Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (13 page)

Alex opened her folder and spread papers on the table.

The woman at the next table continued to sip her tea. Was she leaning toward him, or was that just his imagination?

“Dammit, keep looking at me. You’ll raise the kid’s suspicions. Don’t worry. Bob’s over at the door. If he’s important, Bob will let me know over the mic.”

“Go ahead. Fire for effect.”

“You military pukes.” She smiled. “Now to Waco. It started with more than one hundred agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms storming the compound of the Branch Davidians to arrest their leader, David Koresh.”

Sam risked another peek at the woman. She looked like the woman in the farmhouse, but better dressed.

Alex shuffled a couple of papers. “During the attack, four ATF agents were killed and sixteen wounded.”

Sam reached over. “Put these back in the file.”

Alex nodded. “Koresh’s two-year-old daughter and five other Davidians were killed.”

Sam winced. “Two years old?”

“The agents laid siege to the compound for fifty-one days, negotiated with Koresh. But most thinking people don’t believe there was much of a negotiation.”

“Why?”

“The government claimed they had evidence that Koresh was abusing children and holding people against their will.”

“Proven?” Sam asked.

“Not to most people’s satisfaction.”

“What the hell was the government thinking?”

“Now you know why the radical right got so pissed,” Alex said. “Maybe they weren’t so radical after all.”

Sam looked over at the next table. The woman had a copy of
Redbook
magazine and seemed to be reading it.

“On April 19, 1993, the ATF attacked the compound a second time. That led to the death of seventy-five Davidians, more than a score of them children.”

Sam sat for a moment in stunned silence. “Kids.”

“Not our finest hour. Of course, the NRA condemned the attack and the loss of life.” Alex paused for a moment. “Bob says the kid’s still over at the CDs.”

Sam glanced toward the table. The woman was still reading.

Alex took another sip of coffee. “The Militia of Montana, formed in February 1994, became one of the most influential of the militias. They equated gun control to nothing more than people control.”

“What about here in Pennsylvania?” Sam asked.

“Not much action until later, at least as far as we know. Now it’s a real hotbed of skinhead activity.”

“I’ve heard that militia members hate the UN.”

Alex nodded. “The radical right believes that they have to work half a year to pay the taxes to bail out the banking elite. One of the slogans became ‘Government by Affirmative Action.’ And then along came NAFTA and some of our best jobs got sent overseas.”

“Oliver uses loss of jobs as a marketing tool. It’s effective.”

“After that, militias formed in Idaho, Ohio, Texas, Florida, and Michigan. The Michigan Militia was destined to become the largest. Formed in 1994, it grew in a flash to almost seven thousand members.”

A shadow next to the table caught Sam’s attention.

“Hi, C-colonel Th-thorpe.”

S
am’s head pivoted as if it were on a swivel. When he looked up, Marshall Pearson stared down at him. A stack of computer books was tucked under his left arm.

“Hello, Marshall.” So … this is the shaggy-haired kid Alex kept talking about watching them.

Alex leaned back and smiled.

“Hi-i.”

“This is my friend Alex Prescott. Alex, Marshall Pearson.”

Marshall’s face turned a bright red. He stared at Alex.

Alex laughed. “Now this is the first time I ever shocked a man speechless.”

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t spend much time around p-pretty women.”

Alex’s face flushed a shade of pink. “Why, thank you.”

Sam’s mind spun on high speed, trying to compute all of this. Could Marshall’s arrival be a trick of Popeye’s? He looked over at the woman sitting at the next table, but she kept paging through
Redbook.

Bob O’Brien walked by the table, grimacing.

Sam nodded, and Bob moved on. Marshall would not have caused O’Brien any concern. Had Oliver found him out?

“What brings you here, Marshall?” Sam asked.

“I l-love reading about c-current trends in c-computers. T-try to get down h-here as often as I can. M-my uncle doesn’t like it.” He smiled, and his eyes seemed to light up. “On S-sunday mornings, he thinks I go to ch-church.”

“Alex and I used to know each other years ago.” Goddamn, did that come out as lame as Sam thought it did?

