Edge of Apocalypse Page 18

  FAIL NOT OR YOU WILL FACE THE FULL PENALTY OF LAW.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The crowds were spilling out of Eternity Church now that the evening service had ended. Deborah Jordan was busy chattering with some friends in the vestibule, making use of her time off from West Point and quickly catching up before she had to return the next day. At the front of the sanctuary by the pulpit, Abigail was holding one of Joshua's hands with both of hers as they approached the pastor, but she let go so her husband could shake hands with Paul Campbell.

  "Pastor Campbell, this is my husband, Joshua. I think you've met before..."

  "Yes, once or twice awhile back," Campbell said with a relaxed grin. "It's a pleasure. And a privilege. I consider you an American hero."

  Joshua always flinched a little with that one. Not that he was embarrassed. But he could never see himself that way. He was a mission-and-duty guy. How could he accept the "hero" label for just doing his best at what had to be done?

  "Some folks might disagree with you on that."

  "That doesn't change my opinion."

  "Thanks for your message tonight," Joshua said. "Very interesting."

  Joshua was minimizing the impact that the sermon had on him. He was holding back and he knew it. But he didn't see any reason to spill his guts all over the floor of the church. Campbell had given him some food for thought.

  Campbell said simply, "Glad to hear it. You folks back in the city for a while?"

  "Just got back from Colorado," Abigail said.

  Then Campbell looked over at Joshua and studied him for a minute. "This may be a shot in the dark. But here goes. Are you a golfer by any chance?"

  Abigail giggled. She was struggling to keep quiet.

  Joshua quickly threw his wife an amused glance before he answered.

  "Yes, I've been known to hit a few golf balls."

  She couldn't hold back any longer and blurted out, "He's understating it, pastor. He's practically a pro. You ought to see his handicap."

  "Oh," Campbell said with a chuckle. "Maybe I'd better rethink my invitation then. You're liable to humiliate the rest of us..."

  Joshua's curiosity was piqued and he asked, "What do you have in mind?"

  "Well, tomorrow is my day off. It's a dark secret among the clergy. We really do like to go out and play rather than work all the time. Anyway, we had a foursome scheduled for eighteen holes tomorrow. But one of our group had to bail out. So we need a fourth. Would you be interested?"

  For an instant Joshua knew exactly what his answer was going to be. He had a ton of work waiting for him at the office. He had financial reports from his multiple companies that needed review. He had an R&D meeting with his engineers on refinements for the RTS system. And he also planned to have an extended phone call with his lawyer, Harry Smythe, to find out what else he knew about his congressional situation.

  Then Joshua caught his wife out of the corner of his eye. She was looking right at him, straight as an arrow, with a glowing smile on her face.

  Wow, he thought, there is a beauty about her right now that I can't really describe. Different. He was caught off guard for a second.

  "So," Campbell prodded, "are you going to join us and show us how the game is played?"

  "Sounds like your kind of fun," Abby added.

  That is when Joshua surprised himself. "Sure. All right. Why not? I'll make the time. I was supposed to shoot some golf in Colorado with a buddy of mine yesterday, but it didn't work out. This will make up for it."

  "Great. How about we all meet out at the Hanover Golf Club? Do you know where it is?"

  "I do. What time?"

  "Tee-off is nine thirty a.m. Let's get together in the clubhouse at nine fifteen."

  "I'll be there."

  As Joshua was driving home through the New York City traffic, he noticed that Abigail wasn't talking, but she had her head back against the headrest and a smile on her face. There was a special aura of peace about her.

  "You're noticeably quiet."

  "Contented, that's all."

  Joshua almost chuckled at that. During the sermon that night he had felt like he had a freeway rush-hour running through his brain. Contentment?

  "I wish I was," he shot back. "You'll have to share your secret with me."

  Deborah suddenly laughed in the back seat.

  "What's so funny?" Joshua asked.

  "Okay, Mom, share your secret of contentment with Dad..."

