A Time for War (30 page)

“Bed,” she said, finishing the beer.

That was no help,
Jack thought. He looked down at the dog. “How about it, Eddie? Are you ready for sleep?”

Dover smiled. “I didn't say sleep.”

Jack grinned boyishly. “I wasn't sure I heard correctly.”

They went below and whether it was mutual exhaustion or conviction that moments were worth seizing or Dover being more shaken and afraid than she had let on, they slipped into one another's arms. They remained standing in an embrace that surprised Jack with its intimacy. This wasn't a woman jaded with life experience and looking to escape for as long as she could. This was a woman who still had questions, and dreams. He didn't just feel her need, he felt her trust in the way she kissed him, held tight to his shoulders, let him prop her up just a little. She made him feel like Jack, not just any man. Rachel had done that, too, but it was not always a Jack that either of them liked.

This one was. The hero, the mentor, the winner. Every man needed to experience that now and then.

He literally waltzed her toward his stateroom as they kissed; he leading, she following. He cradled her carefully as he lay her on the bed, still kissing. The smell of her was stronger now, even more enticing, and when his fingertips touched her arms through her blouse she shuddered and sighed, a small taste of the much deeper desire he would quickly discover.

Not being promiscuous and not having had a sexual encounter in a while, Jack was somewhat shy and intimidated, especially since Dover was so much younger than him.

Their first kiss changed all that. Like teenagers in the backseat of the family car their tongues did all the talking without many words. Applying the New Age technique of “friends first” Jack asked Dover if she'd like a back rub, both knowing where this would go.

He told her to lie on her front side, her back to him. Mounting her, still fully clothed he straddled her buttocks and began the deep-tissue massage of her all too tense upper back all women seemed to love.

Dover told him how good his hands felt, not mentioning the stiff center prodding at her parts with each thumb press on her upper and lower back. Jack initiated the next step in the sequence asking the lovely, long-legged blonde girl to remove her sweatshirt so he could better massage her.

His shirt off he faced one of the most erotically charged sights known to man. A half-naked beauty completely submissive on his bed, the straps of her brassiere asking to be pulled.

Being Irish her cheeks turned a deep pink. Being Jack he removed his pants.

Knowing all men feared they were not large enough or hard enough Dover said, “Your thing is nice.” Jack was taken aback but pleased. He didn't know what to say …

Naturally this encouraged him, and excited the blood rush making him even more potent, and more vigorous.

*   *   *

The sun was just illuminating the skyline from behind the city when they fell asleep. The lovers were cuddled, beyond exhaustion, but they were closer and much, much richer for the moment they had seized without any thought of the future.

Fairfield, California

Agent Al Fitzpatrick spent the night in the hotel lobby.

Though he hadn't been on a stakeout since his rookie years, the ten-year veteran slipped back into it like he'd never been away.

Except that you're six years older,
he reminded himself between snatches of sleep and short breaks outside to check the pool area.

He had arranged with the night clerk to hit the front-desk bell if their Chinese guest came down or seemed to have visitors. The first bell had rung after the target had picked up brochures at the front desk, then returned to his room. The second bell rang at seven
A.M.
, when Fitzpatrick was drinking a complimentary cup of coffee from the continental breakfast bar.

“We offer this service free to any law officer who safeguards our establishment,” the manager had said with a trace of sarcasm when he'd poured the coffee a half hour earlier.

Fitzpatrick had a cab waiting. He had called the previous evening and agreed to pay $150 for it to stay until nine
A.M.
, when the driver's shift ended. He had a feeling it would be needed. Fitzpatrick had also obtained the names and addresses of the local attractions for which the Chinese guest had made appointments. The agent assumed he would be following the man.

