A Time for War (38 page)

“Maybe. We've got people there and authority under the Patriot Act to detain foreign diplomats, but they have to be personally known by law enforcement to have committed or actively supported an act of terror. That's you. I'm arranging a chopper to get you out. Travis says they can pick you up on the roof of the hotel in ten minutes.”

“I'll be there,” Fitzpatrick said.

The agent finished his coffee and went to find the manager. He was in the lobby with his staff, a good general who had remained beyond his shift to support the beleaguered troops. Jack asked him how to get to the roof.

Before leaving, the agent took a moment to thank all the hotel employees. It was a sober parting, but with a trace of shoulders-back pride and the kind of unity that—sadly—only war and tragedy brought out in groups of citizens.

Two minutes later he was shaking the manager's hand before climbing into a Sikorsky HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopter of the 571st Global Mobility Readiness Squadron. It was a thrill to be on board, and an honor to be a passenger.

As they rose into the night sky Fitzpatrick looked back at Air Base Parkway. It was lit with rows of high-pressure 400W sodium lamps, creating a quarter-mile-long island of light. It was a horrendous scene of fire engines and squad cars, soldiers and police, a handful of ambulances, and burned craters that were once vehicles and roadway. The smoke that had churned from the fires was mostly gone from the area, having risen on its own heat to spread across the rest of the city.

“I am taking you to San Francisco International, Agent Fitzpatrick,” the pilot confirmed when Fitzpatrick had put on his headset. “I heard, sir, and it's just a rumor, that you may be able to ID the individual who did this.”

“I can't say—”

“Of course not, sir, and it's not my place to inquire. I only want to tell you, sir, that if it's true, we only have one suggestion. Maybe it's more of a request.”

“What's that, Lieutenant?”

The pilot replied, “Don't let the scumbag come to trial.”

San Francisco, California

There was no evil here, no bad energy, nothing spiritually dark or frightening.

Whatever Maggie had felt in her basement was not a result of the traverse but of the destination. Emerging into the houses where they would be living and working as whores or laborers—that was what had evoked the fear, the terror. That was where it was strongest. It pained her to think that her grocery might have been one of those terrible places.

Maggie was not a tall woman, but she was forced to bend at the knees to fit in the tunnel. She never bent at the waist, which would leave her off-balance; she simply lowered her center of gravity. When she finally moved ahead she did so in that same posture, her balance permitting her to walk with absolute silence.

The flashlight revealed the tunnel to be hard, compacted dirt below and stretches of rock with intermittent patches of old, slime-covered brick for the walls. There were wooden boards along the low ceiling with occasional support timbers along the top and sides, like a mine. This particular passage ended in a sharp right turn that continued in a diagonal line. The route was leading her in the direction of the financial district.

The hammering was clearer here, a steady, echoing
chunk, chunk, chunk
against rock. The farther she went, the lower the ceiling became. After about five minutes Maggie was forced to proceed on her hands and knees. Though the atmosphere was rank she was surprised that the air in the tunnel was not stale. There was obviously an opening somewhere ahead.

During her passage, Maggie saw no other openings. That made sense. They were used for more than human trafficking. Any of the Highbinders fleeing through them would not want to risk being cut off by someone jumping down just ahead of them.

After nearly ten minutes she noticed a glow ahead and turned off her flashlight. She moved slowly, feeling her way; she did not want to discover any sudden drops by falling into one.

The sound itself would stop for a few moments and then come closer, louder. The glow would be a little brighter. Whoever was down here was coming in her direction.

It occurred to Maggie as she went along that she should have brought her cell phone. The tunnels seemed sturdy enough—they had survived for well over a century—but they were still old, with seeping water somewhere beyond the walls. The actions of the people ahead, or even her own passage, any weight or pressure at all could do something to trigger a collapse. And she had no idea what
kind
of work was being done up ahead. She did not think it was authorized by any city department. What if it weren't geologists or archaeologists at work, which was what she hoped to find? What if she needed backup? That was a thought that had been growing since she had first learned of the tunnel, one that argued against work being done in the public interest. The man who had come to buy the grocery did not strike her as a man interested in civic-minded projects.

Was tunnel access the reason that man wanted to buy the grocery
?
If so, did he find another way in?

The tunnel had continued along its diagonal course until it turned suddenly to the left. Maggie stopped several yards from the corner. The sounds were clear here. The light was brighter. And she could see faint shadows on the wall—two of them. Their arms were upraised.

Then she heard the first voices that had been raised down here: the crackle of a radio with a Chinese speaker on the other end.

“We're ready here,” the caller said. “Are you almost finished?”

