May 4
2:35 p.m. PST
“Porter,” said Clusser, drumming his fingers together and leaning forward, “What’s going on?” The weight of the situation drew his dark walnut-colored face into a mass of ridged sobriety.
“Where have you been?!?” Porter said, adjusting himself in his seat and looking around the tight room with no cameras, no microphones, and no glass walls.
“Do you know a man by the name of Gerard Jasper?” said Clusser looking at his fingers.
“You realize how long I’ve been in here?!?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“I’m getting buried alive in bureaucratic sand! Pounding on the inside of my coffin won’t help at all after a few more days. Don’t you think this trial is going to court a bit too fast?”
“What do you know about the legal system, Porter. If you want help, you’ll give me answers. I want to know what you think happened to the man you wrote me about, Christopher Ulman. I want to know where this ancient document, KM-2, is hidden.”
Porter’s face flushed. “I don’t have it anymore. It’s back in Stratford’s possession.”
Clusser ran his fingers through the butched curls of raven hair hugging his slightly balding head, which tilted to the right. He grimaced and sighed together. “You remember Koishi-san? Tall Japanese? Skinny as a starving man? Do you recall that last day he met with us, how through his cigarette-stained teeth he told us in his own language, ‘ Even if I find the truth, I will not change? ’”
“Yeah, Koishi,” said Porter, his mind drawn back to Japan behind closed eyes.
“I never understood that,” said Clusser. “Why would anyone choose to dodge the facts when they know they are valid and will have the greatest impact on their temporal lives?”
“I couldn’t figure him out myself.”
With solid eyes holding his old missionary companion in place, Clusser said in his naturally deep voice, “Well I don’t have a clue as why you would do the same stupid thing!”
Porter pulled his head back. “I’ve never heard you talk this way.”
“I’ve never been so worried about a friend as helpless as yourself! I know it’s not your nature, but I want you to listen to me, Porter.”
“School’s changed me, Clusser,” said Porter, his voice weak but serious. He looked at the dark tabletop between his fingers.
“I hope so. You’re in real trouble.”
“You said not to worry about it.”
“Someone shot you with two. 40 caliber Smith and Wesson, 180 grain, jacketed round nose bullets from less than ten feet away and then disappeared. Was it a punk?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. My guess is, you were meant to live.”
Porter’s mouth opened, but there was no power to fuel his voice box.
“You’re hiding the codex. You know I recognize your motives. I’ve read the articles about Dr. Ulman’s find. I’ve even examined your incomplete doctoral thesis.”
“How did you get that?!” Porter said, his head popping like a jack-in-the-box.
“You probably think you’re doing our church a service, but you’ve forgotten the Twelfth Article of Faith,” said Clusser, putting his hands together.
“Why memorize them if you’ve always got ‘em with you,” said Porter. “What are you insinuating.”
“You memorize everything else, Porter,” Clusser said with disappointment on his face. “I’m talking about the article that says, ‘We believe in…obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.’ You think the prophet would sanction your possession of KM-2 in violation of our legal system? Everyone knows you have it.”
Drained of hope and power, Porter sagged into the back of his chair. He said nothing and fought back the wetness behind his eyelids. He sniffed the musky scent of Clusser’s cologne on the lukewarm air. Porter didn’t recall Clusser ever wearing any form of scent. He’d changed. “You’re…with them.”
Clusser lifted his chin and squared his jaw. “If you mean the law? Yes.”
Porter sat quietly. The room otherwise smelled slightly of coffee left by the former occupants.
“But that’s not what you’re thinking,” said Clusser.
Porter leaned forward and whispered. “I…was…shot, Clusser. Do customs agents normally do that?!”
Clusser looked into his briefcase, withdrew a file, and pulled out a picture. “Let me ask you again. Do you know this man?”
