Ken Follett - The Hammer of Eden

It was a warm night. Priest lay on his bed naked, thinking. No comment from the governor, but an FBI press conference in the morning. That bothered him. At this point in the game, the governor should be panicking, saying, “The FBI has failed, we can’t afford another earthquake, I have to talk to these people.” It made Priest uneasy to be so ignorant of what his enemy was thinking. He always got his way by reading people, figuring out what they really wanted from the way they looked and smiled and folded their arms and scratched their heads. He was trying to manipulate Governor Robson, but it was hard without face-to-face contact. And what was the FBI up to? Was there any significance in this talk of psycholinguistic analysis?

He had to find out more. He could not lie here and wait for the opposition to act.

He wondered whether to call the governor’s office and try to speak to him. Would he get through to the man himself? And if he did, would he learn anything? It might be worth a try. However, he disliked the position that put him in. He would be a supplicant, asking for the privilege of a conversation with the great man. His strategy was to impose his will on the governor, not beg for a favor.

Then it occurred to him that he could go to the press conference.

It would be dangerous: if he was found out, all would be lost.

But the idea appealed to him. Posing as a reporter was the kind of thing he used to do in the old days. He had specialized in bold strokes: stealing that white Lincoln and giving it to Pigface Riley; knifing Detective Jack Kassner in the toilet of the Blue Light bar; offering to buy the Fourth Street Liquor Store from the Jenkinsons. He had always managed to get away with stuff like that.

Maybe he would pose as a photographer. He could borrow a fancy camera from Paul Beale. Melanie could be the reporter. She was pretty enough to make any FBI agent take his eye off the ball.

What time was the press conference?

He rolled off the bed, stepped into his sandals, and went outside. In the moonlight he found his way to Melanie’s cabin. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, naked, brushing her long red hair. As he walked in, she looked up and smiled. The candlelight outlined her body, throwing an aura behind her neat shoulders, her nipples, the bones of her hips, and the red hair in the fork of her thighs. It took his breath away.

“Hello,” she said.

It took him a moment to remember why he had come. “I need to use your cell phone,” he said.

She pouted. That was not the reaction she wanted from a man who came upon her naked.

He gave her his bad-boy grin. “But I may have to throw you to the ground and ravish you, then use your phone.”

She smiled. “It’s okay, you can phone first.”

He picked up the phone, then hesitated. Melanie had been assertive all day, and he had put up with it because she was the seismologist; but that was over. He did not like her to give him permission for anything. That was not the relationship they were supposed to have.

He lay on the bed, still holding the phone, and guided Melanie’s head to his groin. She hesitated, then did what he wanted.

For a minute or so he lay still, enjoying the sensation.

Then he called information.

Melanie stopped what she was doing, but he grasped a coil of her hair and held her head in place. She hesitated, as if contemplating a protest; but after a moment she resumed.

That’s better .

Priest got the number of the FBI in San Francisco and dialed it.

A man’s voice answered: “FBI.”

Inspiration came to Priest, as always. “This is radio station KCAR in Carson City, Dave Horlock speaking,” he said. “We want to send a reporter to your press conference tomorrow. Could you give me the address and time?”

“It went out on the wire,” the man said.

Lazy bastard . “I’m not in the office,” Priest improvised. “And our reporter may have to leave early tomorrow.”

“It’s at twelve noon, here in the Federal Building at 450 Golden Gate Avenue.”

“Do we need an invitation, or can our guy just show up?”

“There are no invitations. All he needs is his regular press accreditation.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“What station did you say you were from?”

Priest hung up.

Accreditation. How am I going to get around that?

Melanie stopped sucking and said: “I hope they didn’t trace that call.”

Priest was surprised. “Why would they?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the FBI routinely trace all incoming calls.”

He frowned. “Can they do that?”

“With computers, sure.”

“Well, I wasn’t on the line long enough.”

“Priest, this isn’t the sixties. It doesn’t take time, the computer does it in nanoseconds. They just have to check the billing records to find out who owns the number that called at three minutes to one A.M.”

Priest had not heard the word “nanosecond” before, but he could guess what it meant. Now he was worried. “Shit,” he said. “Can they figure out where you are?”

“Only while the phone is on.”

Priest hastily switched it off.

He was beginning to feel unnerved. He had been surprised too often today: by the recording of Star’s voice, by the concept of psycholinguistic analysis, and now by the notion of computer tracing of phone calls. Was there anything else he had failed to anticipate?

He shook his head. He was thinking negatively. Caution and worry never got anything done. Imagination and nerve were his strengths. He would show up at the press conference tomorrow, talk his way in, and get a handle on what the enemy was up to.

Melanie lay back on the bed, closed her eyes, and said: “It’s been a long day in the saddle.”

Priest gazed at her body. He loved to look at her breasts. He liked the way they moved when she walked, with a side-to-side rhythm. He enjoyed seeing her pull a sweater off over her head, the reaching gesture making her tits stick up like pointing guns. He loved to watch her put on a brassiere and adjust her breasts inside the cups to get comfortable. Now, as she lay on her back, they were slightly flattened, bulging out sideways, and the nipples were soft in repose.

He needed to cleanse his mind of worry. The second-best way of doing that was meditation. The best was in front of him.

He knelt over her. When he kissed her breasts, she sighed contentedly and stroked his hair but did not open her eyes.

Priest saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced at the door and saw Star, wearing a purple silk robe. He smiled. He knew what she had in mind: she had done this sort of thing before. She raised her eyebrows in an expression of inquiry. Priest nodded assent. She came in and closed the door silently.

Priest sucked Melanie’s pink nipple, drawing it into his mouth slowly with his lips, then teasing it with the tip of his tongue as he let it slide back out, again and again with a steady rhythm. She moaned in pleasure.

Star untied her robe and let it fall to the floor, then she stood watching, gently touching her own breasts. Her body was so different from Melanie’s, the skin light tan where Melanie’s was white, the hips and shoulders wider, the hair dark and thick where Melanie’s was red gold and fine. After a few moments she leaned over and kissed Priest’s ear, then ran her hand down his back, along his spine, and between his legs, stroking and squeezing.

He began to breathe faster.

Slowly, slowly. Savor the moment .

Star knelt beside the bed and began to caress Melanie’s breast while Priest sucked it.

Melanie sensed that something was different. She stopped moaning. Her body stiffened, then she opened her eyes. When she saw Star, she let out a stifled scream.