Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (31 page)

“How is their movement coming?” Kaminsky asked.

“It’s getting stronger all the time. They’re selling material on the Internet from their headquarters in Minneapolis and have been successful in recruiting high school students into the movement. Popeye almost got caught in a raid by the feds when he visited them in Minneapolis.”

“When?”

Oliver thought for a moment. “I believe over a month ago. It would have been very bad for Popeye if he had been captured. And disastrous for us.”

“Is there a militia movement in Minnesota to support those activities?” Kaminsky asked.

“That’s the bad part,” Oliver said. “They’re not the easiest group to get along with. Many of their racist statements have deterred large groups of people. Their heart is in the right place, but they have to tone down the rhetoric until after we take over.”

“When does Marcel arrive?” Kaminsky asked.

“Tomorrow. He wants to use our experience as a road map for his own movement in Quebec. Also, he can help publicize our triumphs on his Web site. I can feel everything we’ve been planning coming together.” Oliver reached down to wipe a blemish off the toe of his boot. He had almost slipped and told Kaminsky that Marcel was coming to pick up the materials for the dirty bombs. “I wonder how he and Ms. Prescott would get along.”

“You know the French.” Kaminsky laughed. “Why don’t we invite her back tomorrow, maybe for lunch?”

“Yes,” Oliver’s gloved hand played with his hearing aid, “why don’t we? In the meantime, I’ll get the film developed from dinner.”

Oliver brushed his boot again. “I’ll talk to Thorpe in the morning.”

S
am lay on his cot, running options through his mind. He had set his alarm for 2:30 a.m. in case he fell asleep, but the tension coursing through him precluded sleep. He looked at the dark ceiling and waited.

He must have dozed a little, because the alarm tinkled in his ear. It took him a moment to center himself; then he swung his feet off the cot, pulled on slippers, wanting to be as silent as possible, and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He picked up the tiny flashlight on his desk and made sure the envelope with the tape was in his pants pocket.

Silently, he opened his door and peeked into the open room. All quiet. He figured he had about an hour before security came through.

Using the light to guide him, Sam slipped past Popeye’s door and across the large room, arriving at the door to Oliver’s study. He looked around, then swept his ID through the scanner. The lock on the door clicked. He listened again. Silence.

His hand rested on the knob for a moment; then he turned it. Blackness greeted him. He switched on the flashlight and stepped across the threshold. Reaching behind him, he pushed the study door shut as quietly as possible—but, to him, the click sounded like the chimes of Big Ben in London.

Sam waited a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he started counting steps as he walked forward toward his right.

After nineteen steps, his foot touched the hearth of the fireplace. The fire had gone out, but there were a few coals left. He could smell the soot.

Now,
he thought,
turn right. Walk ten steps to the door. There shouldn’t be anything in your path
—
nothing to knock over with a crash.
Sam felt his way along the wall until he got to nine. He reached out and felt the doorframe—wiped sweat from his eyes with his other hand.

Sam shined his light on the scanner. He reached into his pocket. Pulled out the envelope. Placing the tape on top of the fingerprint ID, he took a deep breath and waited. Nothing happened. What the hell was wrong? O’Brien had said this should open the door. Was there some other code to punch in?

Sam’s heart pounded. He looked at his watch. About another thirty minutes before security would come through again, making their checks.

Sam moved the tape closer to his light and stared at it. He had the right side up. It should work. His hand trembled a little as he held the tape over the ID scanner again.
Click.
His heart jumped. The door moved an inch. He took a deep breath and pushed, The door swung open.

Sam swung his flashlight beam around the room. Were there security cameras inside the room? Too late to worry about that now.

He stepped inside to a small room, only about fifteen by twenty feet with a conference table, a desk, and what looked like a portable bar.

Brushing sweat from his forehead, he moved to the desk. His light played across a stack of papers neatly centered in the middle. Next to the papers was a phone with what looked like a fax machine attached, a desk lamp, and a short vase packed with pencils and pens.

He pulled his digital camera out of his pocket, then stopped. Did he hear a noise? Sam held his breath, listening. Silence.
Keep moving, Thorpe. Keep moving.

Starting with the top paper, a drawing of a building, he snapped a picture. He set it aside and snapped a picture of a message form. As quickly as he could, he snapped a picture of each paper, then turned it over and moved to the next paper, not taking time to read any of them. His hands shook slightly, but he forced himself to hold them steady. His heart beat at a savage rate in his chest.

Sam finished taking pictures, stacked the papers in the same order he’d found them, then tried the center desk drawer.
Shit! Locked.

The top drawer on the right contained a phone book and a series of maps. He glanced again at his watch. Ten minutes after three. No time to search for a key. Security would arrive in twenty minutes, if not less. He had to get out of there.

Once more, he flashed his light across the desktop. Did Oliver have some system to determine if his papers had been disturbed? Sam couldn’t worry about that. Not now. He made his way back across the room, careful to skirt the conference table.
For God’s sake,
he thought,
don’t knock something over.
He forced himself to move slowly.”

