Ken Follett - The Hammer of Eden

Each of them assumed the position they liked. Some lay flat on their backs, others bent into a fetal curl, one or two lay as if sleeping. Priest and several others sat cross-legged, hands loose on their knees, eyes closed, faces raised to heaven.

“Relax the small toe of your left foot,” Priest said in a quiet, penetrating voice. “Then the fourth toe, then the third, then the second, then the big toe. Relax your whole foot … and your ankle … and then your calf.” As he went slowly around the body, a contemplative peace descended on the room. People’s breathing slowed and became even, their bodies grew more and more still, and their faces gradually took on the tranquillity of meditation.

Finally Priest said a slow, deep syllable: “Om.”

With one voice the congregation replied: “Omm …”

My people .

May they live here forever .

The meeting at the governor’s office was scheduled for twelve noon. Sacramento, the state capital, was a couple of hours’ drive from San Francisco. Judy left home at nine forty-five to allow for heavy traffic getting out of the city.

The aide she was to meet, Al Honeymoon, was a well-known figure in California politics. Officially cabinet secretary, he was in fact hatchet man. Any time Governor Robson needed to run a new highway through a beauty spot, build a nuclear power station, fire a thousand government employees, or betray a faithful friend, he got Honeymoon to do the dirty work.

The two men had been colleagues for twenty years. When they met, Mike Robson was still only a state assemblyman and Honeymoon was fresh out of law school. Honeymoon had been selected for his bad-guy role because he was black, and the governor had shrewdly calculated that the press would hesitate to vilify a black man. Those liberal days were long gone, but Honeymoon had matured into a political operator of great skill and utter ruthlessness. No one liked him, but plenty of people were scared of him.

For the sake of the Bureau, Judy wanted to make a good impression on him. It was not often that political types had a direct personal interest in an FBI case. Judy knew that her handling of this assignment would forever color Honeymoon’s attitude to the Bureau and to law enforcement agencies in general. Personal experience always had more impact than reports and statistics.

The FBI liked to appear all-powerful and infallible. But she had made so little progress with the case that it would be kind of difficult to play that part, especially to a hard-ass like Honeymoon. Anyway, it was not her style. Her plan was simply to appear efficient and inspire confidence.

And she had another reason for giving a good account of herself. She wanted Governor Robson’s statement to open the door to a dialogue with the Hammer of Eden. A hint that the governor might negotiate could just persuade them to hold off. And if they responded by trying to communicate, that might give Judy new clues to who they were. Right now it was the only way she could think of to catch them. All other lines of inquiry had led to dead ends.

She thought it might be difficult to persuade the governor to give this hint. He would not want to give the impression he would listen to terrorist demands, for fear of encouraging others. But there should be a way to word the statement so that the message was clear only to the Hammer of Eden people.

She was not wearing her Armani power suit. Instinct told her that Honeymoon was more likely to warm to someone who came on as a working Joe, so she had put on a steel gray pantsuit, tied her hair back in a neat knot, and carried her gun in a holster on her hip. In case that was too severe, she wore small pearl earrings that called attention to her long neck. It never did any harm to look attractive.

She wondered idly whether Michael Quercus found her attractive. He was a dish; shame he was so irritating. Her mother would have approved of him. Judy could remember her saying: “I like a man who takes charge.” Quercus dressed nicely, in an understated kind of way. She wondered what his body was like under his clothes. Maybe he was covered with dark hair, like a monkey: she did not like hairy men. Maybe he was pale and soft, but she thought not: he seemed fit. She realized she was fantasizing about Quercus in the nude, and she felt annoyed with herself. The last thing I need is a bad-tempered matinee idol .

She decided to call ahead and check the parking. She dialed the governor’s office on her cell phone and got Honeymoon’s secretary. “I have a twelve noon meeting with Mr. Honeymoon, and I’m wondering if I can park at the Capitol Building. I’ve never been to Sacramento before.”

The secretary was a young man. “We have no visitor parking at the building, but there’s a parking garage on the next block.”

“Where exactly is that?”

“The entrance is on Tenth Street between K Street and L. The Capitol Building is on Tenth between L and M. It’s literally a minute away. But your meeting isn’t at noon, it’s at eleven-thirty.”

“What?”

“Your meeting is scheduled for eleven-thirty.”

“Has it been changed?”

“No, ma’am, it always was eleven-thirty.”

Judy was furious. To arrive late would create a bad impression even before she opened her mouth. This was already going wrong.

She controlled her anger. “I guess someone made a mistake.” She checked her watch. If she drove like hell, she could be there in ninety minutes. “It’s no problem, I’m running ahead of schedule,” she lied. “I’ll be there.”

“Very good.”

She put her foot down and watched the Monte Carlo’s speedometer climb to a hundred. Fortunately the road was not busy. Most of the morning traffic was headed the other way, into San Francisco.

Brian Kincaid had told her the time of the meeting, so he would be late, too. They were traveling separately because he had a second appointment in Sacramento, at the FBI field office there. Judy dialed the San Francisco office and spoke to the SAC’s secretary. “Linda, this is Judy. Would you call Brian and tell him the governor’s aide is expecting us at eleven-thirty, not twelve noon, please?”

“I think he knows that,” Linda said.

“No, he doesn’t. He told me twelve. See if you can reach him and warn him.”

“Sure will.”

“Thanks.” Judy hung up and concentrated on her driving.

A few minutes later she heard a police siren.

She looked in her mirror and saw the familiar tan paint job of a California Highway Patrol car.

“I do not fucking believe this,” she said.

She pulled over and braked hard. The patrol car pulled in behind her. She opened her door.

An amplified voice said: “STAY IN THE CAR.”

She took our her FBI shield, held it at arm’s length so the cop could see it, then got out.

“STAY IN THE CAR!”

She heard a note of fear in the voice and saw that the patrolman was alone. She sighed. She could just imagine some rookie cop pulling a gun and shooting her out of nervousness.

She held out her shield so he could see it. “FBI!” she shouted. “Look, for Christ’s sake!”

“GET BACK IN THE CAR!”

She looked at her watch. It was ten-thirty. Shaking with frustration, she sat in her car. She left the door open.

There was a maddeningly long wait.

At last the patrolman approached her. “The reason I stopped you is that you were doing ninety-nine miles per hour—”

“Just look at this,” she said, holding out her shield.

“What’s that?”

“For Christ’s sake, it’s an FBI shield! I’m an agent on urgent business and you’ve just delayed me!”

“Well, you sure don’t look like—”

She jumped out of the car, startling him, and waved a finger under his chin. “Don’t you tell me I don’t look like a fucking agent. You don’t recognize an FBI shield, so how would you know what an agent looks like?” She put her hands on her hips, pushing her jacket back so that he could see her holster.