Rising Phoenix (6 page)

Blake stood and walked once again to the wall of glass behind his desk. He stood there motionless with his hands clasped behind his back.

“This is it, Reverend. Your chance to smash the cartels and bring America back on course.” Hobart felt an excitement he hadn’t felt for years. The government, with all its whining bureaucrats and human rights fanatics, had lost its battle with drugs. He wouldn’t.

Of course, there were drawbacks that Hobart hadn’t elaborated on. Casualties would undoubtedly be significant—but that was all to the better. America needed to have its population thinned. It was like laser surgery. Cut out the cancer and leave the healthy tissue.

And then there was the FBI. They could be counted on to do everything in their considerable power to spoil the party. It would be one hell of a tough investigation, though. No traceable motive, victims who would be reluctant to talk, and an opponent who knew their investigative techniques backwards and forwards.

They might eventually get close enough to make him run, but by then it would be too late. The users
would be gone—one way or another The memory of the initial casualties would be fading in the minds of the population, but new drug-free neighborhoods would be right out their front door. The pressure would be on for the government to maintain the new status quo.

Hobart suppressed a smile. Someday he might be recognized as one of the most important figures in American history.

“It looks like I’ve got some thinking to do, John,” Blake said from his position by the window. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Simon Blake didn’t move from the window as he listened to his security chief walk quietly out of the office.

The moment was at hand. His moment. God had chosen him for a great mission. He was destined to drive Satan from the hearts and minds of America. Until today he had thought that he was to accomplish this through his expanding television ministry and political influence. Now he knew the truth. God didn’t want a messenger—it was too late for that. He wanted a soldier.

John Hobart was already waiting when Blake walked into his office the next morning. He was sitting cross-legged with his back to the door, bouncing a pencil impatiently on his knee.

“Early start today, John?”

“You know me, Reverend.” He put the pencil down next to his leather-bound legal pad.

“I guess you want my answer on your proposal.” His tone was aloof.

Hobart smiled. The Reverend’s tone and choice of words spoke volumes. He was already distancing himself from the project. There was no need to distance yourself from something that wasn’t going to happen.

Blake sat down behind his desk. “My answer is a conditional yes. But I think that we have some moral obligations here.”

Hobart’s smile faded. Moral obligations had a way of turning a workable concept into a disastrous operation.

“I feel that you have to warn the public of your intentions. Also, I don’t want marijuana tampered with. There are just too many basically good kids involved.”

“I never had any intention of going after pot,” Hobart stated. “But could you be more specific about the warning?”

“Large ads in three or four major newspapers ought to do it. Say, three days’ notice.”

Three days. Hobart wondered if the time frame had a biblical origin.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s going to complicate an already complicated operation and increase my exposure. I strongly advise against it.” Hobart leaned forward, punctuating his words by locking eyes with Blake across the office. The Reverend looked unimpressed.

“Nevertheless, that’s the way it’s going to be, John. If you don’t think you can handle the added risk then maybe you’re not the right man for the job.”

Hobart didn’t let his anger show in his expression.
Someday he’d take a knife and carve that smug look right off Blake’s face.

“I’m going to have to research how much ads like that cost and increase my estimate.”

“Just take two million—that ought to cover it. I assume that I can afford it?”

Hobart nodded, knowing that the church could probably afford ten times that amount.

“Is there anything else?” Blake was obviously anxious to end and forget this conversation.

Hobart nodded. “Only one thing—my termination.”

M
ark Beamon waved wildly at Tom Sherman, associate director of the FBI. Sherman stood nearly motionless at the entrance of the bar, carefully scanning the crowd. Understandably, hè was unable to see Beamon, who had effectively hidden himself behind two half yards of beer balanced precariously on the table. Beamon stood, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his head. Sherman spotted him and began weaving through the tables.

“Nice place, Mark.” They shook hands warmly.

“Oh, don’t be coy. The bartender tells me they have to roll you out of here most weeknights,” Beamon joked, taking his seat and sliding one of the half yards to his friend. “So how was it?”

Sherman had just returned from New Mexico, where he had attended his daughter’s college graduation.