It was a candid photo. Porter recognized the face. Clean, hair perfectly set in place, untouched by the bad weather around him. Icy eyes making the blue-gray sky behind him look sunnier. The man wore a long overcoat of some suede-like material, navy in color. A suit underneath with a solid burgundy tie against a pressed white shirt.
“You never said anything about him. Friend of yours?” Porter’s last words bit with a bitter tone.
“Gerard Jasper,” said Clusser.
“No…this guy’s name is Arnott.”
Clusser’s face lost all emotion and regained it again…in about a millisecond. “ Peter Arnott?”
“I guess. He works at Stratford University.”
Clusser smiled his white teeth. He tilted his head again, but there was no glow in his eyes. “No he doesn’t. Is this the man who shot you.”
Porter waited, of course well-aware of the answer. “No.”
“Then who did.”
Porter paused. “I don’t know his name.” He couldn’t very well say he was shot by Joseph Smith! It was obviously a pseudonym.
“You’ve gotta work with me on this, Porter!”
“I’m going to be tried for an international crime in a Federal court, right? For what, stealing Ulman’s merchandise.”
“You got it. Look…by law you have the right to say nothing here without legal counsel-”
“Clusser, I need your help! I told you, the University took KM-2 away from me!” Porter said, leaning into his friend’s face.
“Stratford strictly states that you, John D. Porter, are in possession of the codex.” Clusser stopped with his mouth open. His probing eyes dug deep into Porter’s brain, scanning for the facts Porter couldn’t explain.
Porter half-hoped Clusser would find what he needed and say nothing. But the throbbing silence ached. Clusser stared until Porter moved to speak for the sake of killing the quiet and salvaging their friendship.
But Clusser’s words were faster. “You don’t trust me anymore.”
“Only because you refuse to believe me when I’m telling you the truth,” said Porter, sitting back slowly.
Clusser swished his tongue in his closed mouth. “You think I’m with those who tried to kill you. I’m not. But unless you help me figure out what’s happening here, one thing’s for sure: your middle initial stands for Dead-meat. Either in the courtroom…or outside it.”
“Thanks for the confidence,” said Porter, folding his arms.
“They don’t want you alive, Porter.” Clusser added, “You were involved in the incident at the library, weren’t you.”
“How did you-”
“The librarians made a list of the odd conglomeration of books you’d left on a table. It’s amazing the police didn’t trace them to you.”
“I never checked them out.”
“How many students at Stratford would have a mixture of Mayan, Hebrew, and Egyptian texts and dictionaries spread open in one place? It was in the report, but never followed for some reason.”
“I can give you one. They didn’t want the police involved.” Porter crossed his legs under the table, then loosened his limbs as he realized he was hugging himself-a common sign of insecurity and an attempt at psychological self-defense.
“The night librarian was given three hundred-dollar bills by an unrecognized man to step out for a coffee. The librarian came forward with the guilt-ridden truth. So if you were the only one in the library…you broke the window to get off the second floor. It was your blood the officers typed.”
“And you can’t see why I’m in here now? They want to destroy all evidence of Ulman’s find.”
“And they killed Dr. Ulman,” Clusser said for him.
Porter nodded.
Leaning forward, Clusser said, “The nebulous they won’t hold up in court, Porter.”
“If they got into Stratford, who’s to say they wouldn’t gain control of the codex after the judge is through?”
“So you do have KM-2.”
“No! I’m saying a ‘what-if!’” Porter was slipping up. He needed help, but was afraid to open his mouth anymore. He wiped his face with both hands. “What does Arnott have to do with all this, then.”
The FBI looked silently through the transparent air, thick with dust visible in the bright beams from over their heads. “I shouldn’t say anything.”
Porter slapped the table. “Yes you should! Comp.!?!”
“Don’t call me that. We haven’t been missionaries for years.” Clusser groaned as their eyes held each other in a silent bond full of crackling electricity. “Raymond Polaski, the suspect in the Wilkinson murder, came forward. He said he was hired by a man called Gerard Jasper. Polaski said, however, that he heard a number of people call Jasper a different name: Peter.”