As the night clerk rang the desk bell, a black sedan pulled up at the front door. Fitzpatrick didn't see an FBI tracking vehicle on the main road. Less than a minute later the man Fitzpatrick had tailed the night before entered the lobby from the hotel. He was wearing a red windbreaker with bell sleeves and a hood, sunglasses, and blue jeans. Fitzpatrick didn't bother taking a picture of his face; there wasn't enough of it to be seen, even if he didn't mind being obvious about it.

The man was carrying a camera case, several brochures, and nothing else. He greeted the hotel employees with a clipped “Good morning” and a little bow. He got in the sedan and shut the door.

The sedan just sat there.

A few minutes later the man emerged from the sedan with another man, this one wearing a business suit. They reentered the lobby and came directly over to Fitzpatrick. The man in the red windbreaker stood behind the man in the suit. The agent rose so he could see them both.

“This gentlemen says you have been following him,” the man in the suit said. “He would like to know why.”

“He is mistaken,” Fitzpatrick said. “First, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“I am Yan Hua of the Chinese consulate in San Francisco and this man is our guest.” He removed a small leather folder from his inside pocket and made a point of showing Fitzpatrick his credentials.

“Mr. Hua, I assure you I have been here on other business entirely.”

From the corner of his eye, Fitzpatrick saw the sedan pull away. He looked back at the man in the windbreaker. He wasn't sure it was the same man. What the hell were they up to? Pinning him down?

“Excuse me,” Fitzpatrick said. “There's something I need to take care of.”

The men remained where they were as the agent went out to the cab. He looked at the man's license that was affixed to the passenger's side visor. Then he gave the driver a $100 bill and his business card.

“Mr. Enslin, I need you to stay with the black sedan,” Fitzpatrick said. “Call and let me know where it goes.”

“Mister, there are restrictions on where I can go—”

“I'll smooth it over, whatever it is,” the agent told him. “Please.”

There was urgency in the speaker's voice and the driver finally looked down at the card. Then he looked back at Fitzpatrick. “You've got it, sir,” he said, and drove off.

The agent turned back to the lobby, peered through the dark windows.

The Chinese were gone.

Fitzpatrick ran inside, asked the clerk where they went.

“To the room, I believe,” the clerk told him. “At least, they went in that direction.”

“Get someone to open the door and check.”

“Sir, I—”

“Now.
Now!
”

Fitzpatrick ran out back, looked around the pool area, ran along both sides of the hotel. He didn't see them. But that didn't mean they couldn't have gotten away in the surrounding trees or ducked onto one of the side streets. If the Chinese plan had been to stretch the FBI's resources to the point where there were too few agents and too many consular people in motion, they'd succeeded brilliantly. If not—

He came back to the lobby via the small workout room. They weren't there, or in the bathroom.

“Housekeeping reports that the room is empty,” the clerk told Fitzpatrick.

“Where else could they have gone?”

“I called the dining room,” the clerk said. “They aren't there. I have the bellmen doing a top-to-bottom search.”

Fitzpatrick thanked her as he stepped outside. He called Forsyth.

“Sir, I think we may have a situation in Fairfield,” he said.

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“Why?”

“A fire in a Chinese dry cleaning van clogged the entrance to the Bay Bridge right after the consulate car got on. They delayed our tracker by about ten minutes. We weren't too concerned because we figured we could make up most of that time.”

“They didn't need very long,” Fitzpatrick said bitterly.

The agent explained what had transpired since his last report at two
A.M.
The objective was obviously to isolate him from assistance and get his eyes off the target. He didn't know the reason for that, either, and requested immediate local assistance. The Chinese might be doing nothing more than gauging the FBI's response to this situation, gathering tactical information they could use as currency in dealings with Middle Eastern or Far Eastern nations. However, the Field Office couldn't take that risk, not after Jack Hatfield had planted the reality of Squarebeam in Forsyth's brain.

“You'll have every resource we can bring to bear,” the field director told him. “I'm looking at primary and secondary targets in the area. We've got Travis on the A-list. The only other high-priority assets are the Monticello Dam and hydroelectric plant at Lake Berryessa. Unless the Chinese are doubling back to San Francisco or heading to Sacramento, we need to get eyes on those.”

