False Prophet Read online

  ‘So we’re dealing with a violent religious group – what does that tell us? First off, it tells us that it’s likely a world rejecting movement. A movement which defines itself in moral opposition to the hegemonic order – in this case, mainstream American society – which it sees as sinful and transgressive. However, a world rejecting movement only turns violent when it’s also pre-apocalyptic. That is, when the group sees American society on the brink of collapse, and so, perceiving itself to be locked in a struggle between good and evil, violently engages the dominant order to precipitate its collapse. If this all sounds familiar, it’s because al-Qaeda and other Jihadists we deal with are also world rejecting and pre-apocalyptic.’

  Schneider paused, and looked slowly around the table.

  ‘It seems self-evident that this investigation should fall under my jurisdiction,’ she continued, ‘because these people have more in common than not with your typical Islamic Fundamentalist. Yes, there are significant differences in the specific content of their beliefs. But insofar as extreme commitment to dogma and radical action are concerned, we’re dealing with something similar.’

  Schneider sat down. It was no secret that she and I didn’t get along: she’d always treated me like a two-bit criminal, and I’d given as good as I got. But there was no denying this was a sharp analysis. It fell in with what Parkes and I concluded beforehand: that this was a lunatic cult.

  It was now my turn to speak. But I had to wait, because Fairclough had decided to interrogate Schneider.

  ‘I take it when you say religious group, you mean cult, right?’

  Schneider nodded.

  ‘Well, why don’t we just round up all these world-rejecting cultists and put them to the sword?’ said Fairclough quickly.

  ‘Well aside from the first amendment, which might be something of an issue,’ she said sharply, ‘there’s also the little problem of there being about 5,000 cultic groups on the American mainland. And that’s just the ones we know about. At this point, we have our work cut out simply deciding where to start.’

  Fairclough was about to go back for more but Muldoon raised a silencing hand, before nodding at me to begin.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said. ‘I think I may know who’s behind these attacks.’

  I then proceeded to recount everything Teague had said about Drexler, plus how Drexler had come up as dead on the Bureau’s computer. I concluded:

  ‘At first I was dismissive of Teague. But so much of what he said fits in: the obsession with 2/26 attacks; the theme of self-infliction; the vehicle of religion. All that remains to be seen is what this has to do with me. And missing children has to be the key. However, I’m not convinced I’m next on the hit list. Rather, I think Drexler wants to engage me in a game – a competition.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘My theory? Perhaps we’re not looking at missing children, but hostages. And maybe – just maybe – Drexler has my son. That’s my theory.’

  Silence. I had no proof Drexler had my son, but it was a compelling theory: one that had occurred to me the moment I’d read the brief in Quinn’s car, and one that was plausible enough to induce a moment’s disquiet within the room. But no more than a moment – because whether my theory was right or wrong, the rest of what I’d said had been potentially game-changing. And so before I knew it – amid an atmosphere of newfound excitement – Muldoon was dictating instructions to look into any cultic activity which had its roots in the last four years, to interrogate staff at the Coxsackie Correctional Institute, and to excavate the sink hole Drexler supposedly fell into. Then, after briefly recounting his plans to go public with the previous day’s events, he brought the meeting to a close: he could sense the team was itching to get back to work, so he let them.

  But instead of joining them, I slipped out front for a smoke. And as I took deep, calming puffs on a Dunhill in the morning gloom, I didn’t know what to feel – didn’t know whether to feel empty, or hopeful, or petrified. Because I couldn’t quite decide what all this meant – or if it meant anything at all…

  I ground the filter-tip beneath my boot, and went back in.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 6:30 a.m. CST – 7505 South Laflin Street, Englewood, Chicago.

  Francis Bindle was bound to his chair and blindfolded. It seemed about four hours since the warehouse had been usurped but who his assailants were he could only speculate. From what little he’d heard, they appeared to be cultists of some kind. But what shocked him most was the fact Dennis Ericson was one of them. Based on everything Francis knew about Dennis, this scarcely seemed possible.

