himself behind a street sign or a bystander and then you’re stuck scrambling for a target of opportunity. With the exception of the cute female cop he’d singled out, all the ones he’d picked for that day were young blacks, clean-cut
Cosby Show
types whose yearbook pictures would look just great displayed below the tragic headlines.
The chants were growing louder and angrier, the individual confrontations at the line flaring higher. Olin Simmons picked up Thom Hollis’s rifle and brought the preset scope up close to his eye.