“Yep,” she laughed, “pals from Minnesota.”

“Th-that’s nice.” Marshall looked at each of them. “I’d better go. P-pleasure meeting y-you, Alex. S-see you to-ni-ght, C-colonel T-thorpe.” He turned and hurried toward the back of the store.

Sam’s right hand did a drumroll on the table with his pencil. “Goddamn it, stupid to let that happen. Popeye was standing outside my door last night. I can’t believe he sent Marshall to check me out.”

Alex reached over and touched his clenched fist. “Just stay cool. It’s probably a coincidence.”

“Did I ever tell you I don’t believe in coincidences?”

Alex’s lips formed a tight line. “Wish you hadn’t said that. I don’t either.”

Sam glanced at his watch. “Better get moving. I’ve got stuff to organize before tonight. Anything else for me?”

She leaned closer to Sam. “Skinheads.”

All Sam could think of was Marshall and what his sudden appearance might mean. “Better make it quick.”

“Okay.” The skinhead movement started in England in the ‘60s. It got exported to the United States through San Francisco and the punk rock scene.”

Sam nodded.

“George Lincoln Rockwell founded the postwar American Nazi Party in 1958. Many leaders of the skinheads came from the John Birch Society meetings in the mid-’60s.”

“You should see Popeye’s office. Damn place is a monument to the Nazis.”

Alex grimaced. “I’ll bet. In the late 1970s and early ‘80s, the country saw a resurgence of Klan and neo-Nazi activities. We think that was due to the worsening of economic conditions.”

Sam felt movement. The woman at the next table gathered her purse and hat. She stood and walked toward the door.

Alex shifted in her chair. “Richard Snell, called the ‘Grand Old Man of the Radical Right,’ was executed for two murders on April 19, 1995.”

“Wait a minute,” Sam replied. “Wasn’t that the same day as Oklahoma City?”

“Bingo.” Alex pointed at Sam with her index finger. “Who says this stuff isn’t related? The big open question is where does your boss fit into all this? And, more importantly, why is that corporation supporting the militia?”

“We’re gonna have to do more of this later. I gotta go,” Sam said and pushed his chair back.

“You know where to find me.”

Sam sat in the parking lot of the Barnes & Noble, his Explorer idling, and pushed in a number on his cell phone. It rang twice.

“Mr. Kassim’s office. Vivian speaking.”

Sam was surprised Vivian was there on a Sunday morning. He could visualize her Stepford wife-like body: perky breasts and an obvious wiggle under her standard pink dress. “Vivian, this is Colonel Thorpe.”

“Oh, Colonel Thorpe,” Vivian gushed, “how nice to hear from you.” Vivian gushed to everyone.

“I’m returning Aly Kassim’s call.”

“Oh, yes,” Vivian replied, “I should have known that. Let me see if Mr. Kassim is available. He was here a minute ago.”

Elevator music floated into Sam’s ear as he waited, remembering the first time he had met with Aly. His tenth-floor office overlooking the Washington Mall had reminded Sam of a basketball court. Well, maybe a half-court.

Sam and Aly were seated in two of the four overstuffed chairs surrounding a coffee table, making small talk. Vivian walked into Aly’s office on her three-inch spiked heels, smiling her perfect smile. Her tray held a silver coffeepot and two china cups, with matching creamer and sugar dishes, a far cry from the Styrofoam cups Sam had become used to at the Pentagon.

“Coffee, Colonel Thorpe?” Vivian asked.

“Yes, please.” Sam flashed his best smile at Vivian, glad he had stopped at Nordstrom’s and bought a new mocha colored sports coat. He reached up to straighten the blue and beige tie.

She offered cream and sugar.

Sam held up his hand. “No, thanks. Take it straight.”

She allowed a frown to crease her perfect forehead as she undoubtedly didn’t understand his comment. Vivian’s lips moved as she measured two teaspoons of sugar and a thimble of cream into Aly’s cup. She handed it to Aly, leaning over so Aly couldn’t miss her cleavage. “If you need anything else, call.”

