Free Deceptions by Michael Weaver Page A

picked up a pair of high-powered binoculars, went to a window, and surveyed the area under siege. None of the Olympians
     were visible in their compound, but he was able to spot the surrounding network of FBI sharpshooters lying within rifle range
     of the central building.
    He put down the glasses. “I’m ending this botched-up mess right now. I’m not taking any chances on that crazy deadline.”
    Wayne just looked at him. A lean, spectacled man with a mournful, prematurely lined face, the FBI director knew his friend
     too well to argue. At least not until he heard more.
    “How do I get this Samson Koslow on the line?” Durning asked. Wayne reached for a phone, hit two buttons, and handed him the
     receiver. “This is direct.”
    Durning heard two rings. Then a soft voice said, “Yes?”
    “Is this Reverend Samson Koslow?”
    “It is.”
    “This is Attorney General Henry Durning.”
    The only audible response to his name and title was a baby crying in the background.
    “I’d like for us to talk, Reverend.”
    “We have nothing to talk about, Mr. Attorney General. Either remove your unlawful shooters by five o’clock and let us live
     in peace, or stay right there and watch us die for God.”
    Samson Koslow hung up.
    Durning stood staring off through the window. Then hetried again. This time he counted six rings before Koslow came back on.
    “I’m calling in good faith, Reverend.”
    There was a long silence. Then, “That’s easy enough for you to say. You’re not risking anything.”
    “What do you want me to risk?”
    “What all of us out here are risking. Our lives.”
    Durning was silent. He motioned to Brian Wayne and watched as he picked up a phone and listened in.
    The cult leader said, “What’s happened to your good faith, Mr. Attorney General?”
    “I still have it.”
    “Show me.”
    “How?”
    “By walking out here alone, sitting down, and talking to me across a small wooden table.”
    Durning felt something pleasantly warm enter his chest. “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” he said and put down the
     receiver.
    The FBI director stared at his friend. “Are you mad? The sonofabitch will either take you hostage or kill you.”
    “No. He has himself and his disciples as hostages. He doesn’t need me. And whatever else he is, he’s not a murderer.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because I’ve done my homework on Koslow and his Olympians. They’ll only fight when attacked. Otherwise, they’re peaceful
     and nonaggressive. If they suffer from anything, it’s an apocalyptic vision that could lead to mass suicide. Which is right
     where they are now.”
    “And if you’re wrong?”
    Durning didn’t answer.
    “For God’s sake, Hank! You can’t do this. You’re the attorney general of the United States.”
    “I know who I am.” Henry Durning smiled. “That’s why I’m the only one here qualified to talk to Samson Koslow and God.”
    They stood staring at each other.
    “It just occurred to me,” said Durning. “That business of finding Vittorio Battaglia?”
    “What about it?”
    “On the outside chance I don’t make it back, you can forget about him.”
    Wayne’s eyes were blank.
    “I know I never did explain any part of that,” said Durn-ing. “But if I turn out to be wrong about Koslow, nothing about Vittorio
     Battaglia will matter anymore.”
    Henry Durning walked across the open fields.
    At first it almost seemed he was back in‘Nam, with the green, quiet menacing, the sun hot on his face, and a sense of hostile
     eyes watching him.
    Then he picked up the faint whirring sounds of the Camcorders and still cameras at his back and sides, and he knew exactly
     how different this was.
    Yet some of his fear was very much the same. Never mind what he had told Brian. He was dealing with religious cultists, zealots.
     Part of their theology was the theology of death.
If you want to die for God, you have to be ready to kill for God.
Also, with all their own