course, we'll look at it. We have to. But I'd put my money on another bunch.'
'A bubba job.' Jansson was using the politically incorrect shorthand for redneck bombers.
'Much more likely in my opinion,' Reilly nodded with a shrug of familiarity. Individual 'lone wolf extremists and violent homegrown radicals were as much a part of his daily life as were foreign terrorists.
De Angelis looked lost. 'Bubbai''
'Local terrorists, Father. Groups with ludicrous names like The Order or The Silent Brotherhood, mostly operating under an ideology of hate called the Christian Identity, which, I know, is a pretty strange perversion of the term ...'
The monsignor shifted uncomfortably. 'I thought these people are all fanatical Christians.'
'They are. But remember this is the Vatican we're talking about— the Catholic Church. And these guys, they're not fans of Rome, Father. Their twisted churches—none of which is even remotely Catholic, by the way— aren't recognized by the Vatican. Your people actually make it pretty clear they don't want to have anything to do with them, and with good reason. What they all have in common, apart from blaming all their troubles on blacks and Jews and homosexuals, is a hatred for organized government, ours in particular, yours by association. They think we're the great Satan—28
which, oddly enough, is the same terminology Khomeini coined for us and which is still echoing around the Muslim world today. Remember, these guys bombed the federal building in Oklahoma City. Christians. Americans. And there are a lot of them around. We just picked up a guy in Philadelphia who we've been after for a long time, he's part of an Aryan Nations' spin-off group, the Church of the Sons of Yahweh. Now this guy was previously Aryan Nations' minister for Islamic liaison. In that role, he's admitted to trying to form alliances with anti-American Muslim extremists after the 9/11 attacks.'
'The enemy of my enemy,' De Angelis mused.
'Exactly,' Reilly agreed. 'These guys have a seriously deranged view of the world, Father. We just need to try and understand what insane mission statement they've now come up with.'
There was a brief silence in the room after Reilly finished. Jansson took over. 'Okay, so you're going to run with this.'
Reilly nodded, unfazed. 'Yep.'
Jansson turned to Blackburn. 'Rog, you're still gonna look at the straight robbery angle?'
'Absolutely. We've got to cover both until something breaks that points us one way or the other.'
'Okay, good. Father,' he said, now turning to De Angelis, 'it would really help us if you could get us a list of what was stolen, as detailed as you can. Color photographs, weight, dimensions, anything you have. We need to get some alerts set up.'
'Of course.'
'On that point, Father,' Reilly interjected, 'one of the horsemen seemed only interested in one thing: this,' he said, as he pulled out a blowup of a vidcap from the museum's security cameras. It showed the fourth horseman holding the encoder. He handed it to the monsignor. 'The exhibition's catalog lists it as a multigeared rotor encoder,' he said, then asked, 'any idea why one would take that, given all the gold and jewels around?'
De Angelis adjusted his glasses as he studied the photograph, then shook his head. 'I'm sorry, I don't know much about this . . . machine. I can only imagine it to have value as an engineering curiosity. Everybody likes to flaunt their brilliance once in a while, even, it seems, my brothers who selected what should be included in the exhibit.'
'Well, perhaps you could check with them. They might have ideas, I don't know, collectors who may have previously approached diem about it.'
'I'll look into it.'
Jansson looked around. Everyone was set. 'Okay, folks,' he said, arranging his papers. 'Let's put these freaks out of business.'
***
As the others walked out of the room, De Angelis edged over to Reilly and shook his hand. 'Thank you, Agent Reilly. I feel we are in good hands.'
'We'll get them, Father. Something always gives.'
The monsignor's eyes were locked on his, studying him. 'You can call me Michael.'
'I'll stick to 'Father,' if that's all right. Kind of a tough habit to break.'
De Angelis looked surprised. 'You're Catholic?'
Reilly nodded.
'Practicing?' De Angelis looked down in sudden embarrassment. 'Forgive me, I shouldn't be so inquisitive. I suppose some of my habits are equally hard to break.'
'No problem. And yes, I'm in the fold.'
De Angelis seemed quietly pleased. 'You know, in many ways our work is not too dissimilar. We both help people come to terms with their sins.'
Reilly smiled. 'Maybe, but . . . I'm not sure you get exposed to the same caliber of sinners we get 29
around here.'
'Yes, it is worrying . . . things are not well out there.' He paused, then looked up at Reilly. 'Which makes our work all the more valuable.'
The monsignor saw Jansson looking his way; he seemed to be calling him over. 'I have full confidence in you, Agent Reilly. I'm sure you'll find them,' the man in the collar said before walking off.
Reilly watched him go, then picked up the vidcap from the desk. As he was tucking it back into his file, he glanced at it again. In a corner of the photograph, which was grainy from the low resolution of the museum's surveillance cameras, he could clearly make out a figure crouching low behind a cabinet, peeking out in terror at the horseman and the device. He knew from the videotape that it was the blonde woman he had spotted leaving the museum that night. He thought of the ordeal she'd been through, of how terrified she must have been, and felt drawn to her. He hoped she was all right.
He filed the photograph back in its folder. As he left the room, he couldn't help but think of the word Jansson had used.
Freaks.
The thought was not at all reassuring.
Figuring out the motives when sane people committed crimes was hard enough. Getting inside the minds of the insane was often impossible.
Chapter 11
C live Edmondson was pale, but he didn't seem to be in too much pain, which surprised Tess as she watched him lying there in his hospital bed.
She knew that one of the horses had backed into him, driving him to the floor, and, in the ensuing panic, he'd had three ribs broken. Their location was too close to the lungs for comfort, and, given Clive's age, his general health, and his fondness for strenuous activities, the doctors at the New York-Presbyterian Hospital had decided to keep him under observation for a few days.
'They've got me on a really nice cocktail of stuff,' he told her, glancing up at the IV pouch that was dangling from its stand. 'I can't feel a thing.'
'Not exactly the kind of cocktail you were going for, was it?' she quipped.
'I've had better.'
As he chuckled, she looked at him, wondering whether or not to bring up the more pressing reason for her visit. 'You up to talking about something?'
'Sure. As long as it doesn't involve going over what happened yet again. That's all everyone around here wants to hear about,' he sighed. 'Understandable, I guess, but ...'
'Well, it's . . . related,' Tess admitted sheepishly.
Clive looked at her and smiled. 'What's on your mind?'
Tess hesitated, then decided to dive in. 'When we were chatting at the museum, did you happen to notice what I was looking at?'
He shook his head. 'No.'
