Orlando. My old hometown. It was a city that lived up to its nickname, "The City Beautiful." It was dotted with over a hundred named lakes, and its suburbs had many more. It was a city of gracious homes and tall office buildings. Condos were sprouting downtown and the city center was a vibrant place to be on a weekday. On this Saturday, it was quiet.
"I'll leave the car for you," said our driver, tossing the keys to me. "Somebody will pick me up in a few minutes."
He'd parked in the public lot beneath 1–4, across the street from the federal courthouse in downtown. "Better leave your weapons in the car," he said.
Logan and I had flown up from Key West in a business jet owned by some federal agency. We didn't have to surrender our weapons. Each of us had a nine millimeter, and I still had a dive knife strapped to my ankle.
Before we left Key West, jock had dispatched a Coastie to retrieve my dive gear from the surfer guy who ran the shop. It would be stashed aboard Recess.
A Coastie had directed us to an area where we could shower and shave. Logan and I were both dead tired. We hadn't slept since we took the naps while anchored at Boot Key the afternoon before. We grabbed a couple of hours of sleep, and then dressed in new clothes provided by a grateful government. We both were wearing slacks and golf shirts, with light windbreakers to hide our pistols.
We landed at Orlando Executive Airport shortly before noon, met our escort, and were driven to the courthouse.
We left our weapons in the trunk of the government sedan, cleared courthouse security, and were escorted to David Parrish's office. He was waiting for us, a big blond man whose hair was now mostly gray, a slight paunch hanging precariously over his belt.
"Matt," he said in his Georgia accented baritone, "it's good to see you."
I introduced him to Logan, and said, "I'm told you know why we're here."
"Not exactly, but I got orders from Washington to, as they say, show you every courtesy. That means I'm to do what you tell me to do."
"I like that," I said. "How about getting me a cup of coffee?"
"Go to hell, Royal," he said, grinning. "There are just some things I won't do for my country. Can you tell me what's going on?"
We had taken seats in a small conference room. David sat at the end of the table, and Logan and I flanked him. The seal of the U.S. Justice Department hung on the wall behind Parrish's head, and black-and-white photographs of the present and former U.S. attorneys general lined two other walls. The final wall was glass, providing a view of 1–4.
I leaned into the table. "David, we're in a hell of a fix. Somebody is going to blow up a church here on Sunday."
"Whoa. What's going on?"
I filled him in on what we knew and what we didn't know. It was sketchy at best, and not very enlightening.
Parrish leaned back in his chair, hands under his chin, fingertips touching. "What are we supposed to do?"
"I don't know. I need to call jock and see if he has any more information."
A look of mild surprise crossed Parrish's face. "Ali," he said, "I should have detected the fine hand of Mr. Algren in all this. He has a lot of juice in Washington."
Jock, David, and I had worked together before.
"He seems to," I said.
David looked at Logan. "Where does Logan fit into all this? Are you government too?"
Logan laughed. "Not since I got out of the Army. I got shanghaied into this mess by our friend Matt. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do here, other than hold Royal's hand."
I stood up. "I've got to make a call," I said, and stepped into the hallway, pulled out my cell phone.
Jock picked up on the first ring.
"Anything more?" I said.
"Not much. We've helped the Rev's memory with some drugs, but what we're getting is pretty disjointed. He seems to be living in die past somewhere and talking about somebody named Albert Thomas and another guy named Colin Edinfield. I don't know who they are, and die government computers tell us they're both dead. I can't make any sense out of it."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing. He keeps mumbling something about Arlington. That doesn't make any sense either, and the people he's named aren't buried there."
"Let me know if anything comes up."
"Okay. You should have some FBI and ATF types getting to Parrish's office within a few minutes." He hung up.
I rejoined Logan and David, and in a couple of minutes two men in suits were shown into the room. David stood and made the introductions. FBI and ATF agents.
David sat back down and asked, "Do you guys know anything about why you're here?"
The FBI agent spoke up. "We've been briefed about a possible church bombing in die area. That's all we know."
"That's about all we know too," I said.
The FBI agent turned to me. "Tell me just exactly who you are."
Parrish fielded the question. "Mr. Royal is in charge. Mr. Hamilton is assisting him. That comes from the very top, and that's all you need to know for now"
I could tell the two federal agents didn't like that. "Gentlemen," I said, "I don't like this any better than you do. I've got my assignment though and, if it'll make you feel better, I'm taking my orders from somebody who works for the government and outranks almost everybody in the world. If and when I give an order, I'll simply be conveying it from my principal. Clear?"
"Not really," said the AFT agent, "but I know how to take orders."
"Good." I then told them everything I knew, including the garbled information Jock was getting from Simmermon.
The FBI agent shook his head. "That's not much to go on. I know we've got all our people and ATF's people ready to go to work. Our counterterrorism guy is in charge. We just don't know what to do."
My cell phone rang. It was Paul Galls.
"Michelle tells me they have a whorehouse in Orlando," he said. "There's one in Atlanta too."
"Where's the one in Orlando?"
He gave me an address and hung up.
I looked at the men gathered at the table. "We may have a starting place." I explained how the Heaven Can't Wait Spas operated, and their ties to Simmermon.
The ATF agent looked up from the table. "That might be their staging area. I can get some dogs in there that'll find any explosives in a matter of minutes."
I shook my head. "If the bomber isn't in the house, a raid will spook him. He'll go to ground, and we'll be sitting here wondering where lie is when a church goes up."
Parrish leaned forward. "Any suggestions?"
I nodded. "Let's send somebody in undercover. See what we can find out before we go breaking down doors."
"We can send in an agent," said the FBI.
"I'11 go," I said. "I may have a better sense of what we're looking for. I've been in one of these places before, and I might see something that's out of the ordinary. Something someone else might miss."
"That could be dangerous," said Parrish.
"I know," I said.
I just didn't realize how dangerous.