The Hammer of Eden

Friday with nine people. I need twenty more agents.”

He laughed. “I’m not putting twenty people on this bullshit assignment.”

She ignored that. “I’ve notified the Strategic Information Operations Center.” SIOC was an information clearinghouse that operated from a bombproof office in the Hoover Building in Washington, D.C. “I’m assuming that as soon as the news gets around headquarters, they’ll send some people here — if only to take the credit for any success we have.”

“I didn’t tell you to notify SIOC.”

“I want to convene the Joint Terrorist Task Force so we’ll have delegates here from police departments, Customs, and the U.S. Federal Protective Service, all of whom will need somewhere to sit. And starting from sundown on Thursday, I plan to stake out the likeliest locations for the next earthquake.”

“There isn’t going to be one!”

“I’ll need extra personnel for that, too.”

“Forget it.”

“There isn’t a room big enough here at the office. We’re going to have to set up our emergency operations center someplace else. I checked out the Presidio buildings last night.” The Presidio was a disused military base near the Golden Gate Bridge. The officers’ club was habitable, though a skunk had been living there and the place smelled foul. “I’m going to use the ballroom of the officers’ club.”

Kincaid stood up. “You are like hell!” he shouted.

Judy sighed. There was no way to get this done without making a lifetime enemy of Brian Kincaid. “I have to call Mr. Honeymoon soon,” she said. “Do you want me to tell him you’re refusing to give me the manpower I need?”

Kincaid was red with fury. He stared at Judy as if he wanted to pull out his gun and blow her away. At last he said: “Your FBI career is over, you know that?”

He was probably right, but it hurt to hear him say it. “I never wanted to fight with you, Brian,” she said, striving to keep her voice low and reasonable. “But you dicked me around. I deserved a promotion after putting the Foong brothers away. Instead you promoted your buddy and gave me a bullshit assignment. You shouldn’t have done that. It was unprofessional.”

“Don’t tell me how to—”

She overrode him. “When the bullshit assignment turned into a big case, you took it away from me, then screwed it up. Every bad thing that’s happened to you is your own damn fault. Now you’re sulking. Well, I know your pride is wounded, and I know your feelings are hurt, and I just want you to understand that I don’t give a flying fuck.”

He stared at her with his mouth half-open.

She went to the door.

“Now I’m going to talk to Honeymoon at nine-thirty,” she said. “By then I’d like to have a senior logistics person assigned to my team with the authority to organize the manpower I need and set up a command post at the officers’ club. If I don’t, I’ll tell Honeymoon to call Washington. Your move.” She went out and slammed the door.

She felt the exhilaration that comes from a reckless act. She would have to fight every step, so she might as well fight hard. She would never be able to work with Kincaid again. The Bureau’s top brass would side with the superior officer in a situation like this. She was almost certainly finished. But this case was more important than her career. Hundreds of lives might be at stake. If she could prevent a catastrophe and capture the terrorists, she would retire proudly, and to hell with them all.

The DT squad secretary was in Kincaid’s outer office, filling the coffee machine. “Thanks, Rosa,” Judy said as she passed through. She returned to the DT office. The phone on her desk was ringing. She picked up. “Judy Maddox.”

“John Truth here.”

“Hello!” It was weird to hear the familiar radio voice on the other end of a phone. “You’re at work early!”

“I’m at home, but my producer just called me. My voice mail at the radio station was maxed with overnight calls about the Hammer of Eden woman.”

Judy was not supposed to talk to the media herself. All such contacts should go through the office media specialist, Madge Kelly, a young agent with a journalism degree. But Truth was not asking her for a quote, he was giving her information. And she was in too much of a hurry to tell Truth to call Madge. “Anything good?” she asked.

“You bet. I got two people who remembered the name of the record.”

“No kidding!” Judy was thrilled.

“This woman was reading poetry over a background of psychedelic music.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “The album was called Raining Fresh Daisies. That also seems to be the name of the band, or ‘group,’ as they used to call them then.”

He seemed pleasant and friendly, nothing like the spiteful creep he was on air. Maybe that was just an act. But you could never trust media people. Judy said: “I never heard of them.”

“Me either. Before my time, I guess. And we sure don’t have the disk at the radio station.”

“Did either of your callers give you a catalog number, or even the name of the record label?”

“Nope. My producer called both people back, but they don’t actually have the record, they just remember it.”

“Damn. I guess we’ll just call every record company. I wonder if they keep files that far back.…”

“The album may have come out on a minor-league label that no longer exists — it sounds like that kind of far-out stuff. Want to know what I’d do?”

“Sure.”

“Haight-Ashbury is full of secondhand record stores with clerks who live in a time warp. I’d check them out.”

“Good idea — thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, how’s the investigation going otherwise?”

“We’re making some progress. Can I get our press officer to call you later with details?”

“Come on! I’ve just done you a favor, haven’t I?”

“You sure have, and I wish I could give you an interview, but agents aren’t allowed to talk directly to the media. I’m really sorry.”

His tone turned aggressive. “Is this the thanks you give to our listeners for calling in with information for you?”

A dreadful thought struck her. “Are you taping this?”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

She hung up. Shit. She had been trapped. Talking to the media without authorization was what the FBI called a “bright-line issue,” meaning you could be fired for it. If John Truth played his tape of their conversation over the air, Judy would be in trouble. She could argue that she had urgently needed the information Truth offered, and a decent boss would probably let her off with a reprimand, but Kincaid would make the most of it.

Heck, Judy, you’re already in so much trouble, this won’t make any difference.

Raja Khan walked up to her desk with a sheet of paper in his hand. “Would you like to see this before it goes out? It’s the memo to police officers about how to recognize a seismic vibrator.”

That was quick. “What took you so long?” she said, joshing him.

“I had to look up how to spell ‘seismic.’ ”

She smiled and glanced over what he had written. It was fine. “This is great. Send it out.” She handed back the sheet. “Now I have another job for you. We’re looking for an album called Raining Fresh Daisies. It’s from the sixties.”

“No kidding.”

She grinned. “Yeah, it does have kind of a hippie feel to it. The voice on the record is the Hammer of Eden