Just to be on the safe side, Sam listened. Hearing nothing, he pulled open the door and peeked out. Still dark. He stepped out of the high security area. Pulled the door shut behind him. Heard the click. Tested the door to be sure. Locked.

He wiped sweat from his forehead again. When he stepped across the room, he bumped an end table. Heard the noise and caught the lamp before it fell to the floor. Too close.

Sam reached the study door, turned, and swung his light around the office again. Nothing out of place. No announcement that anyone had visited.

He took a deep breath.
Almost out. Don’t screw it up now.

Sam turned the doorknob and peeked out. All quiet. He’d made it.

He opened the door, ready to step out, when the outside door to the barn slammed shut. Sam’s heart jumped. A security guard shuffled across the room directly toward him, the guard’s flashlight bobbing in the darkness.

Sam willed himself to stay calm, pushing the door shut and making sure it locked. He hoped the guard hadn’t heard the click.

Focused on his breathing, Sam stood completely still. In a minute he heard the door rattle as the guard tried the knob. Sam held his breath, sure the security guard could hear his ragged breathing. In a minute he’d be gone, wouldn’t he?

The knob turned, and the door swung open. If the guard turned the light on and came into the room, he’d see Sam. Sam would have no choice but to knock out the guard. Oliver would know someone had been in his study, but at least he wouldn’t know who. No way would he know that anyone had been in the restricted area.

Sam raised his arm, ready to deliver a karate chop to the back of the guard’s neck. He saw the bill of a baseball cap poke into the office and stay there for what seemed forever. Sam held his breath. The beam from the guard’s flashlight circled the room.

The bill pulled back. The door shut. Sam exhaled a sigh and mopped his brow again. He willed himself to breathe slowly.

Sam looked at his watch again. After five minutes, he turned the knob and cracked the door. All quiet.

Sam moved into the larger room. He hurried across to his office, sure Popeye would choose this moment to stick his head out of his office and see him. Pulling open his own door, he stepped inside. His knees were weak. He felt as if he might puke. Forcing himself to breathe normally, he set the camera on the desk.

After several deep breaths, Sam slipped the memory card out of the camera and pushed it into his laptop. He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the memory stick hanging from a chain around his neck. Placing the memory stick into the second USB port on the computer, he transferred the photos from the card to the memory stick.

As he scanned the documents, he saw the first one listed names and telephone numbers, none that looked familiar. The next document listed a series of locations. Sam figured these might be places that Oliver considered targets to explode the dirty bombs. Sam’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Minneapolis, with his name in parentheses. Were these bastards planning to harm Emily?

He clenched his fist. He’d kill Oliver before he’d let that happen.

Marcel Dubois shifted his Mercedes 230SL into third gear and stepped on the gas. God, he loved his car. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror in case any cops might have ideas of stopping him.

He pushed the number on his speed dial.

A voice answered, “Oliver.”

“My friend, I just crossed the border. I should be at your place in a few hours. You know, I could make it faster, but who wants to risk a ticket?”

“We can’t afford to have you intercepted. Not now.” Oliver paused. “Did you get a chance to look at the pictures?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“The colonel was at my restaurant a few days ago for lunch, but with a different woman. She was tall and had long black hair.”

“That would be Ms. McCarthy.”

“And she is?” Marcel shifted the Mercedes into fourth gear and shot by a Tri-State moving van.

“McCarthy is apparently an old girlfriend.”

“This colonel certainly does well with the women.”

“Like you, my friend.

Marcel chuckled. “I think we made a mistake in listening to Aly about Thorpe bringing a woman with him. Were you able to ensure her silence?”

“Aly gave me her address. I tried to correct the problem but without success.”

“Maybe I should try. Do you still have her address?”

“I don’t know where she is now. Apparently Thorpe doesn’t either.”

“I see. The woman in the picture you sent me is attractive, but really—the hair.”

“Does she look familiar to you?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ve invited her to join our cause. She defended herself very well against one of our bigger men when he tried to force himself on her. Having a woman with our insert team should make it look less menacing.”

“You’re starting to sound like Aly, my friend.” Marcel passed another truck.

“Be careful, Marcel, you’re on dangerous ground.”

“No harm meant, my friend.” Marcel got tired of treating Oliver with kid gloves, but he had to keep it up at least until he got the dirty bombs. “Are you going to bring her in on our plan?”

“Enough so she can make a decision.”

“What if she says no?”

“Then I will have to remove her.”

“I thought so.” Marcel laughed. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Drive safely. I’ll have your Merlot ready.”

Marcel switched off the phone. He thought about Elizabeth Henley. Such a beautiful woman. Too bad her future was limited. Maybe this friend of Thorpe’s would be a candidate to replace her.

Sam hopped into Alex’s truck, and Alex turned right out of the parking area three blocks from the pub.

“How did it go last night?”

“Oh, I had all kinds of fun.”

“I’ll bet. Were there any problems?”

“The thumbprint worked like it was supposed to, but on the way out I almost had to knock out the security guard.”

“What?”

“Yeah, jeez, too close a call.”

After Sam had briefed her on what had happened, Alex said, “Well done.”