“Then you have your proof! Polaski can testify and-”
“Polaski shot himself while in Police Protection.”
“Really,” Porter said in disbelief. “Do people in safe houses usually have access to guns?”
“We don’t know how he obtained the weapon. But with Polaski’s information, I was able to find out a bit about this…Peter Arnott.”
“False name,” Porter said with a dull voice. Reality was crumbling around him. With innocence, he looked at Clusser. “You’re FBI. You told me agents handled cases in their own areas, never chasing them personally across the US like in the junk novels, but transferring the info and responsibility to whatever office is closest to the relative location.”
Clusser stood and looked with dark eyes at his one-time companion.
Porter licked his lips. “You have no jurisdiction here.”
With a flat smile, Clusser said, “Just came to help a friend.” He turned to the exit.
“Where are you going?”
The agent stopped and looked back. “Porter…you’re not lying to me… I need to know.”
Porter shook his head.
“Then I’m off to the bat-cave. See you in court.”
May 5
8:40 a.m. PST
Well, the tuna was a little old, but Harvey Goodwill munched away without noticing. He’d waited in his beat-up ‘92 Mustang for over two hours, watching for his mark, one John D. Porter, to show his face.
It would be an effortless assassination.
Goodwill’s mark had a rather simple face with no peculiarities, the kind of kisser Goodwill wanted for himself-Porter would make the perfect killer! The student’s hair was flat and dry brown, his eyes a haze of plain gray. Even when Porter smiled there wasn’t a glow. At least not in the photographs. Goodwill memorized the snapshots before tearing them into the toilet of a motel with no name.
Goodwill had taken easier men down, like the rich fellow of many years who’d been feeding his own organized criminal unit enough funds to make them immortal and beyond reach. That man had never openly posed as a crime lord, and therefore never suspected that anyone knew of his existence. He’d lived in obscurity behind electronic defenses and more than ten angry rottweilers that chewed on whole tires for fun. That guy was a sip of soda. He never awoke from his sleep, and the doctors blamed his death on his yellow liver.
This Porter job wouldn’t be much of a bother at all. It would be over within an hour. Goodwill would be on a Greyhound to Florida before eleven o’clock, reading the sports page and chewing on apple skins.
He smiled at the thought.
The plan was basic. One man on the outside: the hit man. One on the inside: the point man. The point man went by the name Red Rover, while Goodwill was known only as Sunshine.
Goodwill waited and watched as Red Rover took care of all preliminary operations. Someone made the stupid jurisdictional decision to put Porter in a small bus for the trip to court.
The point man had already checked: there was no one else but the driver on board, one Jackie Golb, and he was a competent officer. Golb wasn’t a US Marshall, which was out of the ordinary. And normally, a second Marshall accompanied the driver while transporting a prisoner aboard a bus. These intentional errors in propriety amused Goodwill. Who knows, Goodwill’s employers may have had a hand in setting up this folly. The lax attitude on the part of the administrators would become a point of contentious debate during the investigation that would inevitably follow the assassination. The officers would yell at each other while Goodwill put up his heels and spent his well-earned bucks faraway.
Goodwill took another bite of his sandwich as he replayed the rest of the scenario in his mind. He’d designed it. Of course it would work.
Red Rover, also a excellent officer with a heretofore perfect record, would ask Officer Golb where he was headed. The driver would tell him. The inside man would reply that he had orders to report to the Federal courthouse as well and would playfully be kind enough to “escort” the bus. It was an unnecessary offer, but it would help Golb relax. Not that Porter was a particularly corrupt individual liable to escape, or even to make the attempt, but this way Golb wouldn’t have much to think about besides driving.
A small remote-controlled relay had been placed in the line of the radio power cable in the bus. It was a simple device, which Goodwill called a Snubber, for lack of another term. When activated, the Snubber opened the circuit, resulting in an absence of power to the device the electricity was supposed to operate; i.e., no radio. If Golb had a phone on his person, it wouldn’t matter. It would all be over moments after it began.