“I've got a cab watching the sedan, driver Eric Enslin, Fairfield Livery and Limos,” Fitzpatrick said. “He's got my number. Can we get a police chopper up?”

“Already requested, and I've sent a red alert to the air force base. We'll get the bastards, Al.”

“Yes, sir. I'm going to try and find the two who were on foot. One question, sir. Why didn't they shut down the tracker car electronically?”

“I've been wondering that myself,” Forsyth said.

There wasn't time to consider that now. Fitzpatrick hung up and jogged out to Central Place, headed toward Lookout Hill Road and Travis Air Force Base.

Suddenly Fitzpatrick heard someone calling “Sir! Sir!”

He stopped, turned. A bellman was running toward the street. Fitzpatrick started running back toward him. When they met, the young hotel worker was out of breath.

“The … two … Chinese men … are … back,” he gasped.

“Where were they?” Fitzpatrick started walking briskly back to the hotel.

“In … the meeting … room,” he said. “It was open … for a local … union breakfast.”

So their move
was
a feint. This was all about getting the sedan away.

“But, sir?” the bellman panted. “I was … here when … the guest first arrived.”

“Let me guess,” Fitzpatrick said. “The man in the red windbreaker isn't the same man.”

The young man was openly impressed. “How … did you know?”

In response, Fitzpatrick only gave him an appreciative slap on the shoulder. But as they hurried back he thought angrily,
Because everything they've done since the son of a bitch arrived has been about getting him away from us.

San Francisco, California

Politically, Carl Forsyth was not a brave man. He had risen through the hierarchy of the FBI due to a combination of hard work and caution. To him, “Cover your rear” was not a shameful act. It was a necessity, one that everyone practiced.

But there was a duty to country that ranked higher than a duty to self and to career. That was why, after considering the broad rules of deployment involved in a high-level security alert, he made the call to Colonel Arnold Pretto, Commander at Travis Air Force Base. He was put through after a brief routing process that ate nearly two valuable minutes.

“Director Forsyth, we received your alert and have gone to modified lockdown. No one in, only essential personnel out.”

“I think you need to do more,” Forsyth said. “We have reason to believe the base may be subjected to a powerful electromagnetic burst.”

“Air launched?”

“From the ground, strong and directed, possibly line of sight. You should minimize available, active targets. I advise you to ground aircraft or land them elsewhere. I also suggest that you block all public roads surrounding the base with armed, not motorized, personnel.”

“Barricade public roads? I don't have the authority to put armed men out there without a declaration of martial law—”

“Commander, we may only have
minutes
.” Forsyth began typing an e-mail. “My recommendation is coming, in writing. I'll assume responsibility.”

“I appreciate that, but I'll make this call. Thank you, Director.”

The commander hung up and Forsyth dropped the secure landline back in its cradle. He went to a Mr. Coffee in the corner of his office. He wasn't sure caffeine was a great idea—he noticed his hand trembling slightly as he poured—but he needed to do something. He paced with his mug, sipping slowly, wishing he were onsite but content—no, proud—for having made the proper command decision.

As he walked, Forsyth asked God for two things.

First, that he was wrong about all this.

And second, that if he were right, he was also in time.

Fairfield, California

Sitting in the backseat of the sedan, Sammo Yang listened to the nearby sound of aircraft rumbling to a landing or screaming into the skies at the air base. Before long, those sounds would be swallowed in a conflagration of unimaginable power.

He reflected on how this game with the FBI had become a fascinating challenge—one that was about to intensify, one that he had no doubt he would win.

The American resources were spread over a field that was too wide and too unpredictable. He had spoken with Jing Jintao very early this morning on the hotel telephone, confident that the man in the lobby would not intercept it. Even if the staff listened in on his instructions, none of them spoke Chinese.