  Abigail threw her daughter a look that without any words seemed to contain all the wisdom and experience of womanhood in it.

  Deborah got the silent message and muttered, "Fine." She quit talking and sat back in her seat.

  Then Abigail turned to her husband and said, "I'm glad you're golfing. I think it will be a nice change for you."

  "You know how seriously I take my golf game. Your pastor won't be preaching to me out on the links will he?"

  After a long dramatic pause, Abigail took a deep breath. "Probably will."

  Both she and Deborah burst into laughter.

  Joshua shook his head and groaned, "Wonderful..."

  Despite his misgivings about being a captive audience to a sermon lasting eighteen holes, Joshua was looking forward to playing golf. The Hanover Course was an excellent one, and he'd had the chance to play it only twice over the years.

  Standing on the high plateau at the first hole, Joshua took a few seconds to gaze over the forest tree tops, out to the cityscape at the end of the horizon. He had forgotten what an impressive view there was of the New York City skyline from the first tee. What if the RTS hadn't worked perfectly...just think. Abby and I would both be gone. Cal and Deb too. Manhattan out there would be nuked. So many dead. Come on, Josh, it wasn't really you who saved the city. No way. You've always known that...

  "Okay, you're the leader of the foursome."

  Paul Campbell was taking a few swings with his driver as he approached. He was flanked by the other two golfers, Bob and Carl, businessmen from his church board.

  Then the pastor added with a mock grimace, "Now let the pain and suffering for us duffers begin..."

  Joshua walked over to the tee. He set his ball. After his customary stretching exercise while holding the shank of the driver over his head with both hands, he stepped back and took two practice swings.

  "You guys may want to keep a safe distance," Joshua cracked. "I'm about to commence firing..."

  The other three laughed.

  But when Joshua swung through, it was with the velocity of a pitching machine. There was that sound of the solid crack as his round, little white-coated Bridgestone B330 lifted up into the air and continued arching and then finally disappeared down onto the fairway past the two-hundred-yard marker. The laughing had stopped.

  "Beautiful shot," Campbell said with admiration.

  The pastor was second.

  Joshua noticed that Paul Campbell had a strong athletic build and an easy swing. He didn't tee off with the power that Joshua had. But he was controlled. He put his ball about sixty feet behind Joshua's.

  Joshua was on the green in two strokes. Campbell was there in three. But Joshua had a long, tough putt, and it just rimmed the cup. They both ended up tying the first hole with a par.

  By the seventh hole Joshua was feeling at ease with Campbell as his playing partner and had sized him up as a decent golfer. He was ahead of the pastor by two strokes. The other two were playing back, lagging behind.

  "You like the course?" Campbell asked.

  "It's well laid out. Beautiful, really. But you can't let your guard down on this course."

  "No, you're right. Hazards popping up everywhere. Shifting elevations. I've been out here a half dozen times with Bob and Carl. They're both members. But I never got the feeling I've completely mastered a single hole."

  "That view from the tee-off by the clubhouse is spectacular. You can see all the way to the skyline."

  "You can, when the air's clean and the sky's right. Like today."


  There was a pause while Joshua took a second to dunk his ball in the ball washer and wipe it clean.

  Campbell went on to say, "Golf always reminds me of something."

  "What's that?"

  "It reminds me of life. Similar in some ways. But also dissimilar."

  Joshua thought to himself, Here it comes. I wonder if he's got his Bible hidden in his golf bag.

  Campbell had posed an intriguing question. But Joshua didn't want to bite. What he wanted to do was lengthen his lead on this par four coming up. But he engaged him anyway.

  "Let me guess," Joshua said with a slight air of amusement. "Golf is like life because it's full of unexpected hazards. Water hazard over here. Sand trap over there. Deep woods that will put your ball down onto a tree root. Am I close?"

  "Right on target," Campbell said with a chuckle. "You've landed on the green..."

  "So, how is golf dissimilar then?"

  Campbell didn't respond. Instead he looked Joshua Jordan in the eye with a look that had nothing to do with swinging a club.