Red Rover would then get into his own car when the bus driver looked ready to go. He would radio Golb to confirm the green light and give the naive man a feeling of bland normality. Immediately, Red Rover would hit the remote to the Snubber, killing the driver’s radio. No smoke. No nothing. Golb wouldn’t realize for a moment he’d been cut off from the real world.
Goodwill pulled a green apple from his bag and began skinning it with his teeth, chewing the epidermis like gum.
The next part the inside man would play would make him appear completely innocent of the crime about to occur. It would result in Red Rover’s patrol car pulling to the side of the freeway. He would later report a string of carefully crafted fables followed by the verbal admittance that he “was unsure of what he saw and what really happened.”
Porter would be found dead, the driver also executed. The authorities would come and spin their mental tires until they ran out of gas.
The case of John D. Porter’s death would go nowhere, because there would be no leads to follow.
Worse case scenario: By some devilish miracle, flaws were found in Red Rover’s story.
Fine. Regardless of Red Rover’s moves, the assault on John Porter would never go further than the helpful officer.
Beneath a worn copy of Andrew Boxleiter’s, Natural Contagions, a 10 mm semiautomatic-which had been taken from the evidence locker of this very police building not one day previously-rested on the smooth passenger seat of Goodwill’s Mustang. (The thief was already unknown.) Before catching his Greyhound, Goodwill would drop the gun in a parcel to be picked up by a courier dubbed Guy Smiley, who would keep it. And in the case of mishap, Guy Smiley would plant the pistol in Red Rover’s apartment-just as a precaution. Of course all legal conclusions would have to admit that the patsy Red Rover had committed the murder himself. He would be the necessary scapegoat for the greater good, the fall guy…
And Goodwill would be at a Reggae concert on the beach.
He bit his sandwich with a new lust. But the taste hadn’t changed, and the lettuce was getting soggy, turning to strings in his mouth.
Of course, the assassin took twice as much care not to get caught by his current employers in a similar backstabbing. He took every precaution, including the name by which everyone identified him. In fact, Goodwill had had so many names, it took effort to remember the one his parents had given him at christening.
Like a squirrel suddenly aware of an approaching rattlesnake, Goodwill sat up. He lifted the spy-glass to his face and eyed the crowds coming out of the building.
Four officers talking to each other.
Ah!
Red Rover.
The crooked policeman laughed and slapped another officer in the shoulder.
The driver, no doubt.
It didn’t really matter if Jackie Golb had been replaced at the last minute. The plan was so devised as to rebound from possible changes. No job could be more professional.
The inside man shoved his hands up and pointed with his thumb at his own squad car, parked near the front of the mini-bus. So nonchalant. Maybe a little too overdone, but no matter. Red Rover was really a procrustean jingoist in embryo. His kind were very useful, but not often smart, which made them expendable.
This assignment would be no big deal. But Goodwill was a perfectionist in this kind of work. At first, it had been to stay alive and invisible in the wake of a murder. Now he took pride in his skill.
He saw his mark appear. Excellent!
John Porter. Hair slicked back-just rushed from the shower? His eyes stared at the heels of the officer in front of him. Porter looked ragged, even though he was wearing a Pierre Cardin. Where had he gotten the costly apparel? One last gift from his arch-enemy, Erma Alred, the red head who planned on frying him with her testimony? Didn’t matter. He’d be all set for burial when the cops caught up with his corpse. Porter’s head bobbed, tired, slightly bowed. Was it really him?
The ex-graduate student looked up and in the direction of the sun. Hasn’t seen that for a few days, has he, Goodwill thought. Even through the forced smirk, it was definitely John Porter. He disappeared behind the back of the bus.
