Rat City, Seattle
Near Seattle’s southern edge at the fringe of a ne glected urban nightmare, an unmarked government sedan stopped at an aging apartment complex.
Two well-dressed federal agents entered, scanned the tenant list of the apartment’s lobby panel, then buzzed E. R. Glaxor.
“Yes,” the tin-sounding response came through the intercom.
“Mr. Edwin Glaxor?”
“Yes.”
“Special Agents Blake Walker and Melody Krover of the Secret Service. We’d called in response to your concerns, sir.”
“Yes. Come in. Unit 615.”
The door lock buzz-clicked, allowing them to enter.
They stepped into the elevator. Krover, a new agent with the Seattle Field Office, had pulled Glaxor’s name from the list. Seattle agents had visited him twice. Her valise contained his file, which Walker had read a third time on the ride over. He’d read it before on his previous two flights to Seattle. The field people took pride in their work, and resented Walker’s micromanaging of their files.
Walker didn’t care.
Edwin Richard Glaxor, age thirty-six, was a night watchman who’d bombarded the Vatican with letters demanding “the pope resign and confess his crimes as the anti-pope” in an address to the United Nations, or Glaxor would “eliminate” him during his visit to Seattle.
“I have been authorized to prosecute the act,” he wrote.
Glaxor’s file, which included notes from his em ployer, indicated he talked to inanimate objects. He had no criminal record, no history of violence. Did not own, or have access to, firearms, or explosives. Other than “showing up at the rope” at various presidential visits along the west coast over the years and glaring at the president, Glaxor had not acted on his threats.
A pungent mixture of muscle ointment and cat litter greeted the agents when Glaxor opened his apartment door for them.
The black-framed glasses he wore were held together by white tape. He was overweight with stringy hair and greasy skin. His apartment was dimly lit.
“I am averse to light, that’s why I work nights,” Glaxor said as he sat in a large, somewhat elevated chair, while the agents stood.
“I am glad you’re here. Time is of the essence.” Glaxor spoke articulately and rapidly. “I’ve recently been in contact with the GHD, and he demands the pope end his tyrannical reign and resign before fate- that being me- intervenes.”
Krover opened the file. “The GHD would be the ‘Great-Horned Demon’ you converse with?”
“Yes, the GHD’s manifested as a gargoyle in the park downtown as a conduit for communication.”
“Could we please let in a little light, Edwin? Just a bit?”
Walker opened the curtains slightly. Glaxor’s chair was a throne constructed entirely of Bibles. After lis tening to Glaxor’s nonsensical theories for nearly twenty minutes, Walker interrupted.
“Edwin, we believe your concerns warrant more research. We’ve talked to your family about a facility where you can discuss your situation with the appropri ate medical experts.”
Glaxor steepled his fingers, touched them to his chin and nodded.
“May I bring the data I’ve collected?”
“I’ll discuss that with the doctors, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“All right, I’ll do it.”
“Good, son. Under the circumstances, this is the right thing to do.”
Walker reached for his cell phone to advise Glaxor’s parents and psychiatrist.
Glaxor was a letter writer, like hundreds of other people on the Secret Service watch list. Part of the job was to be up to speed on the list, a file of several hundred people who had ever threatened the president, or a visiting head of state, even with an e-mail, a letter or a comment overheard in public.
People like Glaxor who weren’t in facilities were visited by agents in advance of VIP visits to update their threat status, chiefly to determine if they had the ability and opportunity to carry out their threat.
Glaxor’s family had agreed that he would undergo assessment in a psychiatric ward during the pope’s visit. Like the Secret Service and the FBI, King County and Seattle PD put him on their watch list.
This threat had been neutralized.
Back in the car, Walker reviewed his files. They had several more cases to double-check as part of continuing advance work to assess threats and identify risks. They worked on everything, from poten tial lone assassins to terrorist groups. As Krover drove them to the next case, Walker inventoried his files to ensure he hadn’t overlooked anything.
They were in order, yet something niggled at him. Something that had arisen from one of the roundtable calls at Langley. As hard as he tried, Walker couldn’t identify it. And now, as the time for the northwest leg of the papal visit ticked down, it continued to irritate him.
Walker scanned the latest bulletin on activity and chatter concerning FTOs.
Nothing there.
At that moment, his BlackBerry vibrated with an alert from Homeland Security.
U.S. Customs and Border Protection investigating unconfirmed report of border penetration by unau thorized vessels suspected of at-sea transfer of hostile contraband. Location: U.S.-Canada border. Washington State. Strait of Juan de Fuca. Primary vessel registered under Panamanian flag. Vessel origin: Yemen. Secondary vessel origin: unknown.
52
East of Great Falls, Montana
Distant reddish-brown figures emerged in the field glasses slowly coming into focus.
White-tailed deer.
Some two hundred yards off.
A doe and two spotted fawns stepping from the forb and dogwood.
Snouts to the ground, they browsed around the lone U.S. flag affixed to a pole of pine dowelling. Quite a sight against the grand sky. Nothing out there but the deer and the flag, flapping in the open range at a height of precisely five feet.
The flag had been erected by the deer watcher, Ali Bakarat, a specialist in chemical engineering.
Using an alias, Bakarat was identified as a professor from England. He was visiting the U.S. to attend an international symposium in Portland, Oregon. It had ended a week ago. He’d told American authorities that he was taking a holiday and driving across America to New York, before his return to London.
Previously, he’d flown from Addis Ababa, to Algiers, to Cairo, to Istanbul, Paris then London. None of which was known because he’d used counterfeit documents. His fingerprints and eye scan did not raise any red flags. He didn’t exist on any no-fly or Interpol watch lists. But here he was, east of Great Falls, Montana, at the fringe of Malmstrom Air Force Base, finalizing his part of the operation.
He’d broken a salt lick, spread chokecherries and snowberries, and set a water bucket around the flagpole. It was like a candy stand for the deer. They would graze for hours. Bakarat looked at his watch when he saw his partner’s Jeep approaching, raising dust.
Bakarat’s associate, Omar, an expert in molecular nanotechnology, had arrived with the operative.
The nurse.
Samara.
She wore jeans and a Seattle Mariners T-shirt, which enhanced her figure. Even under her ball cap and dark glasses, her beauty exceeded the description given Bakarat by the old men in Africa.