  The pastor finally said, "I think I'm going to let you figure that one out on your own." Then he added, pointing to the tee, "Okay, leader, swing away..."

  THIRTY-SIX

  Agent John Gallagher was now looking at another dead man. Oh well. All in a day's work.

  The FBI agent was in a dark, sardonic mood as he hunched over the corpse. The victim was still strapped to a chair in his inner office in the insurance company. The police had to get a locksmith to open the door, which had been locked from the outside.

  "What's his name?"

  One of the two Philadelphia police detectives on the scene flipped open his little day book where he had written it down.

  "Roger French. Insurance broker. Commercial insurance."

  "So, any thoughts on all this?"

  "Remind me again," the detective said. "Why's the FBI interested in this?"

  "I am investigating a federal crime."

  "And what federal crime would that be?"

  "One that is currently under investigation." Gallagher said with a half-smile. "Look, fellas, I caught the report on my laptop while I was out doing fieldwork on a case a couple states away. I had put a crime profiler submission out over interagency-net. Crimes within driving distance from upper state New York...crimes of a certain nature. Yours popped up. Here I am. Don't mean to be pushy, but you know we feds have superior jurisdiction. So, what's your theory?"

  The detective wasn't pleased. But he knew for the time being he had to humor this federal intrusion.

  "Maybe a drug deal gone bad," he suggested. When Gallagher tossed him a skeptical look, the detective added, "This part of town has developed some illegal drug traffic."

  The FBI agent had to ask the obvious, "So, is our guy here, Mr. French, a known drug dealer or user? Or maybe a frequenter at coke or heroin parties?"

  The detective looked over at his partner who shook his head no.

  "Any hint of drugs found here in this office?"

  "Just some Tylenol in his desk."

  Gallagher had to restrain himself at that one. But he kept it professional.

  "Any prior criminal record?"

  Both detectives shook their heads.

  "Any prior arrests? Outstanding warrants against Mr. French? Any judicial warrants of any kind out against him?"

  The two detectives kept shaking their heads.

  "Does your PD have anything bad to say about Mr. Roger French?" Gallagher said, now venturing into sarcasm. "Parking tickets...books not returned to the public library..."

  The senior detective cleared his throat and finally said, "The deceased appears to be clean."

  Gallagher finally had to let it out, and when he did in his tone there was a certain amount of tell me again why am I wasting my time with you guys?

  "Yet you fellows are still sticking to the drug-dealing scenario?"

  "Meaning what?" the detective retorted.

  Gallagher was getting impatient. "Look at this crime scene. The victim was tied to a chair, and by my guess had been connected to that wall socket over there by electric leads..." Gallagher pointed at the tiny burn marks on each earlobe.

  "So," a detective said, "he was..."

  "Right, tortured," Gallagher cut in to save time. "Perfectly standard interrogation technique, of course, if you live in, say, Iran. But, gentlemen, this is Philadelphia..." Then as he surveyed the body he added, "I think he put up a fight. Maybe reluctant to talk, otherwise no need to turn up the juice on this poor guy..."

  "Talk about what?"

  "That's what I need to find out. What kind of information did our victim have access to, other than insurance rates and commercial premium amounts? Anything that might be of unique value to some bad guys?"

  "We're not sure."

  "How about any unusual contacts he had. Anything there?"

  That's when the two detectives looked at each other. After a moment, one of them spoke up.

  "Mr. French is the son-in-law to Mr. Rocky Bridger, a retired general."

  "Where was the general detailed?"

  "The Pentagon."

  Gallagher had already done the math. One of the first things the detectives told him when he had arrived was that Roger French had left a message on the voicemail of his wife saying he was going to be late to their daughter's basketball game because he had some "last minute business" to attend to. Gallagher figured the killer could have set up a meeting with French. He had computed the drive time from the crime scene in the swamp in the New York State countryside to that part of Philly. Gallagher was starting to get the feeling in his gut, and in his brain, and literally right in front of his eyes, everywhere, that this crime spree he was witnessing was a trail of carefully premeditated mayhem left by Atta Zimler.