Swiveling the mini spy-glass to the right, Goodwill lined the cross hairs on his point man lumbering satisfied to his police car. The bus driver boarded as the other officers loaded Porter through the rear door of the larger vehicle.
Red Rover opened the door to his car and slid inside as Goodwill smiled. He watched as the inside man lifted the microphone to his standard 800 megahertz radio and spoke while adjusting his rearview mirror to see the bus driver. The point man was getting a lot of money for this. Red Rover smiled while he spoke, as if Golb sat in the car there with him, then he put the radio down and picked up his cellular.
Goodwill put down his half-green/half-white apple and lifted his phone before it rang. “Hello Sunshine!” said Red Rover with a melody. “All’s set. Porter’s on the bus.”
“Were we not leaving two hours ago?” Goodwill said in a calm voice. “What was the delay.”
“…I think we were waiting for Porter to get dressed. Maybe the judge called and-”
“Never mind. Cut the radio,” said Goodwill.
“…Done.”
“Let’s go,” Goodwill said, starting his car. Like a caged lion, the Mustang roared before going into gear. He put his foot against the accelerator, pulled the wheel to the left, and felt his back sink into the seat. The car darted into traffic before the authorities could move their vehicles to the gate. Goodwill would make his way to the freeway and toward the Federal courthouse an hour away, allowing the bus to slowly overtake him-an old FBI trick; People who were being tailed never suspected the cars ahead of them.
Goodwill stayed on the freeway for more than thirty minutes before allowing the bus to pass him. He sped up and slowed again into sight repeatedly, but otherwise kept his distance and phone silence.
John Denver finished three in a row on Easy Listening K102 FM when Goodwill let Red Rover ease on by. Sliding on his leather racing gloves, the assassin watched the wheels of the point man’s automobile with amazement and child-like fascination, but forced no eye contact with the overexcited cop inside.
As Sting began “Shape of My Heart” from his 1993 album Ten Summoner’s Tales with a skillfully plucked guitar in a lonely dance, Goodwill watched the bus through the side of his left eye until it sped past his car.
When the singer put words to the music, Goodwill hit the gas again casually, forcing himself up to the side of the patrol car before the end of the first verse.
As the second stanza played with the tune, Goodwill lifted his copy of Natural Contagions and took the weapon snugly in his gloved hand. Though Goodwill preferred the peace and cleanliness of a 22 pistol when assassinating a mark, today’s weapon was a superb instrument of choice: a Colt Delta Elite loaded with hollow point 10 mm 180 grain Black Talons. At this distance, it was precise and powerful enough to stab through thick rubber spinning at seventy miles an hour. The bullets could blow holes in metal walls and tear through bus seats. A fearsome, ugly tool, streamlined black with pristine care and beautifully stocked with enough shells to do the job five times. It would do well. And the silencer was already screwed into the barrel. The extension was really unnecessary, but would add to the confusion.
He rolled down the window with confidence, only faintly aware of his rising heart rate. A casual glance informed him of Red Rover’s hands tightening on the steering wheel. But at sixty-five miles an hour…
Goodwill smiled at Red Rover. Then he stuck the nose of the 10 mm out the window and pulled the trigger.
No sound came from the gun. But the squad car’s right front tire exploded rubber and immediately swerved directly into traffic.
Goodwill’s mustang slowed as the police car swung in front of him.
Red Rover overcorrected, pulling his car to the left.
As the point man spun for the shoulder, and Golb slowed to fifty-five with the rest of the traffic, Goodwill drove along side of the bus.
He pulled the trigger twice.
Both right wheels of the bus shattered into rubber shrapnel. Opposed to Goodwill’s expectations, the vehicle lurched immediately for the left shoulder as if about to topple onto its right side. But it hit the center divide just after Red Rover and magically stayed upright.
