Ken Follett - The Hammer of Eden

The camera focused on a young woman with an Asian cast to her features. She caught Priest’s eye because she was beautiful in the exotic way that strongly appealed to him. She was slender and dressed in an elegant dark pantsuit, but she had a formidable don’t-fuck-with-me look on her face, and she elbowed her way through the crowd with a calm ruthlessness.

Melanie said: “Oh, my God, it’s her!”

Priest was startled. “You know that woman?”

“I met her on Sunday!”

“Where?”

“At Michael’s apartment, when I went to get Dusty.”

“Who is she?”

“Michael just introduced her as Judy Maddox, he didn’t say anything about her.”

“What’s she doing at the Federal Building?”

“It says, right there on the screen: ‘FBI agent Judy Maddox, in charge of Hammer of Eden case.’ She’s the detective who’s after us!”

Priest was fascinated. Was this his enemy? She was gorgeous. Just looking at her on TV made him want to touch her golden skin with his fingertips.

I should be scared, not turned on. She’s a hell of a detective. She caught on about the seismic vibrator, found out where it came from, and got my name and picture. She’s smart and she works fast .

“And you met her at Michael’s place?”

“Yes.”

Priest was spooked. She was too close. She had met Melanie! His intuition told him he was in great danger from this agent. The fact that he was so attracted to her, after seeing her only briefly on TV, made it worse. It was as if she had some kind of power over him.

Melanie went on: “Michael didn’t say she was with the FBI. I thought she was a new girlfriend, so I kind of froze her out. She brought this older guy with her, said he was her father, though he didn’t look Asian.”

“Girlfriend or not, I don’t like her getting this close to us!” He turned away from the store and walked slowly back to the car. His brain was racing. Maybe it was not so surprising that the agent on the case had consulted a leading seismologist. Agent Maddox had talked to Michael for the same reason Priest had: he knew about earthquakes. Priest guessed it was Michael who had helped her make the link to the seismic vibrator.

What else had he told her?

They sat in the car, but Priest did not start the engine. “This is bad for us,” he said. “Very bad.”

“What’s bad?” Melanie said defensively. “It’s okay if Michael wants to screw around with an FBI agent. Maybe she sticks her gun up his ass. I don’t care.”

It was not like her to talk dirty. She’s really shook . “What’s bad is, Michael could give her the same information he gave us.”

Melanie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“Think about it. What’s on Agent Maddox’s mind? She’s asking: ‘Where will the Hammer of Eden strike next?’ Michael can help her with that. He can look at his data, same way you did, and figure out the most likely places for an earthquake. Then the FBI can stake out those locations and watch for a seismic vibrator.”

“I never thought of that.” Melanie stared at him. “My fucking bastard husband and his FBI floozie are going to screw this up for us, is that what you’re telling me?”

Priest glanced at her. She looked about ready to cut his throat. “Calm down, will you?”

“God damn.”

“Wait a minute.” Priest was getting an idea. Melanie was the link. Maybe she could find out what Michael had told the beautiful FBI agent. “There could be a way around this. Tell me something, how do you feel about Michael now?”

“Like, nothing. It’s over, and I’m glad. I just hope we can work out our divorce without too much hostility, is all.”

Priest studied her. He did not believe her. What she felt for Michael was rage. “We have to know whether the FBI has staked out possible earthquake locations — and if so, which ones. I think he might tell you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I believe he’s still carrying a torch for you, sort of.”

She stared at him. “Priest, what the hell is this about?”

Priest took a deep breath. “He’d tell you anything, if you slept with him.”

“Fuck you, Priest, I won’t do it. Fuck you!”

“I hate to ask you.” It was true. He did not want her to sleep with Michael. He believed that no one should have sex unless they wanted to. He had learned from Star that the most disgusting thing about marriage was the right it gave one person to have sex with another. So this whole scheme was a betrayal of his beliefs. “But I have no choice.”

“Forget it,” Melanie said.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry I asked.” He started the car. “I just wish I could think of some other way.”

They were silent for a few minutes, driving through the mountains.

“I’m sorry, Priest,” she said eventually. “I just can’t do it.”

“I told you, don’t worry about it.”

They turned off the road and drove down the long, rough track toward the commune. The carnival ride was no longer visible from the track; Priest guessed that Oaktree and Star had concealed it for the night.

He parked in the cleared circle at the end of the track. As they walked through the woods to the village in the twilight, he took Melanie’s hand. After a moment’s hesitation she moved closer to him and squeezed his hand fondly.

Work in the vineyard was over. Because of the warm weather, the big table had been dragged out of the cookhouse into the yard. Some of the children were putting out plates and cutlery while Slow sliced a long loaf of home-baked bread. There were bottles of the commune’s own wine on the table, and a spicy aroma was drifting over the scene.

Priest and Melanie went to Melanie’s hut to check on Dusty. They saw immediately that he was better. He was sleeping peacefully. The swelling had gone down, his nose had stopped running, and he was breathing normally. Flower had gone to sleep in the chair beside the bed, with the book open on her lap.

Priest watched as Melanie tucked in the sheet around the sleeping boy and kissed his forehead. She looked up at Priest and whispered: “This is the only place he’s ever been okay.”

“It’s the only place I’ve ever been okay,” Priest said quietly. “It’s the only place the world has ever been okay. That’s why we have to save it.”

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

The Domestic Terrorism squad of the San Francisco FBI worked in a narrow room along one side of the Federal Building. With its desks and room dividers it looked like a million other offices, except that the shirtsleeved young men and smart-suited women wore guns in holsters on their hips or under their arms.

At seven o’clock on Tuesday morning they were standing, sitting on desk corners, or leaning against the wall, some sipping coffee from Styrofoam containers, others holding pens and pads, ready to take notes. The whole squad, except for the supervisor, had been put under Judy’s orders. There was a low buzz of conversation.

Judy knew what they were talking about. She had gone up against the acting SAC — and won. It did not happen often. In an hour the entire floor would be alive with rumor and gossip. She would not be surprised to hear by the end of the day that she had prevailed because she was having an affair with Al Honeymoon.

The noise died away when she stood up and said: “Pay attention, everyone.”

She looked over the group for a moment and experienced a familiar thrill. They were all fit, hardworking, well dressed, honest, and smart, the smartest young people in America. She felt proud to work with them.

She began to speak. “We’re going to divide into two teams. Peter, Jack, Sally, and Lee will check out tips based on the pictures we have of Ricky Granger.” She handed out a briefing sheet that she had worked on overnight. A list of questions would enable the agents to eliminate most of the tips and assess which ones merited a visit by an agent or neighborhood cop. Many of the men identified as “Ricky Granger” could be ruled out fast: African Americans, men with foreign accents, twenty-year-olds, short men. On the other hand, the agents would be quick to visit any suspect who fit the description and had been away from home for the two-week period during which Granger had worked in Shiloh, Texas.