Coming of the Lord was not far off. Of course, Crane himself would be taken up to Heaven in the Rapture before the conflict started, but leaving a fully armed force to fight the Antichrist was a good legacy he could offer.
And everything had started on a small farm in West Virginia, he reflected. It was a classic American tale of greatness from small beginnings, one that Abraham Lincoln himself would be proud of. Young Rudi’s parents had been dirt poor, his father a dedicated worker on the land, who had been forced to go down the coal mines to provide for his family. His mother was a saintly woman, who had been drawn to the Baptist faith despite her family’s devotion to Bavarian Catholicism. Between them, they ensured that Rudi got a decent education, enabling him to win a scholarship to Bible college and start his preaching career. They had also instilled in him a deep understanding of money, in their careful management of the land and the income earned from it and the mines-his mother had taken in laundry and sewn clothes to supplement that. Investing the profits from his books and TV programs had come naturally to Rudi, and soon he was spending more time on business than preaching. He did not regret that. Clearly it was the will of the Lord.
Crane’s reflections had the clarity of real life, so painstakingly had he constructed his backstory. In fact, his father had been a drunken animal, who beat his wife and young Rudi. His death, down a dry well with a sealed cover, had never been satisfactorily explained, though the local sheriff was unlikely to reopen inquiries, considering the money he had been paid. As for his mother, she had also beaten Rudi and forced him to watch her have sex with any man who could pay. After her death in a mental asylum, her records disappeared and the Director built himself a luxurious cabin in the Allegheny Mountains.
The preacher man looked at his cell phone. The call he’d missed was from Martin Mallinson, one of the D.C. lawyers he used. He couldn’t begin to imagine what that slick operator would be wanting of him.
‘He’s stopped,’ Sara said, taking her foot off the gas pedal and looking at the monitor.
I had been half-asleep. The clock in front of me showed 2:41. ‘Where are we?’
The vehicle came to a halt.
‘We just passed somewhere called Hutchense, sixty miles southwest of Dallas. There isn’t much ahead. The next town is in ten miles. Hold on, he’s moving again.’
We watched as the marker moved westward. There were no roads or settlements showing on the monitor.
‘And he’s stopped again.’ Sara sat back and stretched her back.
‘Are you all right?’
She screwed her eyes up. ‘Too long in the driving seat.’
‘I could have spelled you.’
‘Yeah, that would have been a great idea.’
Despite the sarcasm, I went for broke. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy loosening these ropes?’
She just glared at me. ‘Sure. Oh, wait, I saw what you did to my half sister.’
And then it hit me again-Christ, Quincy. She had killed him without compunction, just as she’d killed Dave. What was I doing cozying up to her? Then I remembered Rothmann. The bastard responsible for Karen’s death and that of our son had priority. If Sara could get me near him, I’d nail him and then take my chances with her.
Sara waited for half an hour and then drove on. ‘Let’s see what happening. Maybe Apollyon’s stopped at a motel.’
The area didn’t seem to have many of those. Besides, I couldn’t see the assassin checking in with his captive. Then again, maybe he’d already killed Rothmann. Though I suspected he wanted to dispatch the so-called heretic slowly and in some grotesque Antichurch ritual rather than in the back of a pickup.
There were very few houses on the road. This seemed to be a deserted part of Texas, even though it wasn’t so far from Fort Worth and Dallas. It was easy to forget how huge the state was. Over twenty million people were swallowed up by its vastness-which made finding just two potentially very challenging.
Sara stopped by the edge of the road. There weren’t many trees around here, just open country rolling away into the darkness.
‘According to the monitor, the vehicle is three hundred yards to our left,’ she said, opening her door.
I managed to hit the handle on mine and stumble out. There were no lights at all to the left, and only a dirt track leading away from the road we were on. The wind blew into my face, bringing the smell of grass cut with cow dung into my nostrils.
‘Maybe Apollyon’s gone to have a rest out of sight of the road,’ I suggested.
‘Maybe.’ Sara was checking her semiautomatic and machine-pistol. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
She gave me a tight smile. ‘You’ll come with me, all right. But I don’t trust you, Matt.’ She came quickly toward me and wrapped a handkerchief round my mouth. ‘No noise, capisce?’
I glared at her. I was trussed up like a Christmas turkey and about as vulnerable. She knew that and pushed me ahead of her. The words human and shield flashed up in my mind. So much for gaining her confidence.
I stumbled down the rough track in the darkness.
Ruts in the land were deep and well worn. Had Apollyon prepared a hideout nearby? I sincerely hoped we weren’t anywhere near where the Texas Chainsaw Massacre was filmed.
‘Hang on,’ Sara whispered, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I turned and watched her look ahead. It was pitch-dark and there was no moon. I could see only a few faint stars. She nodded and I started walking again, my breath making the gag round my mouth damp. We must have gone at least a couple of hundred yards. Where had Apollyon gone?
Then my foot hit something hard. There was a loud click and we were blinded by a spotlight. I couldn’t raise my hands, so I had to lower my head.
‘Don’t move!’ came a harsh male voice.
‘Do as he says,’ Sara whispered from behind me. ‘I’ll deal with them when they come closer.’
‘You at the rear! Drop your weapons!’
‘Screw you,’ Sara muttered.
‘Final warning!’
Jesus, what was going to happen? I was sure Sara wouldn’t disarm herself.
‘All right,’ said the voice, ‘let him go!’
Let him go? Who? There was a crash of metal and I heard padding paws and a slavering noise. Narrowing my eyes, I looked ahead and saw a large canine coming straight toward us.
I did the only thing I could. I dropped my shoulder and waited for the impact.
Twenty-Nine
Peter Sebastian was sitting outside the interview room in the Hoover Building, a cup of cold coffee on the floor between his feet. Arthur Bimsdale had gone to find some food for them while Sir Andrew Frogget made his telephone call. The investment banker had insisted he talk to his lawyer, even though Bimsdale had faxed the slippery Martin Mallinson a selection of the juiciest photos of his client.
There would be some very angry people when Bureau staff started knocking at their doors. They had finally found a way into the secret world behind Rothmann’s activities. Although a lot of the companies were little more than fronts, the financial crime experts would have plenty to work on.
It should have been a triumph, though Sebastian couldn’t see it that way. Valerie Hinton hadn’t called yet, but she would, as soon as the news got out. And then the full might of the CIA would be turned on him. Not even the Director would be able to protect him from that. Why had he done it? Partly, he was sick of being at the Agency’s beck and call-it was nearly fifteen years since he’d been caught in its tentacles, and he’d had enough. But that wasn’t all. There was something about this case, about the whole vicious conspiracy centered on Heinz Rothmann, that he couldn’t stomach. Not only had the President nearly lost his life and a member of his cabinet been killed, but everything to do with the extended case was pure poison. The Hitler’s Hitman killings showed that. Rothmann’s Nazism, combined with his cynical use of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, was bad enough, but the conditioning program developed by his sister was the clincher-it had attracted big business, international investors and the CIA, and it had enabled him to place his people in law enforcement and the armed forces. If someone didn’t
