"Patience, patience!" he whispered to himself .
Murphy got out and ambled through the debris. He looked at his watch. Ten after four. He began to worry about Baines.
"Michael!"
The voice had come from the direction of the carousel. He turned to where Baines was leaning on a green and gold horse. Baines motioned him over. "Sorry about the setting. This is the only way we can get some privacy."
They shook hands.
"How's Tiffany doing?" asked Murphy.
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"Great. She's out of the hospital--she's been home for about a week."
Baines was relaxed, but his eyes never stopped roaming the park.
"And how about you and Jennifer?"
"We're doing much better, thanks to you. But listen, we may not have much time. Is there anything else you can tell me about what happened in Washington--any details you may have left out?"
Murphy thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I pretty much told you everything, I think."
He adjusted his sights one more time. The barrel moved from one target to the other. The targets were in deep discussion and did not move very much. "Sitting ducks," he said to himself. "Yes, sitting ducks in the midst of a stampede of motionless horses." Encased in its latex glove, one of his fingers began to gently squeeze .
Baines nodded. "Okay. Well, I may have found out a couple of things. I used my FBI clearance to get into some of the computers at Langley. They can trace any incoming requests, but I know a trick or two to cover my tracks. I got some information, but you have to have a special access code to get into the main file on Ararat."
"So what did you manage to find out?" Murphy asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"As you know, in the 1980s, Apollo astronaut Colonel James Irvin made three trips to Ararat in search of the ark. He was convinced that there was something
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on the mountain. There were references to that and to some other information he must have had access to. I also ran across a memo that said there was a boatlike structure on the mountain . It went on to say that it looked like the heavily damaged bow was sticking out of the snow in the photos taken. The men who examined the photos said that the object was definitely man-made, due to the ninety-degree angles . They were certain it was--"
Murphy heard the bullet a split second after Baines had been driven back against the carousel horse by the force of the impact. He made a gurgling sound, clutched at his chest with one hand, and slid down to the floor, leaving a vivid splash of red against the green-painted horse.
"Hank!" Murphy crouched down and cradled Baines's head. Hank was staring ahead, trying to form words, a horrible sucking sound coming from his chest.
Murphy was frozen there for a second, then instinct kicked in and he rolled to the side as another bullet clanged noisily off one of the horse's legs, sending up a shower of sparks. He wormed his way under another horse, trying to put as many obstacles as possible between himself and the shooter. Trying to buy some time to think. He glanced back at Baines and saw he had his automatic in his hand. Something must have warned him in the split second before the bullet hit. Murphy crawled back and eased the gun out of Baines's grip.
Did the shooter think they were both hit? Or was he going to wait for another clear shot? Murphy had already figured out where the shots came from--the graffiti-covered van. He crawled a few yards to his left, away from Baines. Taking a deep breath, he jumped to his
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feet, braced his shoulder against a carousel pole, and squeezed off four shots before ducking down again. A crash of glass told him he'd hit one of the windows. No way of knowing whether he'd taken out the shooter, but at least he was making him worry. He stood up again and sighted on the van, but before he could get off another shot there was a squeal of tires and it bumped off the grass, onto the tarmac, and screeched toward the parking-lot exit.
Murphy lowered the gun and ran back to Baines. Murphy placed the palm of his hand on the pumping wound and pressed down, trying to stop the flow, but he knew it was hopeless. Baines had already lost too much blood. Blood seemed to be everywhere.
"Hang on, Hank!" Murphy yelled.
With his other hand he was reaching for his cell phone. His bloody fingers were pushing 911.
Baines was trying to talk. Murphy put his ear close to his mouth to try and catch the words.
"Tell Jennifer ... I'm sorry ... wasted so much time. Tell her ..."
Murphy felt Baines buckle under his hand, his body spasming. Then he fell back and everything was still. He was gone.
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TWENTY-NINE
STEPHANIE LOOKED AT HERSELF in the long mirror and sighed. The dress looked good, no doubt about it. The material clung to her every curve, accentuating her slim waist and full breasts, but somehow the cut was stylish enough to keep it classy. It was the kind of dress you might see being paraded on Oscar night, the kind of dress you see only on film stars or the ultra-wealthy.
Or the mistress of one of the world's most powerful media magnates.
She carefully unzipped it and slipped it off, and prepared to put on something more suitable for a crusading TV-news reporter--a cream-colored suit that buttoned up to the neck, still stylish but much more sober, allowing just a suggestion of the hot body beneath the cool exterior.
That was the Stephanie Kovacs her millions of fans
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identified with. The tough-as-nails journalist, fearlessly chasing down bad guys to get the big story.
She looked in the mirror and saw the old Stephanie, the one who had carved out a career in the dog-eat-dog world of TV news through talent and guts and sheer determination. Before Barrington had called her to his private suite on the thirtieth floor and made her an offer she couldn't refuse. Before she'd sold out.
Before she'd sold her soul.