  The sound of someone at the door. Francis had known they’d want to question him – press their advantage.

  ‘Hello, Francis.’ This was the one called Zahir; their leader.

  Francis maintained his silence. Hostage takers hate being ignored. Their whole game is a bid for attention.

  The man laughed softly. ‘Pity – I was going to ask if you had any last requests. But since the cat’s got your tongue, we might as well get down to business, eh?’

  Francis heard a Beretta being loaded. Then he felt an ice-cold muzzle touch against his temple.

  ‘I’ll count you down from three,’ said Zahir. ‘Three.’

  Had his captors already issued their demands and decided to make an example of him? Was this being filmed – his death to be beamed around the world?

  ‘Two.’

  Francis’s wife and children flashed before his eyes. His eighteen-year-old daughter he’d never see married; his sixteen-year-old son he’d never play catch with again.

  ‘One.’

  Next came the image of his brother Liam, who’d be ambushed on his return, and face the same sorry fate…

  Snick – the sound of a finger working the trigger. Francis exhaled hard. The gun had been empty. Laughter filled the room.

  ‘Look at you, shaking like a leaf,’ said Zahir sneeringly. ‘It’s pathetic. You’re no better than the others. Would you believe your friend Fred Vitelli soiled himself during our little scrap earlier? How’s that for pathetic?’

  Francis remained silent. But this silence was not born from passive aggression. He was too shaken to speak.

  ‘Well, if you won’t speak, then let’s have a bit of eye contact,’ said Zahir. He moved behind Francis, and roughly removed the blindfold.

  As Francis had suspected, he was in the room next to last along the second corridor. It was completely emptied, aside from a chair three yards off. Zahir sauntered over, and sat down. He very deliberately loaded his Beretta for real.

  ‘When I was a boy, the doctors used to run tests on me,’ said Zahir casually. ‘Tests like the one I just did on you. For example, they had one with electric shocks: they’d count down from ten, then hit you with a serious shock. People like you, they’d tremble during the countdown. But not me. I was cool and calm.’

  He paused, looking at Francis for a response. He got only silence.

  ‘There was another test,’ Zahir continued, ‘in which they showed me photographs of faces from crime scenes. One had an eyeball ripped out; another had a nose sliced in two. Fascinating stuff. Then, suddenly, they blasted the sound of gunfire into the room. Most subjects jumped out their skins. But I was unrattled.’

  Again, Zahir paused. Again, he got silence. Zahir stood and started pacing.

  ‘The others jumped because of a part of the brain called the amygdalae. This creates emotional responses, and sends them to the central nervous system. So these subjects who jumped, their emotional response was distress and when this was sent to their nervous system, it deteriorated them physically. Thus when the noise hit, they couldn’t stomach it.

  ‘I, on the other hand, am unique. By an accident of birth, that poisonous element in my brain was disconnected from my nervous system. But, of course, when people are born with an advantage, there’s jealousy. So they kept me in hospital to “cure” me…’

  Zahir st
rolled back to the chair and sat down.

  ‘Why? Because I had a gift – a special ability.’

  For the third time, Zahir paused. This time, Francis responded.

  ‘Your certificate’s in the post,’ he hissed.

  Zahir smiled humorlessly. ‘Very amusing. But you will learn to respect me.’

  ‘I’ve seen it all before, buddy. A whack-job thinks he’s spoken to God. And guess what? God says kill ‘em all. Forgive me for not clamoring for your wisdom, O Messiah.’

  Zahir smiled – genuinely, this time. ‘I mustn’t forget that you’re the man who headed the investigation into the first Trade Center attack those twenty years ago. That attack’s something of a fascination for me.’

  ‘Everybody’s gotta have a hobby, right?’ replied Francis flippantly.