“Not so good. She’s staying. Sprang it on me just like that. An accounting firm in Santa Fe made her a pretty good offer.”

“So what’s not so good? Getting a job’s tough these days, Tommy. It’s not like when you and I were kids. The competition out there’s pretty bitter.”

Beamon watched his friend take a long pull from the beer. He knew what was bothering him. Sherman doted on his daughter—always had. Having her a thousand miles away for four years was one thing, but having her that far away permanently was another.

“It’s a lot of miles, you know.”

“Yeah.”

Sherman looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He began scanning the bar again, looking at the young faces that surrounded them. “Did you get us any food or are we on the Mark Beamon beer diet?”

“I got some of those mozzarella sticks and a plate of nachos—oh, and buffalo wings.” Beamon ignored the pained look on his friend’s face. Sherman had been an insufferable health nut ever since he’d quit smoking. “I might’ve gone a little overboard, but I figured you’d be bringing Leslie. She must be pretty worn out from the trip, though, huh?”

Sherman shook his head. “No. I thought just you and I could have a talk.”

Beamon wrestled his glass out of its wooden stand.

“You really did it this time, Mark.”

The waitress intruded on their conversation, sliding the platters of junk food onto the table. Beamon assured her that they weren’t quite ready for another round of beers as he eyed the food guiltily. The roll of fat around his midsection—popularly known as the Bureau Bulge—was expanding at an alarming rate.
Worse yet, the extra weight was spreading to his face, making his eyes look like they were sinking into his thickening brow. But what the hell, too late for a career in modeling anyway. He reached for a wing.

“C’mon, Tommy, the press made half of that stuff up.”

“Mark, you called the war on drugs a waste of time right in front of Calahan and two guys from the Post. And you did it so loud, half the room heard you.”

Beamon grimaced at the name of the current Director of the FBI. He had met William Calahan for the first time at a retirement party for the outgoing Director, and Beamon had taken an instant dislike to him. It had been only three days since the announcement of Calahan’s appointment, and the new Director seemed to have already sized up the entire organization and found it wanting. He had talked at Beamon nonstop for fifteen minutes about what he saw as the Bureau’s numerous failings, keeping the distance between their noses at less than two inches. Following this discourse, which left Beamon thinking that the new Director was dangerously ignorant and conceited, he had immediately changed the subject to his rebirth as a Christian in the mid-seventies, and the fact that he felt that most of the Bureau’s senior staff were alcoholics.

When Calahan had finished his little speech, Beamon had taken one step backward and drained the full bourbon and water he’d been holding. After a quick “nice meeting you,” he had turned away and rushed off to find Tom Sherman and a few more drinks.

The Director had never forgotten this inauspicious
first meeting, and his initial disdain for Beamon had turned to dislike, then to hatred. It had been hovering in the loathing stage for the past year.

“I can handle Calahan,” Beamon said. “Jesus, Tommy, I’m the best investigator the Bureau’s got. What’s he gonna do? Get rid of me?”

“Goddam right. You pushed him too far this time, Mark. Calahan spent half the morning in my office literally screaming at me.”

Beamon reached for another buffalo wing and submerged it in ranch dressing.

“What’s the worst job you can imagine, Mark? How would you like to spend the next five years in charge of a task force reviewing the Bureau’s filing systems? I’m not making that up—he actually suggested it.”

The table next to them broke out into a drunken rendition of Happy Birthday, serenading an embarrassed girl who must have just turned twenty-one. Beamon watched them for a long time as they swayed happily to the tune. Finally he turned back to his friend. “What’s the bottom line here?”

“Houston.”

“Huh?”

“Houston, Texas.”

Beamon stared blankly at him.

“You know. That big state near Mexico.”

Beamon broke from his trance. “What’s in Houston?”

“Assistant special agent in charge. A slot just opened up. You’d be Steve Garrett’s number-two man.”

Beamon leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. His entire career was flashing before his eyes. He’d
been known as a miracle worker. Impossible case? Call Beamon. He’d devoted more of his life than he liked to admit to the Bureau, taking on the cases that most people ran from—investigations that would take years of legwork to solve. And instead of fading into anonymity toiling on an unsolvable case, he had, with a few notable exceptions, successfully concluded them within six months.

