The Hammer of Eden

men were listening, wearing deferential expressions.

A young woman carrying a clipboard approached Priest. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Well, I sure hope so,” Priest said.

The agents noticed him when he spoke. He read their reactions as they looked at him. When they took in his ponytail and blue jeans they became guarded; then they saw Flower and softened again.

One of the younger men said: “Everything okay here?”

Priest said: “My name is Peter Shoebury, I’m an attorney with Watkins, Colefax and Brown here in the city. My daughter Florence is editor of the school newspaper. She heard on the radio about your press conference, and she wanted to cover it for the paper. So I figured hey, it’s a public information thing, let’s go along. I hope it’s okay with you.”

Everyone looked at the white-haired guy, confirming Priest’s intuition that he was the boss.

There was an awful moment of hesitation.

Hell, boy, you ain’t no lawyer! You’re Ricky Granger, used to wholesale amphetamines through a bunch of liquor stores in Los Angeles back in the sixties — are you mixed up in this earthquake shit? Frisk him, boys, and cuff his little girl, too. Let’s take ‘em in, find out what they know.

The white-haired man held out his hand and said: “I’m Associate Special Agent in Charge Brian Kincaid, head of the San Francisco field office of the FBI.”

Priest shook hands. “Good to meet you, Brian.”

“What firm did you say you’re with, sir?”

“Watkins, Colefax and Brown.”

Kincaid frowned. “I thought they were real estate brokers, not lawyers.”

Oh, shit.

Priest nodded and tried for a reassuring smile. “That’s correct, and it’s my job to keep them out of trouble.” There was a word for a lawyer who was employed by a corporation. Priest searched his memory and found it. “I’m in-house counsel.”

“Would you have any kind of ID?”

“Oh, sure.” He opened the stolen wallet and took out the card with the photo of Peter Shoebury. He held his breath.

Kincaid looked at it, then checked the resemblance to Priest. Priest could tell what he was thinking: Could be him, I guess. He handed it back. Priest breathed again.

Kincaid turned to Flower. “What school are you at, Florence?”

Priest’s heart beat faster. Just make something up, kid.

“Um.…” Flower hesitated. Priest was about to answer for her, then she said: “Eisenhower Junior High.”

Priest felt a surge of pride. She had inherited his nerve. Just in case Kincaid should happen to know the schools in San Francisco, he added: “That’s in Oakland.”

Kincaid seemed satisfied. “Well, we’d be delighted to have you join us, Florence,” he said.

We did it!

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“If there are any questions I can answer now, before the press conference starts …”

Priest had been careful not to overprepare Flower. If she appeared shy, or fumbled her questions, it would seem only natural, he figured; whereas if she were too poised and seemed well rehearsed, she might arouse suspicion. But now he felt a surge of anxiety on her behalf, and he had to suppress the paternal urge to step in and tell her what to do. He bit his lip.

She opened her notebook. “Are you in charge of this investigation?”

Priest relaxed a little. She would be fine.

“This is only one of many inquiries that I have to keep an eye on,” Kincaid answered. He pointed to the man with the black mustache. “Special Agent Marvin Hayes has this assignment.”

Flower turned to Hayes. “I think the school would like to know what kind of person you are, Mr. Hayes. Could I ask you some questions about yourself?”

Priest was shocked to observe a hint of coquettishness in the way she tilted her head and smiled at Hayes. She’s too young to flirt with grown men, for God’s sake!

But Hayes bought it. He looked pleased and said: “Sure, go ahead.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes. I have two children, a boy around your age and a girl a little younger.”

“Do you have any hobbies?”

“I collect boxing memorabilia.”

“That’s unusual.”

“I guess it is.”

Priest was both pleased and dismayed by how naturally Flower fell into the role. She’s good at this. Hell, I hope I haven’t raised her all these years to become a cheap magazine writer.

He studied Hayes while the agent answered Flower’s innocent questions. This was his opponent. Hayes was carefully dressed in conventional style. His tan lightweight suit, white shirt, and dark silk tie had probably come from Brooks Brothers. He wore black oxford shoes, highly shined and tightly laced. His hair and mustache were neatly trimmed.

Yet Priest sensed that the ultraconservative look was fake. The tie was too striking, there was an overlarge ruby ring on the pinky of his left hand, and the mustache was a raffish touch. Also, Priest thought that the kind of American Brahmin Hayes was trying to imitate would not be so dressed up on a Saturday morning, even for a press conference.

“What’s your favorite restaurant?” Flower asked.

“A lot of us go to Everton’s, which is really more of a pub.”

The conference room was filling up with men and women with notebooks and cassette recorders, photographers encumbered with cameras and flashguns, radio reporters with large microphones, and a couple of TV crews with handheld videocameras. As they came in, the young woman with the clipboard asked them to sign a book. Priest and Flower seemed to have bypassed that. He was thankful. He could not write “Peter Shoebury” to save his life.

Kincaid, the boss, touched Hayes’s elbow. “We need to prepare for our press conference now, Florence. I hope you’ll stay to hear what we have to announce.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

Priest said: “You’ve really been very kind, Mr. Hayes. Florence’s teachers will be truly grateful.”

The agents moved to the table at the far end. My God, we fooled them. Priest and Flower sat at the back and waited. Priest’s tension eased. He really had got away with it.

I knew I would.

He had not gained much hard information yet, but that would come with the formal press announcement. What he did have was a sense of the people he was dealing with. He was reassured by what he had learned. Neither Kincaid nor Hayes struck him as brilliant. They seemed like ordinary plodding cops, the kind who got by with a mixture of dogged routine and occasional corruption. He had little to fear from them.

Kincaid stood up and introduced himself. He sounded confident but a touch overassertive. Maybe he had not been the boss very long. He said: “I would like to begin by making one thing very clear. The FBI does not believe that yesterday’s earthquake was triggered by a terrorist group.”

The flashguns popped, the tapes whirred, and the reporters scribbled notes. Priest tried not to let his anger show on his face. The bastards were refusing to take him seriously — still!

“This is also the opinion of the state seismologist, who I believe is available for interview in Sacramento this morning.”

What do I have to do to convince you? I threatened an earthquake, then I made it happen, and still you won’t believe I did it! Must I kill people before you’ll listen?

Kincaid went on: “Nevertheless, a terrorist threat has been made, and the Bureau intends to catch the people who made it. Our investigation is headed by Special Agent Marvin Hayes. Over to you, Marvin.”

Hayes stood up. He was more nervous than Kincaid, Priest saw at once. He read mechanically from a prepared statement. “FBI agents have this morning questioned all five paid employees of the Green California