She looked down at the shiny black material of the cocktail dress, lying in a dark pool at her feet. It felt good to be a reporter again, but the truth was, it felt good to be Barrington's bedmate too. It made her feel more powerful than any politician or film star. It made her feel untouchable. She could do whatever she wanted, have whatever she wanted.
As long, of course, as she did whatever her master commanded.
And right now her master had commanded her to forget about dinner at the best table in the city's swankiest restaurant, exchange her Gucci purse for a reporter's notepad, and get down to Raleigh, North Carolina.
An FBI agent named Hank Baines had been shot at a deserted amusement park by a gunman who had fled the scene, leaving no clues as to his identity or motive. With her detached reporter's eye, she could see that it had all the elements of a prime-time story. An odd, slightly creepy setting. A violent death. And a big mystery.
But more important, it had Professor Michael Murphy. And that was undoubtedly the reason Barrington
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had broken their dinner engagement and ordered her to get to the scene as quickly as his private Gulfstream jet would allow.
Forty-eight hours later she was busy choosing the best camera position, as close to the graveside as possible without upsetting the mourners too much. As her cameraman set up the live feed, she replayed her report from the day before, the one that had once again given Barrington Network News the jump on all the competition.
"This is Stephanie Kovacs reporting live from Raleigh, North Carolina, outside a Raleigh Police Station. Late yesterday afternoon, FBI agent Hank Baines was gunned down in what seems to be a random drive-by shooting. Police and FBI officials have been working all night to investigate this senseless murder. Baines, along with Professor Michael Murphy from Preston University, was in Mount Airy Park when the incident took place. The police and FBI have not released any information at this point, but the police are said to be looking for an old Dodge van covered with multicolored graffiti. We will keep you up-to-date as more details become available. This is Stephanie Kovacs reporting live from Raleigh, North
Carolina, for BNN."
Stephanie nodded to herself in satisfaction. Not bad, not bad at all. And not another news crew had been in sight. As usual, Barrington seemed to know what was happening before even his best reporters did, and Stephanie had long ago stopped asking herself how that was possible.
It made her look good, and that was all that mattered.
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Smoothing her skirt and checking her hair, Stephanie was impressed to see how many had gathered for Baines's memorial service. Several hundred people filled the chairs on the lawn. Around the edges of the crowd she could see plainclothes officers wearing dark glasses and earphones. Clearly FBI agents on high alert. There were also dozens of uniformed police.
Were they expecting the person who killed Baines to make some sort of move at the memorial service?
Other news services were scurrying around preparing for their telecasts, some checking Stephanie's team out nervously, wondering what scoop she had up her sleeve now to make them look foolish. She smiled. Let them wonder, she thought, as Pastor Bob Wagoner walked up to the graveside podium and prepared to read the service.
As he began to speak, she looked at the mourners seated in front of him.
Baines's wife, Jennifer, was in the front row, sitting very still, her expression unreadable beneath a black veil. Next to her was Tiffany, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief as a girlfriend beside her squeezed her hand. Kovacs spotted Professor Murphy and his assistant, Shari Nelson, seated behind the grieving family. She hadn't seen Murphy since the Preston Community Church bombing, and she couldn't help noticing that he was looking good, tanned and fit, with an air of quiet power about him like a sprinter waiting on the blocks. She waited until he caught her eye.
We meet again , she thought, and felt a little jolt of adrenaline.
Pastor Wagoner finished, and a police officer in full
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Highland regalia began playing "Amazing Grace" on the bagpipes. The eerie wailing sound of the pipes floated over the grass as an American flag was ceremoniously folded and handed to Jennifer Baines. It was impossible to see her reaction, but Tiffany was moved to fresh tears by the gesture.
As soon as the sound of the bagpipes had faded away, Stephanie started to work her way through the crowd. Jennifer Baines, with Tiffany clutching her arm, was making for one of the waiting black limousines, but Stephanie was on course to cut her off, her cameraman trotting behind her, ready to start filming at a moment's notice.
Suddenly a dark shadow crossed Stephanie's path, stopping her in her tracks. She looked up and Murphy was scowling at her.
"Can't you leave Mrs. Baines and her daughter alone? They've been through enough without the press hounding them."
Stephanie smiled her sweetest reporter's smile and put a microphone in front of Murphy's face. The camera was already rolling.
Murphy realized he'd fallen for her ploy. She hadn't been after Jennifer Baines at all. It was him she wanted to interview, and now she'd got him exactly where she wanted him. There was no way out now without making a scene, and that would play right into her hands.
He gritted his teeth and waited for whatever was coming. He didn't have to wait long.
"Here at the memorial service for FBI agent Hank Baines, I'm talking with Professor Michael Murphy of
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Preston University. Professor Murphy, you were the last person to see Hank Baines alive, is that right?"
"I was present when he tragically lost his life, yes," he said.
"Would it be correct to say you were friends?"
"Yes."
"Then can I ask you what you were doing meeting with your good friend Hank Baines at an abandoned carousel at Mount Airy Park? Kind of a strange place to meet up for a chat, isn't it?"
Murphy started to reply, but Stephanie ignored him.
