Martinez Thomas - Guinther John - Brotherhood of Murder

Authors : Martinez Thomas - Guinther John
Title : Brotherhood of Murder How one man's journey through fear brought The Order - the most dangerous racist gang in America - to justice
Year : 1988

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As I went down the escalator, I passed the woman going up. Our gazes met but, as hadbeen prearranged, we showed no recognition of one another. Upon stepping off the escalator, I saw directly ahead the luggage-arrival section of the airport. My descent to it, I realized, had a symbolic quality, since—ifour plans worked out, hersand mine—I would soon be going underground with Bob Mathews as a member of his secret Order. While I waited for my bag, I reflected how big city airports all seem to look alike, and this one in Portland, Oregon, and the one I had departed from seven hours earlier, Philadelphia International, were no exceptions. I said to myself, find your way around one, find your way around them all. That was a deliberately irrelevant thought: to scare away my fear. I watched as the suitcases from my flight began to come sliding down the ramp. Bob had said he'd meet me here, but he was no where in sight. I spotted my bagheading toward me. As I stooped to retrieve it, I glanced up and there he was, showing no more sign of knowing me than had the woman on the escalator. He knows some thing's up, I thought, as he walked away. I grabbed my bagand followed him into the lobby. Standing near the entrance was a man with a sweater over his arm, and I was aware that Bob, who was about ten feet ahead of me, gave him a quick look as he went by him and out into the parking lot. I felLinto step behind Bob. A heavy rain was coming down. I was bare-headed, Bob in a wool capwith flaps pulled overthe top. I was so much bigger than he that I could almost have protected him from the downpour just by hovering over him. Lean and lithe, clean-cut hand some, he haddark brown hairanddark b^own eyesthat ordinarily had a sparkling qualitybut this eveningwerereddened by exhaustion. His first words were, "I don't like that aerial," nodding to the one pointing upward from the rear of a black Lincoln Continental. "Bob, they're made like that," I said, seeing along with him the man in the car; he was reading, or pretending to read, a newspaper. Motioning me to walk alongside him, Bob mumbled, "Mumbo jumbo, mumbo jumbo, mumbo," as if to indicate to any watchers that he was talking to me casual state-of-the-weather talk. Then, with a little skip of a motion, he headed me back into the airport. "Doesn't feel right to me," he said, and led us to a stairwell I hadn't noticed on our way out. Glancing back, I sawthat the man with the sweater was walking in our direction. Halfway down the steps, Bob halted, his hand going inside his coat. "Let him come," he said looking back at me. ...

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