Part 7 (1/2)

But it wasn't over. I had to a.s.sume that Shepherd's partners would continue with the plan to kill the president without him.

I was hoping the name Semyaza would help me figure out how to stop them. Myles had selected the name for a reason. If I could learn the significance behind the name, it might lead me to the conspirators. Professor J. P. Forsythe was the man holding the key to Semyaza.

It was nearly noon and eastbound freeway traffic was still sluggish. It had yet to recover from the accident.

My plan was to take care of business at Heritage College, then head back to the hotel for a nap. I'd call Jana and try to talk her into a late dinner. I wanted to patch things up with her before returning to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. Then I'd grab a red-eye flight home. Come morning, I'd start knocking on White House doors until I got someone to listen to me.

Small colleges attract prospective students with their small teacher-to-student ratios. Large universities advertise programs, facilities, and faculty credentials. The moment I stepped into Heritage College's library, I was reminded why I chose to attend a major university.

The entire library could have fit inside the domed atrium at San Diego State University. There was no circular descending staircase and no subterranean pa.s.sageway. It had a front door, a circulation desk, and rows of closely s.p.a.ced metal bookshelves in what appeared to be a converted elementary-school cla.s.sroom.

Upon arriving at the college, I began my search for Professor Forsythe in the faculty building. He wasn't in his office. A student who was scanning the Employment Opportunities bulletin board suggested I try the library. Which I did. Another student at the circulation desk directed me to the study area in the far corner.

I found two men seated at a table beside a wall of windows that overlooked a distinctively Southwestern garden with a variety of cacti and rocks.

One of the men had his back to me. He was lecturing. He spoke in a hushed tone, but it was definitely a lecture. The other man, seated in a wheelchair, hung on every word as though it was gospel truth.

The lecturer had the shoulders of an all-American lineman. It amused me to think that a professor of theology had at one time played football. Most of the college linemen I'd met would have defined eschatology as the study of Eskimos.

The man seated at the end of the table was older. He had a full head of white hair and intense, blue eyes. I recognized the type.

His kind were retirees or widowers or both who hated golf. To pa.s.s time, they reenrolled in college. They took a single cla.s.s at a time, devoted their entire life to it, treated the professor as their best friend, and inevitably succeeded in blowing the top off the cla.s.s grade-point average, causing serious damage to all the other students, who were taking a full load, working, and trying to have some semblance of a social life.

In this case, instead of being retired, the man was disabled. He sat with his chin cupped in one hand and showed all the signs of hero wors.h.i.+p.

On behalf of all the students whose grade-point averages he was undermining, I felt no pangs of remorse interrupting this one-course wonder. ”Excuse me, Professor Forsythe?”

The lecture came to an abrupt halt. His shoulders tensed at the interruption.

”Professor, I apologize, but I must speak to you. It's important.”

He refused to turn and acknowledge me.

I recognized the power-play tactic. Politicians in Was.h.i.+ngton are masters at playing power games. Here, if the professor let me interrupt, he would lose control. By not acknowledging me, the professor retained control by forcing me to return at a different time, thus admitting that his schedule was more important than mine.

I refused to be intimidated. This wasn't Capitol Hill, it was a small college in east El Cajon. The least he could do was to have the decency to turn around, even if it was to tell me to go away. ”Professor, I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but it's imperative I talk to you today.”

The man in the wheelchair checked his watch. ”It's later than I thought,” he said. ”You're right, I'm afraid this is a bad time. I have a cla.s.s starting in a few minutes. If you'll check with my a.s.sistant, maybe we can find some time for you.”

”Professor Forsythe?” I'd mistaken the professor for the student.

The man in the wheelchair turned in the direction of the book stacks. ”Miss Ling!”

An attractive, young Asian woman stepped from between the rows of metal shelves. Brilliant black hair fell to her shoulders and swayed with each step. Her attire separated her from the other female students whose standard uniform seemed to be jeans and a sweats.h.i.+rt. She wore stylish, black slacks and a silky, red-and-white blouse with splashes of color that suggested flowers. She moved to the professor's side and looked as though she belonged there.

”Miss Ling,” the professor said, ”this young man would like to make an appointment with me for today.”

She glanced at me and shook her head. ”I'm sorry, Professor,” she said. ”You have no time available today.”

”You're Professor Forsythe?” I asked.

The man with the broad shoulders still hadn't moved. He sat hunched over. His head down. He acted as though we weren't there.

”Professor, I apologize,” I said, this time to the man in the wheelchair, ”but it's urgent I speak to you. I'm flying to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., tonight.”

”D.C.? Do you live there?”

”I have an apartment there. Don't use it much.” I stretched out my hand to him. ”Grant Austin.”

Some men feel at a disadvantage shaking a man's hand from a seated position. Not this man. Seated, he was a presence to be reckoned with. He had a prominent nose, intelligent, sky-blue eyes, and an easy smile. He spoke with the slightest hint of a Scottish brogue. ”You're a lobbyist?” he asked.

”He's a writer,” Miss Ling said.

Our heads turned toward her in tandem.

”You know Mr. Austin?” the professor asked.

”Of him,” she said.

”Are you acquainted with his work?” the professor asked.

”You've read my book?”

She spoke to the professor. ”He's written a biography of the president. It won the Pulitzer.”

The professor was delighted. ”The sitting president? Do we have it?”

Without so much as a glance at me, Miss Ling went to find the book.

Leaning toward the man hunched at the table, Professor Forsythe said softly, ”I suppose we can continue this tomorrow?”

The man said not a word. He shoved back his chair and rose to impressive height. His broad shoulders seemed to unfold even broader. His bearing was powerful, knocking me back a step.

To the professor, he confirmed, ”Tomorrow.”

Turning to leave, he looked at me for the first time. His face registered surprise; then, anger and distaste. He paused. His eyes turned hard as marble, like those of a Greek statue. His mouth twisted with such deep loathing I felt a strong compulsion to apologize, though I didn't know for what.

The moment pa.s.sed and he strode away.

His reaction to me hadn't gone unnoticed. The professor was intrigued. ”Who did you say you are?” he asked.

Miss Ling returned with my book. She handed it to the professor, who examined the cover, front and back. He compared me to my publicity photo with a chuckle. He scanned the copy on the dust-cover flaps, the table of contents, and the first few pages. After that, he began thumbing.

”Have you read it?” he asked without looking up.

”Yes,” Miss Ling replied.

”And?”

Miss Ling shot a nervous glance in my direction. ”It won the Pulitzer.”