And now his reward. A demotion and banishment to Texas. He’d always known it was coming, but the reality of it, sitting there in the Tibre Creek Inn, was more than he’d bargained for.

“Fuckin’ hell, Tommy. An ASAC? You know I don’t work and play well with others. Give me a shitty office, but for God’s sake put me in charge.”

Sherman shook his head sadly. “You know I can’t do that Mark. Special agent in charge would make you too high-profile. You’ve gotta disappear or you just won’t survive. You knew this was coming, Mark. You had to. You never gave an inch your whole career. You refused to play the game and now it’s time to pay up.”

Beamon drained the enormous glass in front of him in under two seconds, eliciting a sincere round of applause from a group of college students sitting at the adjacent table. Beamon smiled and nodded in their direction. He waved at the waitress and held up two fingers. “Right back where I started,” he said, turning back to Sherman. “I grew up near there.”

“I know.”

Beamon took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “Houston, huh.”

“Houston,” Sherman agreed.

“What did Garrett say?”

“He was excited to get you.”

Beamon frowned. He didn’t know Steve Garrett well, but he knew him better than that. “What did he really say, Tommy?”

Sherman waited for a moment before answering. “He asked if you were as big a prick as your reputation.”

“And you said?”

“Bigger.”

Beamon laughed. “Oh, thanks, bud. Go ahead and put in a good word for me.”

“But then he asked if you were as good as your reputation.”

“And you said?”

“Better.”

John Hobart brought his new Jeep Cherokee to a stop, and watched a thick knot of people disperse across the road. The sun was shining for the fourth day in a row and the temperature had risen to a near record sixty-two degrees. It was lunch hour, and the Inner Harbor was crawling with local business people, sightseers, and well-dressed conventioneers.

Hobart knew from his former place of employment that a national Baptist conference was in town for the entire week. Thirty thousand holy rollers had descended upon Baltimore, along with their three hundred buses, which were having a disastrous effect on downtown traffic.

The light changed and Hobart stepped lightly on
the gas, eliciting dirty looks from the last-minute stragglers hurrying across the street.

He would never get used to the new Inner Harbor. Baltimore had turned its downtown into a gleaming example of urban renewal. The streets were well lit, and the buildings were tall, clean, and modern. Street performers juggled, sang, and joked in front of glass shopping malls and food courts. Across the water, he could see the strangely angled roof of the National Aquarium. A tourist attraction extraordinaire, it was constantly engulfed in a sea of humanity impatiently waiting to get inside.

Fifteen years ago, the Inner Harbor had been infested with rats and old rusting cargo ships. Back then, anyone unfortunate enough to work downtown ate their lunch in their office and left as soon as the bell rang.

The only noticeable holdover from that era was the garbage floating in the murky harbor water, and the hordes of homeless men begging for money from families that hailed from places like Kansas and Iowa.

Hobart couldn’t help glancing in the rearview mirror as the building that housed the church’s offices disappeared from view. He had spent so much time there over the years that his spacious office had started to feel like home.

It was funny how things worked out. He had taken the job with Blake as a short-term arrangement; the money was good and the security work wasn’t particularly demanding. As Blake’s focus moved away from pure religion and toward politics, though, the job had become more and more interesting. Using the church’s finances to pull the strings of some of the most powerful
men in America was a hell of a lot more stimulating than protecting Blake from a bunch of overzealous Bible bashers.

Hobart had spent the first three days after his meeting with Reverend Blake tied to his computer, shifting and manipulating the church’s accounts. Money had been deposited across the U.S. and in a number of foreign countries under various individual and corporate names. In all, Hobart had siphoned exactly two million dollars from the church, mostly in the form of payments for phantom services. Unless an accountant was willing to travel across the third world verifying various purchases, construction projects, and donations, the money would never be missed. Hell, even if a Big Six firm was hired specifically to look for wrongdoing, it would take them at least six months and a million miles to sort things out. And when they did, the police would show up at someone else’s door, not his.