Warren Murphy: Prophet Of Doom

As Smith's knobby fingers tapped remorselessly along the desk's edge, the mute computer keyboard lit up like a patchy pale fireworks finale.

What was Moss Monroe's interest? he wondered.

A red alarm light in the upper left-hand corner of the screen began blinking.

Smith had hacked into the files of the Thermopolis First State Bank, and now the computer was demanding the proper access code.

At this, as at each subsequent level of the system, Smith repeated the codes that had gained him admittance once before.

It took but a moment to access the account files of the Church of the Absolute and Incontrovertible Truth and its head, Esther Clear-Seer.

Smith's brow furrowed as he scanned the information. Nominal changes since the previous check. In fact, there was too little change. Nothing had been taken out of either account in more than a week, and even then it was only a pittance. He reviewed the computerized records. Up until eight months before, there had been a constant cash flow in and out of both accounts. Understandable, considering the funds required to run a complex the size of Ranch Ragnarok.

Smith pursed his thin, bloodless lips.

If these accounts were now dormant...

Smith pecked rapidly at the keyboard, calling up a

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listing of all accounts controlled by either Esther Clear-Seer or the Truth Church.

It took only three seconds for the computer to respond. There was only one other account, opened at the precise time the other two had been virtually abandoned.

It was an ancillary account in the name of the Truth Church Foundation. The account was wholly separate from the main church account, which was part of the reason Smith had missed it until now.

He cursed inwardly, remonstrating himself for allowing his advancing years to taint the methodical manner with which he approached a problem. Not too many years ago it would have been routine for him to examine the bank files thoroughly the second time through. As it was, he had settled for the two known accounts on his reexamination of the records, and then he was largely concerned with the earlier weapons and explosives purchases. Whatever the reason, it had simply never occurred to him to check for a new account.

For the man who virtually pioneered the discipline of forensic accounting, it was an unforgivable lapse. Age was taking its toll.

Smith read the first few lines detailing the Truth Church Foundation account transactions, then stopped before he came to the first withdrawal.

Smith removed his rimless glasses and blinked several times, as if his vision had suddenly become blurry.

Once he had replaced the glasses, he checked the screen again.

There was no mistaking the figure glowing in amber. The funds of the Truth Church had exploded into the millions of dollars in a matter of two short months.

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Urgently Smith traced the numbered record of the first major deposit.

He had the answer in a matter of seconds. Zen and Gary, the ice-cream kings of New England, had dropped a quarter million dollars into the Truth Church coffers. Their bank kept digitized photocopies of all canceled checks. Smith called up the record of this particular transaction. He was presented with a color image of a garish check. In the lower left, on the memo line, someone had scrawled, "Prophecy."

Smith frowned like a lemon drying.

Was this a joke? Esther Clear-Seer had been calling herself Prophetess. But that was just her title. Or was it?

Smith dismissed the possibility. No one parted with a quarter of a million dollars to hear his fortune.

Smith returned to the Truth Church Foundation account and traced the next deposit. It was a woman's name that meant nothing to him, but when he cross-referenced the name with those listed in CURE'S massive database, he discovered that she was a Hollywood actress, famous for her roles as a defunct prime-time soap-opera diva and subsequently as mistress to a New Age faith healer.

Smith felt a tightening in his throat.

He scanned the computer files rapidly.

Some of the checks were harder to trace than others, but the pattern formed by those that were more easily identified demonstrated that the Truth Church ranch had recently become a magnet for the crystals-and-cuviur segment of American society.

At the beginning of the cycle, it seemed as if the church had touched only the fringes of wealthy

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society. Transaction after transaction showed that numerous celebrities had made the Truth Church the payee on dozens of checks. But the most alarming aspect was the trend appeared to have begun moving into the mainstream. The CURE computers traced checks to various political figures and business leaders whose names Smith recognized.

That's why Moss Monroe had gone out there. The specific motivation was as yet unclear, but obviously there was something to be had at the Truth Church ranch for which these people were willing to pay dearly.

Smith withdrew from the Truth Church Foundation account and severed his computer connection with the Thermopolis First State Bank.

Once he backed into the computer's main drive, he leaned back in his cracked leather chair. The instant his fingertips left the keyboard's capacitor field, the letters winked out. The desktop became a pool of blackish onyx, the computer screen a single, unblinking amber eye staring sullenly up at him from some fearful nether region.

There was nothing more to go on.

Smith glanced at his Timex. It was 11:00 p.m.

Remo had yet to check in. But that wasn't unusual. CURE'S enforcement arm had never been as punctual as Smith would have liked, and it was possible that Moss Monroe was still at the ranch. Engaged in what, Smith did not know.

There was no doubt that something strange was going on out in Wyoming. Something larger than Smith had originally guessed. Perhaps it had something to do with Zen and Gary's "prophecy," but until he had

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something more concrete to go on, this part of the investigation was dead in the water.

Smith was shaken from his reverie by the ringing of a telephone. For an instant he thought it was Remo checking in, then he realized it wasn't the blue contact phone jangling. He pulled open a drawer desk and lifted the receiver of the clumsy red AT&T standard phone that was his direct line to the White House.

"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said crisply.

"Smith," the familiar hoarse voice said. "Sorry to call this late."

"Go ahead, sir," Smith prompted.

The President seemed to be at a loss for words. He cleared his throat a few times, uncertainly.

"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. President?" Smith queried. His clipped, lemony tones showed no underlying curiosity.

The President forced the words out. "It's been brought to my attention that out west there's an establishment of—let's say ill repute. Members of my party have been...frequenting this establishment."

The uncharacteristic trepidation in the man's voice led Smith to a safe conclusion. Circumstances had often brought the world's two oldest professions into conflict from time immemorial, and it appeared as if the President had a potentially embarrassing political situation on his hands.

Whatever else Smith was, he was not a pawn of any political party.

"Mr. President, you are aware that it is not part of our charter to get involved in domestic political situations."

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"I know that," said the President. "Of course. But—"

"Then you agree it would be inadvisable for us to investigate a matter of a delicate political nature."

"Ordinarily, yes," the President agreed. "But there's more to this than that."

Smith pursed his razor-thin lips. "I am listening."

' 'Have you ever heard of a place called Ranch Rag-narok?"