  ‘You have me wrong, Mr Bindle. I’m not like the Jihadists you’ve spent your life chasing. I’m not so deluded as to believe in any God. Religion to me is a means to an end: because nothing inspires commitment and dedication like religion, nothing affords the leadership so much power. Just look at al-Qaeda and the control its leaders have over their followers. The power to make them sacrifice their lives. But the leaders of the Jihad movements believe what they preach. Whereas I’m more powerful yet, because I believe in nothing. I preach whatever best fulfils my aims.’

  ‘And what exactly are your aims?’ probed Francis.

  Zahir looked delighted to be asked.

  ‘My aim is to be the most inspired manipulator of men. I’m looking to exert true power through deception – to persuade my victims to act against their own best interests. After all, isn’t that the essence of con-artistry? But you know all about that – you’re with the Bureau. You trade in exerting power through intelligence and deception. That’s why it’s essential not only to involve you, but to defeat you.’

  Francis raised his eyebrows incredulously.

  ‘Is this a game to you?’ he whispered.

  Zahir threw up his arms excitedly.

  ‘Yes, a game! Precisely! A game I must win at all costs. I’ve always believed sport should model itself on war. Thank you for understanding.’

  ‘I understand you’re a psychopath,’ Francis spat.

  ‘You’re not the first to call me that,’ said Zahir, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Now listen. As you might’ve guessed, I’ve employed superior intelligence and deception to take over your little operation. Our friend Dennis Ericson – the man who enabled me to pull it off – tells me you’re in contact with the Director every other day, updating him on a local Jihadist cell. Now, what I’d like you to do is to feed the Director information that’ll make him do something against his own best interests.’ Zahir leaned in. ‘I want you to tell him there’s been a breakthrough – they’ve made contact with al-Qaeda.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Your colleagues and brother will die.’

  Francis clenched his teeth.

  ‘You don’t have my brother,’ he growled.

  Zahir merely chuckled, before rising, and sauntering out of the door.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 7:50 a.m. EST – Hoover Building, DC.

  I didn’t yet know if this had anything to do with Samuel. But for the time being, I had to work on the basis that it did and, as a result, the stakes felt higher for me. In fact, I felt on the verge of becoming like the family members of captives I’d seen during my hostage rescue days; of becoming incapacitated by the situation. So to stave off this feeling, I spent the next three hours energetically assisting Schneider’s Radical Fundamentalist Unit at the SIOC as they began collating and scrutinizing evidence from Joint Terrorism Task Forces at the DC, New York, and Philadelphia Field Offices, with no small help from Parkes’s analytical team at The Office of Intelligence. And though the situation was grave, there was still something exciting about seeing the SIOC in full swing. It was something I’d missed.

  After I’d recited my meet with Teague once again – this time to an agent who’d transcribed it for future reference – I realized I was hungry. It was nearing 11 a.m., and I hadn’t eaten since the flight. So I took the elevator to the third floor, and headed once more for the CID main office. This time, I was in luck.

  Sitting in the audience area were ten agents, including Brendan. But it was the man before them – briefing them on counterfeit dollars from Venezuela – that I was after. This was Morton Giles, the Director of the CID: a bear of a man, whose oversized dimensions were offset by his gentle manner, soft brown eyes, and receding head of curly grey hair.

  Noticing I’d slipped into the room, Giles excused himself and came over to greet me.

  ‘Saul, my boy,’ he growled in his Chicago accent, giving me his trademark car-crusher handshake. ‘Good of you to drop by. How the hell are you?’

  I smiled. ‘I’m beat, and hungry as hell. Fancy a burger?’

  ‘You bet. Mind if I bring Scott? The boy’s grown on me.’

  Giles undoubtedly knew I’d want to fill him in on the past twenty-four hours, so his readiness to have Brendan along was a clear sign he thought his protégé could be trusted. I nodded my assent.

  ‘And here I was thinking I was the apple of your eye,’ I said.

  Giles slapped my shoulder affectionately, before beckoning Brendan over. A few minutes later, I was roaming up Pennsylvania Avenue. To my left, Scott Brendan. To my right, Morton Giles, the man who’d arrested me seventeen years ago following a four year game of cat-and-mouse.