"Unless you were concerned that people shouldn't witness this meeting, of course." She lowered her voice, the familiar sign to her viewers that she was moving in for the kill. "What was it you and Agent Baines were discussing, Professor Murphy? Have you told the police? Have you told his grieving widow? Tell me, do you feel any sense of responsibility for his death? Do you think it was appropriate for you to be here today? Can you explain why your fingerprints were on a gun found at the scene?"
Murphy was momentarily stunned. He'd seen her do the exact same thing in dozens of interviews, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with. She'd fire a series of questions at the interviewee without pause, each one more provocative and outrageous than the last, until they were in such a state of shock that they couldn't muster any sort of reply. Standing like a deer in headlights, they'd look just the way she wanted them to look.
Guilty.
And then quick as a flash she'd cut back to the studio and they'd be left high and dry.
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Murphy was determined that wasn't going to happen. "I've come here to pay my respects to a fine man and a good friend. I think it would be tasteless and inappropriate to speculate about the perpetrator of this tragedy at his graveside, don't you? I have given the police and FBI the fullest possible statement. Perhaps you should ask them. Thank you very much."
He turned to go, satisfied that he'd ended the interview on his terms, but she had one more round left and she aimed it at his back.
"Professor Murphy, is it possible that Hank Baines's death had anything to do with the clandestine expedition you're planning to search for the remains of Noah's Ark on Mount Ararat? Would you like to comment on that?"
Now Murphy really was stunned. How had she found out about that? Had one of the team leaked the information? Did she have a source within the CIA?
He tried not to looked fazed by the question. "Like many archaeologists, I've been fascinated by stories of the ark since I was a boy," he said. "It would certainly be a great adventure to try and find it. Now I'm afraid I have to go."
He turned away again, wondering how Stephanie would wrap up the interview before heading back to the studio.
"Good luck, Professor Murphy" was all he heard her say. "Good luck."
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THIRTY
ONE THING STEPHANIE KOVACS had wrong: During the memorial service Murphy wasn't thinking about Mount Ararat. He was thinking about Mount Rainier in Washington. Or to be exact, the Mount Rainier Mountain Climbing School.
It was the perfect place to train for the ordeal that lay ahead.
Levi and Murphy had chosen it because Ararat and Rainier are both volcanoes. Ararat is 16,854 feet high and Rainier 14,410. Both have glaciers with large crevasses and snow bridges, and both have steep terrain.
Murphy and Levi flew from Raleigh to Seattle together. The rest of the team members were to meet them at the school. Murphy had selected Vern Peterson and Isis--the rest were up to Levi, and Murphy was keen to know who they were.
"Picking a team like this, it's all about balance," Levi
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explained as they buckled in prior to takeoff. "You have to have the right mix of skills. Personalities are important too. You have to remember you may be relying on one another for your lives." He glanced at Murphy disapprovingly.
"Isis is going to make a valuable member of the team," Murphy insisted, correctly interpreting Levi's veiled remark. "We'll need her to translate any writing we may find on the ark, and she's a very experienced mountaineer."
And , he might have added, she's already saved my life once .
Levi grunted. "First, security. Two guys, very highly recommended. The first is Colonel Blake Hodson. Ex-Army Ranger. The other is Commander Salvador Valdez. Ex-Navy SEAL. Very tough, but he has a sense of humor too."
Murphy nodded. "Sounds like security's covered. Who's next?"
"Professor Wendell Reinhold. PhD from MIT in engineering. Knows all there is to know about building structures. He'll be able to assess the state of the ark and advise on all scientific matters. He's a bit of an action man too. Good on mountains."
"I've heard
of him," Murphy said. "I read his book on the construction of the pyramids in Egypt and Mexico. A brilliant man. It's great he's on board."
"I thought you'd approve," said Levi with a smile. "Now the political stuff. The next two members will be representing the governments of Turkey and the United States. Mustafa Bayer is a former member of the Turkish Special Forces. Since his retirement from the military,
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he's been working with the government in the Department of Natural Resources and Environment. He is also an expert on Turkish history and archaeological artifacts. His counterpart for the United States is Darin Lundquist. He presently serves as Special Assistant to the Turkish Ambassador."
"You're sure he doesn't work for the CIA?"
Levi just smiled. "It's imperative we have a Turkish member on the team, and the Turkish government insisted on an official U.S. representative. But Lundquist is no desk jockey. He's climbed a lot of mountains in Turkey. He'll be useful. The last member of the team is Larry Whittaker. He'll be your cameraman. He'll film the entire trip. You've probably seen his stuff from the Gulf War. There's no one better at taking great pictures under tough conditions."
Levi handed him a slim file on each member of the team, and Murphy settled down to read. By the time he finished, they were touching down in Seattle.
Twelve hours later the team was climbing a steep boulder field on the slopes of the mountain, and Murphy was beginning to realize what the training exercise was all about. Undoubtedly they would all learn valuable skills, or hone existing ones, but more important, he would have a chance to observe each member of the team in an extreme environment, under stress, and in difficult conditions.