Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(25)

“Reverend! He’s no more reverend than—”

His friend held up the tent flap for us.

“This way please. Sir. Ma’am.”

“No. Not this way. I demand that you release this man immediately. Is that clear?”

I was play-acting. If it worked for Angel, it could work for me, too.

The guy with the cap leveled a finger.

“Brit, right?”

“I certainly am.”

“I been to Britain. Lakenheath. You know it?”

“I think so, yes.”

Lakenheath is a US Air Force base in southeast England. This wasn’t just a friendly chat. He was laying out credentials, just in case I felt like tackling him.

To Silverman, he said again, “Phone, please.”

I kicked him in the shins.

I caught him by surprise. He let go of Silverman. The other guy came in to block us and we barreled through him, knocked him sideways, and the three of us were running, straight across the lawns, past the other tents, and then we had to stop because I couldn’t work out where I’d left the car. And in the moment’s pause, we realized, nobody was following us.

We weren’t worth the effort.

I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

“You,” said Angel, “are out of shape.”

I gasped.

I could see her, already calculating some appalling exercise regime for me. She said, “And that was some stupid shit you pulled in there.”

“Worked, though, didn’t it?”

She looked at Silverman. To me, she said, “You know this guy?”

“Sort of.”

“‘Sort of.’” She sighed. “Car’s that way, if you’re asking. I memorized the landmarks.”

It was a beautiful Midwestern night, the insects buzzing, and the moon riding the treetops.

The distant congregation, howling in the dark.

“You,” I said to Silverman, “have some explaining to do.”

But Silverman was busy with the replay on his phone.

“I can use this, maybe. If I clean it up. See? What d’you think?”





Chapter 23

Idiot or Genius?




“They probably remembered me from last time.”

“You mentioned ‘last time.’ Want to start with that, then? ‘Last time’?”

“I tried to get a camera in. A real one, not my phone.”

“And how did that go?”

“Hm. Badly, I suppose.”

The bar was out of town. It was empty. A large dog of no specific breed lay on the countertop, watching us from one eye. The barman had just slipped out for a smoke, he’d said. We hadn’t seen him in a half an hour. The tables had been set and polished for a crowd that clearly wasn’t coming in.

Angel said, “One thing’s clear, at any rate. We can’t go back,” and she looked at me, her head on one side. “Thanks, Chris.”

“It worked,” I said again.

“In the sense of . . . what? No one called the cops? No one kicked the shit out of us? What, exactly?”

I said, “They don’t like outsiders.”

“Uh-uh.” Silverman shook his head. “They’re happy with outsiders. The more the merrier. As long as they control the narrative. They’re like politicians—fine till you start digging where they don’t want. But that’s when it gets interesting.”

I said, “You didn’t even ask them, Can I bring a camera . . . ?”

“And be told no? Officially? Besides—first commandment: ‘Ask forgiveness, not permission’.”

“That’s not in the Bible.”

“Werner Herzog. He, um, he told me Rikers was the greatest prison movie ever made.” He grew bashful, suddenly, shy of his own boast. “He, ah, he said that to me. To my face. I met him,” he added.

Then the barman came back, and we bought more beer.

From pity for the guy, if nothing more.



“Here’s why they’d have told me no.” Silverman grew talkative, just as he had that morning in Manhattan. “I’ve done some checking into Richard Cleary. ‘Clear-eye,’ they call him. These days, you can use your home computer. It’s all public record.”

“Let me guess. It’s either money, or it’s sex. And from the operation here . . . I’d go for money.”

“‘Financial irregularities,’ it’s called. He did six months for fraud. There’s a piece on YouTube where he talks about ‘the war against Christ.’ In his version, he was being persecuted.”

“I bet.”

“After which, he happens upon this. Whether by accident or design, I don’t know. Turns out it’s God’s gift. Literally.”

“And you’re—what?” said Angel. “Making a movie about him? Investigating him?”

“Well . . .” Silverman rubbed the back of his neck. “At the moment, I’m probably trying not to get sued. But, ah—the real subject of my movie, if you don’t mind, is . . .”

And he nodded to me.

“What?” She seemed to find that very funny.

“I’m actually quite photogenic,” I said.