Page 1 of Go First
PROLOGUE
"The Lord wants you to be RICH!"shouted the preacher on the TV screen. Jake watched him, impassively, while he prepared his kit for the mission ahead.He did it kneeling, slowly, a ritual so well practised since army days that his mind could float away wherever it chose and the kit still be rolled tight and ready in his backpack within four minutes.Order was everything.Order was the difference between you slitting the insurgent's throat or him slitting yours.
The order was holy.
And holiness had nothing to do with the noisy farce unfolding on the TV screen. Whitfield was a big man, he realised. He would have to immobilise him before the vital, final steps. How big was the guy?Six four or six five maybe.And around 200 pounds.The guy ate steak and lobster every day: the heroic meals featured on his TV shows, along with his collection of classic Italian sports cars, the fortified Tex-Mex-birthday-cake-architectural-nightmare that he called home on the shores of Bow Lake, his collection of antique hand-guns, and his 365 hand-made suits, one for each day of the year.All courtesy, so the preacher said, of the Lord God Almighty.
The suits made the preacher look good, but Jakes could size up opponents faster than any tailor could sew a stitch. The guy had a craggy face, like an Old Testament Prophet: thick, bushy, silver-streaked beard and a piercing gaze.But underneath it, underneath that fawn mohair suit and all the other bits of costume armor, Jakes could tell that the body was pale and soft.Thin wrists, too; Jake could see where the man had made an extra hole for the strap on his 1924 Patek Philippe.This wasn’t going to be a struggle.
“Generations of popes and other religious leaders have kept the real truth from the people,” Whitfield was saying, whilst wandering down the steps of a circular lecture theatre, to give the impression of a learned scholar.The place was empty, though. Whitfield was just lecturing on the lens. "Just as they used to keep the Bible chained up, in church, where only the priest could see it, so they hid the truth of the faith from the truly faithful!"
Now Whitfield was inhischurch, spiritual headquarters of the Holy Spirit Tabernacle of Christ’s Bounty – as it was called right now. It had had other names -First Bank of Moab & Universal Spirit Centre;Forged-in-Fire Ministries In Partnership With Apostolic Truth Investments… Lawsuits came and went, investigations too, and with them, the various flowery, Bible-accented names for Whitfield’s enterprise.But the principle stayed the same. Taking folks’ money in the name of the Lord. Theft and blasphemy in one package.
And add bad taste to that, he thought, watching as the Pastor opened the doors to his dazzling white sanctuary. It looked like it was made of plastic; white plastic, with tinted windows and a white leather-esque interior, reminiscent of all kinds of unpleasant things: dentists' chairs, oligarchs' yachts, and golf shoes. Somehow, Jake felt he could smell the scene on the screen.All those squeaky seats.Top notes of old men's necks and banknotes.
“Saying with a loud voice: ‘worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom and strength and honour and glory and blessing!’That’s the Book of Revelations, people, chapter five, verse twelve.And you don't need to be a theological scholar genius to understand what's being said here.Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, to receive power, and riches.The Lamb is Christ.His sacrifice has given power and riches to you.Yes, you.And you.To all of you watching this.Power and riches.From Him, to you.You only have to take it! What’s that you say?”
Jake clicked his tongue in annoyance, watching the Pastor cock his ear, a gesture worthy of a Christmas pantomime.He was surprised the guy didn’t call his audience ‘boys and girls’.
“You say that God loves poverty?You say you must be content with what you got, not seek more?Have you read the Old Testament?You have?Well, read it again.Or save yourselves precious time, and download my commentary from the website, 100% satisfaction or your money back.”