“That will be all.” Aly pulled his gold French cuffs out from underneath the sleeves of his navy-blue suit. “Thank you, Vivian.” He adjusted his maroon and navy tie and took a sip of coffee.

Sam, feeling very out of place, had tried to brush a wrinkle out of the arm of his sport coat.

Aly had crossed his long legs and leaned back in the overstuffed chair. “How may I help, Sam?”

“We have a mutual friend—George Darling.” Sam had been given Darling’s name by Bob O’Brien. Sam had never met Darling, but knew he would confirm his story when Aly would later question him. Bob O’Brien had unsubstantiated intelligence that Aly’s corporation might be supporting the Patriots, along with a number of other militia organizations.

“Yes. How is George?”

“Fine. George mentioned that you might be able to help me find a job. I just retired from the Army after twenty-five years of service and am shopping for someplace where I can use my military training, someplace I can grow.”

Aly had watched Sam for a moment. “Have you any experience as an advisor?”

“After I attended the Armed Forces Staff College in Norfolk, I spent six months at the Defense Language Institute in Monterrey, then a year in Saudi Arabia as an advisor to the Saudi National Guard.”

Aly had raised his eyebrows. “You speak Arabic?”

“I’m pretty rusty now,” Sam had replied. “It’s been about twelve years.”

Aly had continued to watch Sam over his coffee cup, his lips pursed in a thin line. “That is good. Yes, that is very good. What did you think about the government in Saudi Arabia?”

Sam had measured his response. “Pretty autocratic.”

Aly had nodded in response, and Sam had studied him a moment.
Aly must be around fifty years old,
Sam had thought. His tanned face had shown some lines, but no double chin. Overall, he’d looked fit.

“I made a number of good friends in the Saudi military, but steered clear of any discussion about politics or the Royal Family,” Sam had said. In his past, Sam had played a lot of poker on field problems. He’d been complimented by his sergeant major, a real poker shark, on his ability to keep his face blank and his eyes empty. Now he’d needed that skill while sitting here with Aly. “Have you spent much time in Saudi Arabia?”

“I’m originally from Pakistan, but I have lived in Saudi,” Aly had said.

“Did you work there, or was that when you were a kid?”

“Both. More coffee, Sam?”

“Please.”

Aly walked over to his desk and pushed a button. In a moment Vivian had opened the door and tottered into the office. “Yes, sir?”

Aly motioned toward their cups. “Coffee, please.”

Vivian refilled both their cups, going through the same routine with Aly’s cream and sugar, then wiggled back out of the office.

Sam wondered if she ever tripped on those high-heeled shoes.

Aly smiled, saying, “Attractive, but a little slow.”

They had talked about Sam’s background, Aly focusing on the time Sam had been an advisor. Finally, Aly pushed himself out of his overstuffed chair and walked over to his desk. The steps of his highly polished wing tips had been muted on the thick Persian rug. He’d pushed a button, and soon the door had opened.

“Yes, sir?” Vivian had practically breathed her words.

“I need an orientation package for Colonel Thorpe. He may be joining our family.”

“Oh my goodness,” Vivian had said, “wouldn’t that be nice! I’ll get a package together right now.” She’d pulled the door shut behind her.

“I have a feeling about you, Sam. I think you’ll be a valuable asset to us. Would you be willing to move out of Washington?”

“Depends on the job …”

“Hello, Sam, thank you for calling back.” Aly’s voice shook Sam back to the present. “Are you there, Sam?”

“Ah, yes, Aly, I’m here.” Sam’s mood had soured from the incident with Marshall. “What can I do for you?”

“Something has come up,” Aly continued. “I need you to drive to Montreal.”

“Montreal? I can’t leave now. Only one more day until Oliver’s all over my ass if his troops aren’t trained properly.”

“There’s a meeting you must attend.”

“Now is not a good time.”

“I need you to go. Didn’t they teach you in the military to do what your boss tells you?”

Sam bit his tongue and tried to process what was going on. Was this tied to Marshall at the bookstore? No, Aly couldn’t possibly know about that yet. Was this Popeye’s doing? Had his cover been blown?