"That's what we're here to find out," Murphy replied.
They were just settling themselves in for a long wait when the door opened and two men walked briskly into the room. Stovall looked a little more composed. Behind him was a man Murphy knew only too well.
Instantly Murphy was assailed by flashbacks to the bombing of the church and the aggressive investigations of an FBI agent convinced that Christians like Murphy, Laura, and Pastor Bob Wagoner were responsible.
Agent Burton Welsh.
The man Hank Baines had told him was now working for the CIA.
Small world , Murphy thought.
"Well, well, Professor Murphy." Welsh scowled. "It seems I can't get away from you, however hard I try."
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"Just what I was thinking," said Murphy. "But we'll be happy to leave you alone so you can get on with whatever it is you do here. Just give us the files and we'll be on our way."
"I'm sorry, but that's not going to be possible," Welsh said, not sounding sorry at all. "You see, all of those items have been reclassified as secret documents."
"That's impossible," Murphy said, getting out of his chair and standing toe to toe with Welsh. Isis put a restraining hand on his arm, worried that he was going to lose his temper, but he didn't seem to notice. "All of those materials come under the Freedom of Information Act. You don't have the right to deny us access."
Welsh stood impassively, arms folded. "There's nothing more I can tell you."
Murphy jabbed a finger at him. "You've told us plenty, Welsh. You've told us we're right. The CIA has all this information but they don't want it to get out into the public domain. It's a cover-up!"
Welsh shrugged. "What can I say? Maybe you should write to the President. Take it up with him. Have a pleasant trip home." He spun on his heel and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
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TWENTY-SEVEN
MURPHY WAS STILL quietly fuming as they left the building and walked back through the grounds toward the exit.
"That guy Welsh. First he tries to smear Evangelicals over the bombings, now he turns up here, shutting the lid on the Ararat files. What's going on?"
Isis put her arm through his, telling herself she was just trying to calm him down. "I think you're being a trifle paranoid, Murphy. I mean, if the CIA has evidence that the ark exists, why would they be trying to keep it secret? You and Welsh have a history. I just think he's stonewalling because he doesn't like you."
"Maybe you're right," Murphy said. "Maybe I am just getting paranoid."
"So what do we do now?" Isis asked. "Since the files thing has been a bust, we have a few hours to kill before
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you have to be at the airport. Do you want me to give you a tour? See some of Washington's sights?"
Murphy wasn't really paying attention. "Sure. There's no way we're going to get those files now."
"Listen, if you don't want to, that's fine with me. I've got plenty of work to do back at the museum," Isis pouted.
Murphy forced a smile. "I'm sorry, Isis. Let's grab that cab and do the tour. You lead the way."
"What a piece of luck. You don't usually see cabs waiting here," Isis said. "We'd like to go to the Washington Monument," she told the driver as they climbed in.
The driver nodded and they joined the traffic. For a while they didn't speak. Murphy was still going over his confrontation with Welsh in his mind, while Isis looked down at her hands resting in her lap. She was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea.
After a while she looked up and was surprised to see unfamiliar streets. "Hey!" She tapped on the glass partition separating them from the driver. "I said we wanted to go to the Washington Monument. This isn't the right way!"
Murphy stiffened in the seat beside her. "What's the problem, Isis?"
"I don't know where we are. But we're definitely heading in the wrong direction." She rapped firmly on the glass.
The driver didn't respond.
Murphy could feel an adrenaline rush kicking in. This wasn't right. Not right at all.
He shook the door handle, but it wouldn't budge. Then suddenly the cab started to slow, and it looked as
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if the driver was going to let them out. Isis sighed with relief as they pulled up to the sidewalk. Murphy took Isis's hand and they prepared to leap out.
Before they could move, the doors opened and two men got in, squeezing Murphy and Isis uncomfortably between them. Murphy started to twist in his seat, and found himself looking down the barrel of a silenced automatic. The man was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. His dark hair was slicked back and he showed even rows of teeth as he smiled.
"You want a tour? No problem. But this is going to be a special one. Places the tourists never see. If they're lucky," he added with a smirk.
Murphy turned his head and caught Isis's eye. She was shaking visibly as the other man--lean and blond--pressed a similar automatic against her forehead. He wasn't smiling.
As the cab moved off, the possibilities raced through Murphy's mind. Was this a carjacking? A kidnapping? A case of mistaken identity? The whole operation had a professional feel. A word Levi had used sprang into his mind.
Spooks .
Which meant he would need to be careful. Professional or not, he felt he had a reasonable chance of disarming the man pointing a gun at him. But that would leave Isis. He couldn't risk it. They would have to wait until they got where they were headed and see what opportunities presented themselves.
There was a squeal as the blond man roughly stuck a length of duct tape over Isis's mouth and then slipped a blindfold of dark material over her eyes.
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"Hey!" Murphy instinctively reached out, but before he could do anything the butt of a gun whipped across his forehead. Momentarily stunned, he felt plastic cuffs pinning his wrists together, then a length of tape being fastened over his own mouth, and finally the blindfold.
