“Lone Tree County is two thousand two hundred twenty feet above sea level. Longitudinal and latitudi nal position is- Hang on.” One of the satellite experts on the line was doing the math. “Our best chance at this stage is to send a pulse. But we have to program the nearest bird.”
“How long?” Takayasu said.
“Not sure, twenty minutes at least.”
“This is going to be close.”
“It might not work. And if it does, there’s a huge risk that goes with it,” the satellite expert said.
79
Cold Butte, Montana
Sirens yelped and emergency lights wigwagged as the papal motorcade made its way through Cold Butte. Cardiac time again.
Walker was in the SUV among the lead vehicles preceding the papal car. Along the route he scanned the faces of people at the barricades, relieved the pope was not walking at the rope but waving from the moving popemobile.
It was safer.
After Seattle, security had been heightened.
The entire route had been swept seven times. K-9 teams had conducted building probes. Bridges, vantage points and streets were patrolled by deputies from five counties. Officers from the Great Falls, Lewistown and Billings police departments and the Montana Highway Patrol supported federal agents.
All were advised “to check everything again and jump on anything out of place! Anything!”
Four helicopters circled above. Three were security; one was the press pool for aerial news pictures.
Sharpshooters and spotters with binoculars were positioned on all rooftops overlooking the procession. Walker was grateful no building was taller than three stories. Skyscrapers were an assassin’s dream.
Huge banners, along with U.S. and papal flags of all sizes, waved and rippled from the street sides. Cameras were ever-present. People smiled, called out to the pope. Some were enraptured, some prayed while news crews captured it all.
As the parade neared the school, Walker’s cell phone vibrated against his chest.
“Blake, it’s Jackson.” The agent calling was out of breath. “We just had a breach on the street at the school. No weapons of any sort.”
“What was it?”
“Lone, hysterical woman jumped the barricade, ran to the school as the choir kids arrived. She was scream ing gibberish about an abducted kid. We grabbed her. According to a nurse at the school, our woman was here a few days earlier making verbal threats against the pope.”
“You got it under control?”
“Yes, but the stranger thing is, the woman is asking for you. By name.”
“Me? How does she know me? You get an ID?”
“Margaret Conlin, early thirties, from Blue Rose Creek, California.”
Blue Rose Creek, California.
Something about it was familiar but Walker could not put his finger on it.
“She say why she’s asking for me?”
“Don’t know, she’s a bit incoherent.”
“Hold her in the command center truck. I’ll take care of it after we get through this.”
80
Cold Butte, Montana
Graham entered the bedroom in Jake Conlin’s house. Dim light splintered through shutters, casting the room in shadow.
A man lay on the bed; his face was turned. “Jake Conlin!”
Graham touched the man’s shoulder, his fingers found tacky wetness. Nothing moved. The darker shad ows were blood-drenched sheets.
Jake Conlin’s throat had been cut.
Graham retreated from the room, found a cordless phone. Carefully, he picked it up by the edge of its frame and used a pen tip to press 911.
“This is Lone Tree emergency, do you require police, fire or paramedics?”
“Police and paramedics to 1023 °Crystal Creek Road.”
“On their way. What is your emergency?” “White male approximately thirty-five years of age.
Deceased in an apparent homicide.”
“Homicide? Out on Crystal Creek Road?” “Yes. Are they rolling?”
“Sir, it will take a bit of time to reach your location.
Stay on the line. I need your identification, sir.” Graham identified himself with his regimental num ber, then said, “Please listen carefully. I request that you immediately alert the Secret Service detail on papal security. And the FBI. This homicide could be related to the two traffic fatalities on Highway 87 east of Lewis town and a pending attack on the pope at Cold Butte.” “Repeat that, sir.”
Graham did, then with his free hand he fished his cell phone from his pocket and tried to reach Blake Walker as he returned to the living room.
He’d glimpsed something here. What was it? Some thing repeating?
He couldn’t reach Walker.
Staying on the phone with the dispatcher and search ing the living room, he stared at the TV’s live coverage then noticed the laptop on a desk. The computer was wired with a Web cam.
The screen was lit.
The machine was running a number of programs and features.
Walking toward it, he saw pictures of Samara, the same woman in Maggie’s restaurant photograph with
Jake and Logan.
But these photos were different.
She was with another man and another boy. They were happy, smiling. Joyous. Standing in front of a palm tree, standing in a public square, the entrance to a city.
Middle East? Baghdad, maybe?
Drop by drop, the awful realization fell on Graham as he got closer to the computer.
In one corner of the screen a small video was running, repeating itself in a continuous loop.
It was Samara.
Wearing a white hijab. As she stared back at Graham, her eyes burned.
“…I am not a jihadist…”
In seconds as Samara spoke of her pain and her vengeful plan, Graham recognized what he was view ing.
The “martyr’s video” of a suicide bomber.
No!
Graham then noticed several cables wending from the back of the laptop to and through an open window. The cables continued outside to a tripod and a satellite dish. Inside, affixed to the cords just behind the laptop, there was a small box with an antenna. The box had several small blinking red and green lights, and a display window with red flashing numbers.
Graham’s knees nearly buckled as the enormity landed on him.
All the spit in his mouth vanished and his stomach quaked.
