Police in Alberta. At this point there’s no link. It appears to be an accidental wilderness case. They drowned in the mountains when their canoe capsized. It seems the RCMP has dispatched a member to Wash ington to follow up on Tarver’s background. I believe we’re covered.”
Walker’s colleague nodded for him to continue with other reports. Working with Egyptian and Italian secu rity agents the Secret Service had uncovered a plot by the KTK, a fanatical group out of Cairo, to kidnap the pope in the U.S. “The group had planned to televise their members holding a sword over the pontiff’s head while demanding the release of KTK members held in Israeli jails,” Walker said.
And working with German intelligence, the Secret Service and CIA had identified a small group of elite ex- mercenaries, veterans of brutal wars in Rwanda and Congo, who had been hired by an ideological group of disillusioned young aid workers. “They had conspired to kidnap the pope during his U.S. tour to draw world attention and aid to Africa. All conspirators had been arrested in Europe,” Walker said.
“It seems to me-” the military advisor looked at his watch “-that at this stage all we have are potential pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And we’re not certain a puzzle exists. And looking at the files, we’ve got a growing number of threats that we’re still processing for analysis. We haven’t connected any dots here.”
No one challenged the advisor so he continued.
“We know the public grows threat weary, that we can’t always cry wolf.”
A few heads nodded.
“We’re seeing more church organizations who are concerned with security, urging the Vatican to shorten the visit. This is unprecedented.”
“Any word on the Vatican’s response?”
“We expect to hear soon.”
“Look, this presents all kinds of problems.” The State Department official launched into a discourse on Wash ington-Vatican relations and geopolitics.
The tension was growing. Blake was familiar with it; the time before a major event that robs agents of sleep, tightens stomachs and causes ulcers.
As the officers debated security, Walker glanced at his files and his calendar.
Time was ticking down on the pope’s arrival.
First, Boston, where the president would receive him, then New York, Miami, Houston, Los Angeles before moving into Walker’s zone, the northwest, then concluding the tour in Chicago.
Walker had already joined advance teams, inspected sites three times, worked with field offices and briefed local and state police and emergency personnel. Soon his group would fly to Seattle and pick up the visit there, joining the main teams who’d be with the pope the entire trip.
Walker’s group was responsible for the pope’s secu rity on his visit to Seattle, Washington, then a smaller event in Lone Tree County, Montana.
He flipped by Father Stone’s newsletter prematurely announcing the visit.
It renewed Walker’s thoughts about the Montana leg. Now, with the visit upon them, amid the intensifying rush of threats, Walker prayed Father Stone’s premature boasting to the World Wide Web would not be a factor.
Any further thought about it was pushed aside by the soft lowing of his vibrating phone. Walker had received an encrypted message from his supervisor.
VATICAN SAYS NO CUTS TO AGENDA. FULL-BORE VISIT AHEAD.
Walker absorbed the update then swallowed hard.
39
Takoma, D.C.
Would he find answers here?
The Tarvers had a modest Victorian home. It was where they’d lived, where they’d dreamed and where Ray, a reporter who’d lost the respect of his colleagues, had continued his pursuit of his con spiracy theories.
The house sat back from the street, inviting visitors to a veranda edged with an ornate spindled railing and sheltered by overhanging gables. It was walking dis tance from the Takoma Metro station, the last stop on the red line in D.C. before Silver Spring, Maryland. When Graham arrived, Jackson Tarver was on his knees digging among the roses that lined the front walk.
“You’re right on time.” Tarver stood.
“It’s a beautiful house.”
“Anita took care of most things.” Tarver’s gaunt face was bereft of light when he greeted him. “Any word on if the searchers located Ray?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
Tarver turned to the house, gazing at it as if his son, his daughter-in-law and grandchildren were inside waiting. His Adam’s apple rose and fell.
“Let’s get started. I’ll show you around, like you wanted, whatever you need.”
They began with the back.
It was typical with a barbecue and a patio set with an umbrella table arranged on a deck that stepped down into the well-kept fenced yard. There were dells of rhododendrons and ferns shaded by sugar maples, and a tall beech tree with a tire swing for the kids. Tarver gave the tire a gentle push.
“They loved it here,” Jackson Tarver said.
As the old rope squeaked, Graham imagined the children playing in the yard, Anita gardening, Ray and his father at the grill sharing beers, talking sports or politics.
Living their lives like most families.
“Excuse me, are you related to Ray and Anita Tarver?” Both men turned to a woman in her early thirties standing at the side of the house.
“I’m Ray’s father, Jackson Tarver.”
“I’m Melody Sloane. I live down the street. My twins played with Emily and Tommy.”
“Come in, Melody.”
“I don’t mean to barge in on you. I saw you out front.”
“It’s all right.”
“My condolences, Mr. Tarver.” She cupped a hand over her mouth, then embraced him. “I read about it in the Post. ” Her voice weakened. “It’s so awful. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Six Seconds 247
“Some of the neighborhood moms were wondering about a service. The two detectives who were here the other day didn’t know if arrangements had been made.”
“No, nothing’s been decided yet. Anita and the children were cremated. We’ll have a memorial service when we have Ray, when they’re all together.”
“Of course, please, let me know if there’s anything you need.” She turned to leave.
“Ms. Sloane, if I may?” Graham gave her his card. “Corporal Daniel Graham with Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
She looked at the card and its stylized bison head seal.
“I’m handling matters in Canada. Could you tell me a bit more about these two detectives?”
“Goodness. Well, it was at the time when the story had been in the Post. I’d come to the house to leave a card in the mailbox. The two men got here just before me. I think they’d tried the door, no one was here and they were looking around the side.”
“Did they show you any ID?” Graham asked. “Were they D.C. police? FBI? Secret Service?”
“No, no identification.”
“Did they tell you what they wanted?”
“They wanted to know who was looking after the house. I said that I didn’t know.”
Graham turned to Tarver. “Were you ever contacted by detectives?”