His world went dark.
He sensed the man on his left relaxing. "Just sit back and enjoy, folks," he said. "We'll be there before you know it."
Unable to do anything else, Murphy concentrated on memorizing every detail about their assailants. Had the man on his left spoken with an accent? Was there a hint of a southern twang? There was a faint smell of aftershave but Murphy couldn't name the brand.
He shook his head beneath the blindfold. He knew he was clutching at straws. For all he knew, he was about to get a bullet in the brain. Isis too. He strained against the cuffs, suddenly convulsed with anger, and felt the gun being shoved hard into his ribs.
He slowed his breathing, trying to channel his anger into something more positive, trying to prepare himself for whatever was going to happen when they arrived at their destination. Trying to figure out the beginnings of a plan.
It seemed to Murphy as if only seconds had passed since the two men got into the cab, but it must have been longer. They were slowing again, and the sounds had changed. He couldn't hear any other traffic. Then the car stopped, and all he could hear was the click of the engine cooling, the hammering of his heart, and Isis's muffled sobbing.
Strong hands grabbed him and pulled him out of the
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car, then a sharp prod of the gun in the small of his back sent him lurching forward. More hands took his arms and he stumbled down a flight of steps. He felt himself falling, then being shoved upright. As he regained his balance, the tape was roughly torn from his mouth and the blindfold pulled off.
He found himself standing alongside Isis in a long, bare, concrete room with a low ceiling. A single bulb hung down, illuminating the only piece of furniture, a gray steel table. The man with the slicked-back hair was leaning against it, his gun laying to one side.
He looked at Murphy contemptuously. "Considering how many important people you've riled up, you don't look like much," he said.
"Which important people would that be exactly?" Murphy asked, tryin
g to keep his voice neutral.
The man scowled. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe I'm the one with the gun. That means I get to ask the questions."
Murphy forced a smile. "Ask away." Beside him, he could see Isis trembling.
"In actual fact, there's only one thing I need to know," he said. "Which one of you wants to go first?" He picked up the gun and pointed it first at Murphy, then at Isis. "I mean, I'd understand if you didn't want to see your girlfriend get a bullet in the brain. On the other hand, perhaps letting her go first would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Mr. Enson, what do you believe would be the correct etiquette in this situation?"
In his peripheral vision, Murphy could see the second gunman and the driver standing a couple of paces behind.
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The driver chuckled. "Hard to say. I reckon it all comes down to personal choice."
"Tsk, tsk." The first man shook his head. "How can people find direction in this godless world of ours if there are no proper rules of behavior? It's a wonder our children don't all grow up to be savages. What do you say, Murphy?"
Murphy was trying to figure out a reply that would keep the conversation going, give him some more time, when he heard a choking sound. Isis was bent over, having some sort of convulsion. Then she took a step and collapsed on the floor, her eyes rolling back in her head.
For a second everyone looked in her direction. "I hope you're doing what I think you're doing," Murphy muttered under his breath before turning to his left, taking one quick step, and launching a powerful kick between the driver's legs. He groaned and clutched his hands to his groin, and Murphy snapped a second kick that sent his gun skittering across the floor. As the first gunman drew a bead on him, Murphy threw himself into a forward roll in the opposite direction and heard the phut of silenced rounds behind him.
Then there was a strangled scream as Isis sprang up and looped her plastic handcuffs over the second gunman's neck. As the improvised garrote cut into his windpipe, he dropped his gun and tried to pry her hands away, but she hung on, snarling like a wolverine, forcing his head farther back.
Murphy knew he only had seconds to take advantage of the situation. He scrambled past the prostrate body of the driver until his fingers closed around the handle
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of the gun. With his hands still cuffed, it took him a moment to get a decent grip.
It was a moment too long. The first gunman was crouching in a marksman's stance, the barrel of his automatic pointed at Murphy's chest.
"Don't even think about it," he warned.
Then he seemed to flinch, and a spray of blood blossomed from the side of his head as he fell to the floor.
Murphy turned, incredulous, to see Isis holding the automatic, a wisp of smoke slowly curling out of the silencer. "Don't just stand there," she said. "Help me out of these handcuffs. There's a penknife in the front pocket of my trousers." Murphy quickly found it and slashed through the plastic cuffs around Isis's wrists before doing the same for himself.
He looked down at the body of the second gunman, who didn't look as if he was breathing.
"Look out!" Isis screamed.
Murphy whipped round to see the driver launching himself at him like a linebacker. Without thinking, he dropped into a fighting stance and powered his knee sharply up into the driver's jaw. There was a horrifying crack, and a limp body dropped at his feet.
For a moment they stood frozen, looking at the grotesquely splayed bodies on the floor. Then Murphy gently eased the gun out of Isis's hand and said, "I think we should get out of here. There may be backup on the way."
Isis looked as if she hadn't heard, then she shook her hair out of her eyes and nodded. "You remember I said you were being paranoid? Well--"
"Later," Murphy said, steering her toward the door.
