“Thanks for letting me know,” Will said. “I’ll see you this evening. You going to be on time for dinner?”
“I should be, if nothing comes up.”
“See you then.” The president hung up, and the first lady went back to work.
24
DR. DON BEVERLY CALHOUN wrapped up his Sunday morning sermon as he often did, casting aspersions on the patriotism of the president of the United States and the Democrats in Congress, and in his wrap-up prayer he gave thanks for the guardians of the American faith on the right wing of his own party. The service was carried on one hundred and twenty-one television cable and satellite systems around the country.
As the choir intoned a protracted amen, Calhoun stepped down from his pulpit and walked quickly up the aisle toward the rear of his huge church, his eyes downcast as if in walking prayer, so as to greet his congregation one by one as they left the church-or, at least, those members of the congregation who wished to delay their Sunday dinners for an hour or so in order to have their flesh pressed by the reverend.
Calhoun took up his station at the end of a funnel created by a series of brass stands and velvet ropes, and volunteers helped herd the crowd into the increasingly small space. A volunteer stood on each side of the reverend, the better to assist individuals in not stopping to chat, since their spiritual leader’s time was more valuable than theirs.
The first handshakers were those who occupied the rearmost pews in the great tabernacle, and most noticeable among them to the reverend was a creature who nearly turned his stomach. He was of medium height, but of great girth, wearing a loud necktie with matching suspenders and no coat. He sported a waxed mustache, the ends of which pointed heavenward, and the worst toupee the reverend had ever encountered-a reddish brown that contrasted sharply with the gray, nearly white fringe of the man’s own hair, which flopped over huge ears. He had protruding front teeth and wore heavy, black eyeglasses with extremely thick lenses.
He reached for the reverend’s hand with both of his, grabbing it in a viselike grip that made the preacher’s eyes water.
“Yes, yes, Reverend,” the man said, “you preached the truth!”
And then he was gone, whisked down the front steps by volunteers, leaving the reverend to nurse his crunched hand. The man walked with a pronounced waddle, as befitted someone of his girth.
The reverend looked down at his hand, and to his astonishment, found that it was bleeding from a tiny wound. He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at it, then faced the coming throng. So many more hands to shake, and his hand had been nearly disabled. “The miserable son of a bitch!” the reverend muttered under his breath, startling the little old lady who was next in line.
Ted waddled through the huge parking lot and, near its outermost fringe, boarded the RV, where he stripped off his clothes, the padding, the teeth, the mustache, the ears, glasses, and two wigs. Shortly, he was on his way north on Peachtree Road, toward the highway around the perimeter of Atlanta and the interstate north.
KINNEY WAS SLEEPING soundly in his own bed, with Nancy Kimble’s naked body intertwined with his own, when the phone rang. He reached for it automatically. “Kinney,” he mumbled.
“It’s Kerry Smith, Mr. Kinney,” the younger man said. “I’ve got the duty this morning, and we’ve had a call from the trauma center at Piedmont Hospital, in Atlanta. They’ve got a patient presenting with similar symptoms to those of Timothy Brennan’s, last week.”
“Who is it?” Kinney asked, knowing it wasn’t going to be anyone anonymous.
“Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun, the television evangelist. He had just gotten home from his Sunday morning service when he became ill, and his wife called an ambulance. The hospital wants to know if there’s any treatment for what killed Brennan.”
“Give me the name of the doctor in charge and his phone number.”
Smith dictated the information.
“I’ll call you back,” Kinney said. He disentangled himself from Nancy, swung his feet onto the floor, opened a bedside drawer and reached for a thick address book. He dialed a very long telephone number and waited while it rang.
“Carpenter,” a woman’s voice said.
“It’s Bob Kinney at the FBI, in Washington,” he said. “We met when you were over with your boss a few months ago.”
“Of course. How are you, Bob?”
“Terrible. You remember, some years back, you had an incident in London where a Bulgarian dissident was poisoned by somebody from that country’s intelligence service, stabbed with a sharp umbrella tip?”
“Yes, I remember that incident.”
“I seem to recall that your people were working on some sort of antidote to whatever the Bulgarians used.”
“Yes, we had a medical team on that for several months.”
“Were they successful?”
“They think so, but we’ve never had another case on which to try it.”
“I may have one for you now. Do you have a pencil and paper handy?”
“Yes.”
“This is the number of the physician in charge of the case, at Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta. Please contact the relevant person on your end and have him or her communicate directly with the doctor.” He read out the name and number, plus his own number. “Will you let me know how this comes out?”
“I’ll make some calls and get back to you as quickly as I can,” Carpenter said, then hung up.
Kinney hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, shivering in the air-conditioning. He called Smith back. “We may have some medical help from the British intelligence services,” he said. “They’ll call me back. Now tell me everything you know.”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Dr. Calhoun complained of a bone-crushing handshake from one of his congregation, standing on the front steps of his church after the service, and he found himself with a small, bleeding wound on his hand.”
“Have you been in touch with the agent in charge of the Atlanta office?”
“I’ve paged him, and I’m waiting for his call now.”
“Get him and his people on this, and find me some witnesses to this event. There must have been a lot of people around. Isn’t this preacher on television?”
“Yes, the service was televised nationally.”
“Find out if he was still on television when this guy shook his hand. We may have a shot at a picture of the guy, or at least a description from a witness. There had to be a bunch of witnesses around.”
“I’m on it,” Smith said, and hung up.
Kinney crawled back into bed and gathered up Nancy in his arms.
“You’re freezing,” she said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You heard?”
“Sort of.”
“Looks like we’ve got another murder on our hands, or at least an attempt.” He sat up. “Excuse me a minute.” He grabbed a robe, went to his computer, and logged onto the Internet, then to the ACT NOW website.
Sure enough, a big X had been drawn through the photograph of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Kinney.”
“It’s Carpenter. I got hold of our lead medical man on the golf course. He’s calling your doctor in Atlanta. Apparently, they came up with a possible antidote, and he’s going to have somebody fax it to the Atlanta doctor. It can be formulated in the hospital pharmacy. It’s the fastest way to get the man treated, and, apparently, time is of the essence.”
“Thank you, Carpenter,” Kinney said. “I’ll let you know if this works.” He hung up and dialed the White House, but the president was unavailable. “Tell him Robert Kinney called, and there’s been another attempted murder. The victim is Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. He’s being treated at an Atlanta hospital. This is my number, if he needs to reach me.”