Goodwill yanked his Mustang to the left side of the freeway. As dumbfounded commuters passed by at forty-five miles per hour, the Mustang slammed into reverse and sped backward toward the bus. With a smile, he imagined Golb shouting into his dead radio, “Eleven ninety-nine! Eleven ninety-nine!” uselessly attempting to tell the outer world he needed dire assistance.
No one would stop to help; they’d all be in shock and out of sight before considering it. Everyone else would see the police car behind the small bus. But if anyone had noticed the first officer out of control, they might quickly phone the authorities with their trusty portables. That meant one thing: viable time would soon be gone.
Goodwill pulled his parking brake without looking forward. He eyed Golb, or his replacement, only to see him with his head down, unmoving against the steering wheel. That could mean anything.
Goodwill jumped out of the rumbling Mustang while Sting moved through the chorus of “Shape of My Heart” for the second time.
The long-barreled pistol hung at Goodwill’s side as Red Rover came around the rear of the bus.
“Stupid fool!” said the cop holding a head wound that Goodwill couldn’t care less about. “ Who you trying to kill!?!”
Goodwill lifted his gun at the bus as he came to the skinny door on its right side. The door was slightly opened, which meant the driver must have hit it, and he obviously hadn’t done so intentionally. Goodwill expected Golb to be ready with an aimed Colt in his shaking hands.
“You told me you’d done this sort of thing before!” said Red Rover, coming closer. “I could have a concussion! I’m bleeding! ”
Looking through the glass with a glance before instantly pulling away, Goodwill made sure a bullet didn’t wait with his name on it. But Golb-it was Golb-hadn’t moved, and his right arm hung limp over the dash, his hand bent painfully around and upward. He might already be dead.
“You listening to me… Sunshine?!” said the dirty cop. “Or am I just too elementary school for you?! Hey!!!”
Goodwill didn’t look at the slowing traffic, where someone might see enough to feel inspired to call in for sure. He had less than thirty seconds.
He didn’t bother looking at Red Rover.
But as he pushed at the concave-bending door with the tip of his silencer, Goodwill heard the hammer of a pistol clicking in Red Rover’s swaying hands.
Oh, the drivers were getting a show now, weren’t they! Some adventurous citizen was likely to turn his car on Goodwill if they could see his own gun from a far enough distance. But what were the chances of that? Goodwill imagined everyone’s fingers going to their cellular phones now. If not to summon extra cop cars, then at least to inform their friends! They’d probably wonder if they’d see all this on America’s Most Wanted this Saturday.
But no time!
Goodwill saw the microphone from the radio hanging limply by the accelerator.
At least Porter was trapped.
“I’m talking to you, Sunshine! And you’ll listen because I still am an officer and can take you down right now!!!”
Goodwill smiled and lowered his weapon. The grin faded as his eyes turned cold on Red Rover. “Put that away. We have work to-”
Red Rover let his gun sag to his side as he pointed at his head. “This isn’t a war wound you know! I expect compensation for-”
Beside the forty-mile-an-hour traffic, Goodwill’s Colt Delta Elite made almost no sound as it jolted twice in his quick hand.
Red Rover fell, silenced forever.
No time.
Goodwill pushed himself into the bus as traffic slowed to thirty-five-it was amazing no one collided!
He balanced his pistol at breast level and kept his sharp eyes on Golb, who still didn’t move. Rising into the bus, he looked back at the empty seats. Porter was either out-cold, dead already, or playing hide and seek. But then, what else could the poor boy do?
With his eyes turned down the length of the short bus, Goodwill pushed his fingers just under the corner of Golb’s jaw. He barely felt a pulse. The man would live; no need to kill him. His story would be obscured by shock and unconsciousness. Golb might not have even seen the Mustang.
“John Porter!” said Goodwill finally to the hollow bus. “This gun can shoot clean through these seats so you might as well show yourself. If I wanted to kill you, there is nothing you could do about it. Better come quietly.”
The words were true. But then, Goodwill had every intention of murdering John D. Porter. And the assassin would be back in his Mustang before Sting was finished.