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They retraced their steps at a jog, up the stairs and into a garage. Murphy opened a door and then they were standing in the street, the sunlight blinding them for a moment. At the end of the street they could see cars, people walking, safety.
Without a word they started running.
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TWENTY-EIGHT
ON THE DRIVE HOME, Baines played the phone conversation with Murphy over in his mind, trying to make sense of what had happened. After flagging down a cab--a real one this time--Murphy and Isis had been driven to the nearest precinct house. Cops being cops, they'd been skeptical at first but eventually agreed to send two squad cars to the address where Isis and Murphy had been held, while more cops took detailed statements.
Murphy was not entirely surprised when the squad cars returned and the captain told them not a single word of their story checked out. There were no bodies. No weapons. Not a trace of blood anywhere.
Spooks , Murphy thought. Boy, these guys are professionals .
Eventually the cops let them go, but not without a lecture about wasting police time. Isis was furious, but Murphy didn't see the point in arguing. Even if they
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could convince the cops their story was true, what good would it do? They were dealing with forces too powerful for ordinary law-enforcement agencies.
Which is why he'd called Baines. And why Baines was now turning over in his mind everything he knew about Burton Welsh.
When he got home, he was relieved to find that Jennifer wasn't home. If his suspicions proved correct, he was going to have to send her and Tiffany away. Somewhere safe.
He took the sensor equipment out of his gym bag and began with the most obvious place--the phones. All three housed tiny silver-colored bugs. His computer would be the obvious place to look next. Bingo.
By the time he'd swept the house from top to bottom, he had quite a collection. And he couldn't even be sure he had them all.
If they're prepared to bug the house of an FBI agent, they must be serious , he thought. He was going to have to be careful.
Murphy was driving in to the Preston campus when his cell phone rang.
"Michael, this is Hank."
"Hi, Hank, is everything okay?"
"Don't talk, Michael. Just listen. Do you remember where we talked about Jennifer and me?"
"Sure."
"I'll call you there in about twenty minutes."
"Okay."
Murphy punched off his cell phone and turned the
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car around. Fifteen minutes later he pulled up outside the Raleigh Health and Fitness Gym. He told the receptionist he might have a phone call coming in shortly, and she indicated an empty desk. He didn't have long to wait. She picked up the phone on the first ring and said, "Yes, he's here." She pointed to the blinking light on the phone at Murphy's desk.
"Murphy."
"Michael. Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger. I had to get out of my office and use a public phone in a shopping mall. All of my phones have been bugged. Cell phones aren't secure either."
"Hank, is all this related to the spooks who attacked us in Washington? Are they targeting you too?"
"We can't talk about it over the phone. Are you familiar with Mount Airy Park on the south side of town?"
"I know where it is."
"Good. Let's meet there, say, about 4:00 P.M. I'll meet you by the old carousel."
"I'll be there."
"And, Michael, try to make sure you aren't tailed."
Murphy called Isis at the Smithsonian before he drove back to the university. They'd agreed it was the safest place for her to stay, with the extra security and police patrols following the break-in. But he could tell she was never going to feel a hundred percent safe anywhere ever again. And it was all his fault.
He felt a renewed determination to get to Ararat and
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find what was there, to get to the bottom of the mystery and confront whoever was trying to stop them.
When he entered his office he found a very angry Shari Nelson.
"Look at this! Just look at this! Somebody's come in here and broken the Egyptian papyru
s manuscript I was working on. They must have knocked it on the floor and put it back on the counter. I can see small pieces under the table. Look, there's--"
Murphy made a circle with his lips and placed a finger over them. Shari stopped in mid-sentence with a quizzical expression. He then went over to the radio on the file cabinet and turned it on to a loud rock station, and whispered in her ear, "The place may be bugged." Shari nodded, though the questioning look remained. Murphy tore a sheet from a pad and wrote:
Let's look around and see if anything is missing .
It didn't take Murphy long to find that all of his files on Noah's Ark were gone. They'd even taken his class notes. Years of research--gone. He looked at his watch. No time to do a thorough search if he was going to make his meeting with Baines. He motioned to Shari to follow him outside.
Murphy turned in to a parking lot that was filled with the burned-out remains of a car, worn-out tires, cans, and trash. An old van covered with graffiti was half on the dry lawn and half on the pavement. It looked as if it had run into a tree. Murphy could see that the carousel was in disrepair and hadn't been used in years. The park itself was run-down, and there was quite a bit
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of graffiti on the slides and other playground equipment. Many of the animals on the merry-go-round were damaged and painted oddball colors. Some of them had gang signs on them.
As far as he knew, he hadn't been followed. He'd pulled over several times to let any tail go past, but he never saw the same car twice, and nobody followed him when he doubled back. He was certainly alone in the parking lot. If Baines was here he must have parked somewhere else and come the rest of the way on foot.
Calmly, quietly, and gently, the silencer was screwed onto the Russian Dragunov SVD gas-powered semiautomatic sniper rifle. All ten rounds were loaded in the magazine. Slowly, he focused the sights of his powerful telescope. It wasn't long before the crosshairs were hungrily looking for the target .