He sat on one of his ghastly leather chairs and beckoned the camera close.“Solomon and David.Jacob and Joseph.Daniel and Moses.Somebody once described the Old Testament as the world’s longest list of names. But it isn’t. It’s the world’s longest success story! Moses, Joseph, Daniel… all of them brought-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of guys, ordinary Joes and Jacks, or Moishes and Sollies, Jewish boys who caught the eye of kings and pharaohs, who shimmied their way to the top of the tree by means of luck and skill and hard work and never, ever giving up.God clearly meant for His creation to be like that, because he rewarded them with power and wealth!And God hasn’t changed! As we know from the Good Book, He is immutable and eternal.And today, here in the state of Maine, just as in Jericho and Hebron, two, three thousand years ago, His promise is the same.And you can try it out for five bucks.That’s right.For just five bucks.Less than a cup of joe.You can try it with one of our new Prosperity Centre packages, and if you’re unhappy with the result, we’ll pay back every last cent, minus a small administrative overhead…”
Now the man was in a busy call-centre – doubtless the one belonging to the Holy Spirit Tabernacle of Christ’s Bounty, though he wondered if the young women taking the calls were genuinely part of the paid staff. They all looked a little too… glamorous for the job.At this point, Jake knew, Whitfield was going in for the kill, urging viewers to join his ‘Prosperity Fund’.
It was clever, a masterpiece, almost, neither asking for, nor promising too much. It had God’s blessing, but also a reassuring whiff of science to it: a partnership of tailor-made algorithms and A.I.took the people’s money – apparently - and played various different sectors of the stock market with it, super-charged, of course, by the prayers of all the Pastor’s followers.You could choose where your money went, or let the machines lead you. Whatever happened, you had the illusion of agency, and that was very important.Not being in control, but thinking and feeling that you were.
And the promised results were expertly calibrated, just the right amount of wow, without going overboard. Doubting Thomases could test out the Pastor’s claims for a mere five dollars, and if they were unsatisfied, get their hard-earned bucks back.A number of these goodly souls popped up on the screen, a spread of all-American faces, dependable, hard-working, blue-collar Little-League-and-potluck-supper-types, delighted to confirm that the Pastor’s divinely-fuelled Ponzi scam had turned their five-dollar stake into eleven, twelve, thirteen bucks fifty. Only a cynic, or someone with too much time on his or her hands, would have pointed out that every single satisfied face somehow looked like every other face, and every voice somehow sounded the same.
Before anyone had time for such heretical thoughts, the screen filled up with mathematical symbols whilst behind them, on some kind of frantic, Wall-Street-style counting floor, young men and women in power suits yelled out strings of numbers or made elaborate hand- and arm-gestures, as if guiding an aircraft carrier into port.The symbols became telephone numbers and web addresses, then Whitfield walking towards the camera once again, his gaze steady, his steps firm, a warm light shining on him from above. The message was clear.
God is backing this horse. Hell no, Godisthe horse!
There was thumping on the floor, a short distance from where he knelt. A three and a four.A pause.Then repeat.Crazy old Greek lady from the apartment downstairs.Since she’d gotten hearing aids, sound seemed to bother her more frequently.His sound in particular. She’d started to hammer on her ceiling with a broom handle. There was every possibility that one day, she would fall off the little folding chair she used, and injure herself. He was looking forward to that day, but for now, he was content to turn down the sound.
The image of Whitfield switched to a painting of a beefy, irritable-looking monk with that haircut.What was it?Jesus, it was bad.The words underneath said ‘Martin Luther, discoverer of Protestantism’. Now, that made him laugh.As if Martin Luther had lifted up a rock and found a new religion underneath.Or he’d been busy with his chemistry set one afternoon, and just wondered what might happen if he added a few crystals of potassium permanganate to the test-tube…
And it was rubbish.Jakes knew that.Even watered down, for the citizens of Lockjaw, Wyoming and Underbite, Utah, for the people who thought Europe was a kind of theme park, full of costumed attractions you were whisked past in an air-conditioned coach, the presentation of history was wrong.There had been Lollards and anabaptists, Hussites and Waldensians, centuries before Luther, monks and priests and ordinary folks who’d disagreed with the way God was worshipped, who thought the Pope had become nothing more than a super-power, threatening the damnation of individual human souls in the same way as modern rulers deployed the prospect of tariffs or nuclear bombs.
It wasn’t relevant, anyway.Whitfield was just throwing in a few historical details so that he sounded less of a huckster.