  "The Pentagon?" Gallagher yelled out loud, to emphasize the obvious.

  Two detectives nodded in tandem.

  "Fellas," the agent said, handing his card over to the senior detective, "I would appreciate any updates you can give me on your progress on this case."

  When Agent Gallagher was in his car, he called Miles Zadernack, his supervisor. He was glad Miles picked up the call immediately.

  "Miles, Gallagher here. That case I've been working on turned up something big. I think it needs a focused, special investigation."

  "What do you have?"

  "My favorite subject...Atta Zimler. Miles, I think he's entered the United States."

  There was a dead silence on the other end for at least ten seconds.

  "If that's true," Zadernack then said in a deadpan monotone, "that would certainly be remarkable."

  Remarkable? That comment struck Gallagher like something you might expect from a birdwatcher who had just spotted a species he hadn't seen in a while.

  "If it's true," Zadernack added again for emphasis.

  "I think it is. I've been piecing together the trail. It has all the elements of the modus operandi of our terrorist assassin."

  "Yes, but why would he enter the United States in the first place? Seems highly risky for him."

  Gallagher was trying to keep a respectful tone, but it was getting really hard.

  "Miles, hey, you've got to be kidding. Please, trust me on this one."

  "John," Miles Zadernack said. "I think we need to meet to discuss this. Face-to-face. Here in the office."

  "I'm in Philly now, following some leads. That's going to be kinda tough. Time is of the essence--"

  "I'm not asking you to come back to New York."

  Gallagher burst out with, "Miles, you're kidding me--"

  But Miles shot back with, "John, I don't know why you keep saying that. You know I'm not a person who kids around. I want you back here ASAP. Then we'll talk."

  John Gallagher clicked off his Allfone cell. His chest was burning again. Zadernack had already derailed his investigation of Ivan the Terrible, the talk radio host.

  Now this. His first thought was, admittedly, one of base self-
preservation. Am I getting canned? Demoted to a desk job? Reassigned to Montana? Something's coming down. Whatever it is, this is not going to be good for John Gallagher.

  What he didn't expect, though, was something far worse.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The first seventeen holes flew by. Joshua and his partners were having a good time. The course at Hanover Golf Club was every bit as difficult as Joshua had remembered. When they got to the last hole, Joshua's ball was about ten feet off the green. Campbell's ball was a few feet back on the fairway.

  Joshua was laying two strokes on that last hole, which was a par four, and he was ahead of Paul Campbell by three strokes. But the pastor was also laying two on that last hole. Joshua knew that his opponent had played a respectable game, even making him sweat a little at the beginning of the back nine. But Joshua's powerful command of the game was finally edging him away from his competitor.

  Joshua carefully eyed his ball, then studied the distance to the green and to the cup. Campbell was watching him.

  "I'm starting to recognize that look on your face. You're aiming for a birdie on this last hole, I'm sure of it!" Campbell shouted out to him. "You're going to try to drop that ball right into the cup."

  As Joshua pulled out his nine-iron, he smiled and shot back, "It's crossed my mind..."

  "Rub it in! Go ahead, rub it in!"

  He took a few practice swings, then set himself at the ball. Joshua looked up and over the wide green for one last second, looking beyond it to the huge sand trap that lay on the other side. Enough but not too much. Controlled swing. Get up under the ball. Arch it high so it drops a few feet directly in front of the hole. Forget about the backspin this time. Don't focus on the sand hazard. Go for broke.

  Joshua swung a seemingly flawless stroke, catching the ball on the full flat of his nine-iron and scooping it high into the air and sending it toward the green in a graceful curve.

  It looked perfectly aligned to head right toward the cup, which was in the middle of the wide, irregular-shaped green.

  But without backspin the ball hit the green hard and bounced once and then skipped over the hole and then caught the down-slope on the other side of the green and started rolling away from the pin, now picking up speed.