  *

  As we ate at a secluded booth at Central Michel Richard, a low-key restaurant a block away from Headquarters, I proceeded to fill Giles and Brendan in. But once I’d finished the account, and they’d taken a little while to digest it all, we got talking about other things. And before long, we were all joking and cracking wise – Brendan demonstrating an acerbic wit I hadn’t expected – in a welcome escape from the doom and gloom. Then, over coffee, the conversation turned to my time on the run all those years ago.

  ‘Your relationship must’ve been very odd back then,’ said Brendan intently. ‘Saul, you must’ve seen Morton lurking in every shadow.’

  I gave a half-smile. ‘In a way, Mort became my only friend. Being constantly on the run like that, it isolates you. Mort was the only constant. I actually think I would’ve been more distressed had he not been on my trail.’

  Giles nodded. ‘The affection was mutual. After enough time tracking you down, I found myself caring for you. Wanted to bring you in for your own damned good. Though that’s not to say you didn’t piss me off.’

  I smiled. Though I’d been a young man while on the run, Giles had hardly been old. In fact, he’d only been thirty when the Criminal Investigative Division at Headquarters asked him to track me down. And it was his success in sniffing me out that saw him promoted to Headquarters full time. From there, it’d only been a few short years before he was heading the Division himself.

  Brendan wrinkled his brow.

  ‘Sounds like an interesting relationship. The arrest must’ve been bizarre.’

  ‘Which one?’ I replied slyly.

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Brendan.

  ‘Oh, not this again,’ interjected Giles.

  ‘So Morton hasn’t told you?’

  ‘Told me what?’ said Brendan.

  ‘Well, I thought I’d let you tell him, Saul, seeing that you love this story so much,’ said Giles sarcastically but with the smile of a man able to laugh at his own expense.

  ‘Kind of you, Mort,’ I replied, before turning back to Brendan. ‘You see, there were two arrests in all. Because before Morton had me arrested, I got him first.’

  Brendan was hooked: his head was cocked towards me with interest.

  I continued: ‘It was June 1996, and I was hiding within New York’s mafia scene. And I thought I was being real clever, too. Because on one hand, I reckoned it was somewhere Mort would never think to look for me, since what criminal hides among the most monitor
ed group in America? Yet, at the same time, I reckoned the New York FBI Field Office would be unlikely to recognize who I truly was and alert Mort, since the chances were a local team wouldn’t know the first thing about an unrelated Headquarters operation. And sure enough, this hideout did the trick.

  ‘But then I made a mistake. I started sleeping with a woman I knew nothing about. A few weeks later, we were getting photographed by paparazzi outside a motel room, which was precisely the treatment a congressman’s daughter caught having an affair would expect to receive. I knew it was only a matter of time before Mort saw these images, so I ran. Got on a Greyhound bus, and rode it all the way to Dallas. But though I’d picked Dallas out of panic, during the course of the journey I calmed and formulated a plan.

  ‘As soon as I arrived in Dallas, I did two things: first, I forged a Texas arrest warrant for Morton Giles – the FBI impersonator who’d been causing a world of trouble in Houston; and second, I purchased a plain blue uniform, like the ones worn in Texan courthouses. Then I waited for the inevitable – for Mort to follow my trail to Dallas – and once he did, and I managed to get wind of where he was staying, I made my final move. I drove a rental car to Houston, used the uniform to gain access to the city’s courthouse, faxed the warrant to all Dallas police stations, then called Dallas Police Headquarters, and left an anonymous tip as to Mort’s whereabouts. Next thing Mort knew, he was being set upon by ten armed officers.’

  Brendan laughed hard, but he was soon cut off by Giles. The next part of the story was the bit he liked.

  ‘As clever as Saul’s ploy had been, it didn’t take long for Dallas Police to realize the truth. They soon discovered they were the only city who’d received this “statewide” warrant. And then they called Hoover, who confirmed who I was.