Back in the empty lecture hall (surely, Jakes thought, the budget could have stretched to some artificial students?) the huckster was now describing ‘the discoverer of Protestantism’ as a kind of 16th-century Donald Trump, whose fresh take on the Bible had super-charged trade and commerce right across Europe.At this point, Jakes switched off altogether.He could only stand the preacher in short doses.All that energy, all that hot air and blatant nonsense, all of those great, long, swooping, sweeping speeches where he stitched together thought after thought without pausing to take a breath… Jakes felt his own heart hammering, sensed his blood pressure going off the scale, his right eyelid fluttering like a trapped bird. He took a succession of deep breaths, letting the air out slowly through his nose. It was how he made himself calm. He held out his hands, palms down. Not calm enough. Nowhere near.
But that was okay. He still had hours to go.
He turned his attention to the central part of his kit. Four point eight ounces of precision-milled tungsten carbide, from the Japanese island of Okushiri, where they’d been making bladed tools and weapons since the middle of the eleventh century. Sushi and sashimi chefs, yakuza warlords, virtuoso facial-reconstructive surgeons, world-renowned luthiers and cordwainers… the client list of the Okushiri No.1 Knife & Tool Factory was eclectic and extremely well-heeled. If, eighteen years back, Jakes hadn’t stumbled upon that unpromising-looking house clearance on the outskirts of Honolulu, then he’d probably be looking at a very different m.o.altogether. This knife had a very special job to do.
It was all about timing.Which was why he hadn’t been studying the Pastor’s broadcasts out of interest or for amusement.In order to perform the extraction swiftly and completely, he needed to get the right quantity of the relaxant, baclofen, straight into the target muscle. So an idea of the guy’s weight and size and shape was crucial in terms of judging the dose, and nailing down the fine details of the schedule. He now estimated that an eight milligram dose of baclofen would get results within eighteen to twenty seconds.
With the dose measured out, and a quick check of the timer battery, he was ready to prepare the blade. On a web forum for sushi-knife enthusiasts, he’d discovered that true specialists kept their instruments in top condition by storing them, and the sharpening stone, in a coating of whale-fat, which was also used, in preference to tap-water, in the whetting process.The stuff was a queasy yellow in color, and it stank worse than anything else under heaven; it was so eye-wateringly foul, with a tendency to linger for so long, that he had to keep everything inside a succession of zip-lock baggies. In order to sharpen the blade prior to use, as he was about to do now, it was necessary for him to paint his upper lip with a thick layer of Vick’s eucalyptus and menthol gel. And he still wanted to retch.
He wanted vomit at the whale fat.But the prospect of killing a man gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling.Like the painkillers they’d given him in the hospital, after the I.E.D.blew the jeep sky-high.Strange, the way the mind worked.Even his own.But if Jakes was strange, he was also good.He knew that.Good inside, and fighting on the side of goodness.
He began slowly to sharpen the instrument on the whetstone, stroking the blade downwards and upwards with a gentle, sweeping motion. As he worked, he prayed for a clear mind and unflagging courage and skill. He didn’t pray for guidance. Because there was no doubt as to the rightness of what he was doing. Men like Whitfield made a mockery of the third commandment; by claiming to speak for God, by claiming that He wanted them to participate in this gigantic act of fraud, they surely took His name in vain. Jakes had no crisis of confidence regarding this; it was hateful to the Lord, and he was fulfilling the Lord’s word and wishes by exacting justice for this most brazen and blatant breach of His will.
At the same time, none of it was going to be easy, especially not the final stage. He’d studied the anatomy on youtube, practiced on a couple of sheep, but the architecture of the human mouth and throat was very different, more compact, but also thicker and tougher, more coarse. Still, that was the right way round. If he’d trained on organs that were lighter, easier, he could be in for a shock.At least the rehearsals had showed him how hard it could be.He’d scoped out the monstrous lakeside castle where his victim lived, and thanks to a cocktail party due to take place there this evening, he had the perfect means of gaining access. Black pants, black lace-up shoes, black shirt and hey presto! He was a bartender-unit, a human attached to a tray ofvol au vents, his hair slicked back, a trace of a Latino accent, anonymous to the point of invisibility.
There was a whole new set of clothes in a tiny backpack, an electric bike hidden in the woods at the edge of the golf course, half a mile from the house.He’d thought of everything.Except of course, he knew that he hadn’t.He couldn’t have thought of everything. And the detail that screwed you, that was the one fricken detail you’d missed, the one you hadn’t got a plan for, because you didn’t think of it.