“We're on the last one,” a voice nearby replied. “Another two minutes.”

The radio went silent. So did the men.

Being “finished” with something did not sound good,
Maggie thought. She had to find out what it was.

Maggie was on high alert now, her senses sharp, her elbows automatically bending inward, toward her chest. That was the position from which forward energy was harnessed and projected. She raised her torso slightly so that she was resting on her fingertips. That would create the least amount of contact with the ground, generate the least noise. She inched ahead, her breathing shallow and silent but deep. That would give her the energy to strike if that became necessary. Her tongue was pressed to the roof of her mouth to moderate the flow of air and keep her from hyperventilating.

She turned her head around the corner and waited. She was still in the shadow.

There were two men: one had his back toward her, the other had his back to the wall nearest her. Both were working around a hole they had cut in the ceiling. The man with his back to her was working his fingers slowly, carefully around the excavation. She could not see what they were doing. A chisel and hammer lay beside a battery-powered lantern. The radio was resting against the wall to the right.

Maggie was still holding the doused flashlight. She laid it down and adjusted her position. She put her left hand against the bend in the wall and got on the balls of her feet. This was the Monkey position. Typically it was used to create a low target: an opponent would have to bend, giving the “monkey” a chance to throw out the hands, whiplike, to strike eyes or face or to deflect a grab or blow. In this case, however, it was the only style that would fit in the confined space.

She came around the corner with a low, bounding hop. She reached for the man whose back was toward her. Her right hand grabbed the collar of the sweater he was wearing: it was a tight grip that would hold him even if the fabric tore. She yanked him back and as he fell she released her hold and drove her right elbow down into his nose. She immediately leaped forward, her left arm across her chest, and drove a stiff-armed back fist into the other man's face. That knocked his head hard against the wall. He fell face forward. The other man was still awake, pawing at his bloodied nose. Maggie turned, balanced low on her left foot, and planted her right heel in his forehead as he tried to rise. He flopped flat back.

Maggie checked both men by digging a fingernail into the cuticle of their thumb. If they were feigning unconsciousness, the pain would have roused them. Picking up the lantern, she held it close to the hole in the ceiling.

A thickish red stick was tucked inside. It looked—and smelled—like the gunpowdery Chinese firecrackers she had seen in New Year celebrations. Judging from the care with which the man had been handling it, she suspected it was a squib of some kind, though she didn't see a fuse.

The radio came on.

“Are you finished?” the caller asked. He waited a moment. “Chin, are you there?”

Maggie decided not to answer. She thought of going back but, as she held the lantern forward, it looked to her as if the tunnel was wider ahead. She would make better time in that direction. And there was still at least one person ahead: she wasn't likely to be in any danger as long as he thought there were still men at work back here.

She took the radio and pushed the lantern ahead of her, crawling behind it until she could waddle in monkey stance. Rounding a corner she was able to rise as she had before. She wondered whether the geography or a low foundation had forced the tunnel to narrow. The man had stopped calling to his comrades, was talking to someone else. Maggie couldn't make out what he was saying.

No doubt she would find out soon enough. After turning another corner she saw the longest tunnel yet, with a dim light at the other end. There was a faint, burnt smell in the air, like an old fireplace. She left the radio on the ground—it wouldn't do for the men to hear their own voices as she approached—and after ascertaining as best she could that there were no potholes or pitfalls ahead, Maggie switched off the lantern and hurried ahead.

Sausalito, California

The drive from the marina to Eastern Rim took less than five minutes. It was made shorter by Jack's desire to hurt someone.

It hadn't really registered that Abe Cohen was dead, that the dialogues they had had over meals at Bruno's were over, that this
creature
had fed him to the sharks because it was inconvenient to do anything else. Those were Hawke's egalitarian Chinese.
All for us and nothing for you, not even life.
Sitting in the backseat with the hog-tied prisoner, it was all Jack could do to keep from spitting on him.

Doc was at the wheel. He pulled up to the door of the small Eastern Rim office. He made no secret of his presence. He strode to the front door, gun and knife in his hands, with Jack and Dover running behind. He kicked it in, entered behind the gun that was held at his hip. The knife was in his right hand, blade facing ahead, ready to be thrown forward—not from the tip, like a knife thrower, but by twisting the body and pushing the knife through the air from the hilt. Doc had once explained that the forward throw covered a shorter distance, no more than six feet, but it did so more accurately and painfully, into the gut.

There was no resistance. They saw only one man in the room. He was smoking a cigarette and was halfway between the sofa and the door. He must have gotten up when he heard the car. Behind him there was a Chinese station on an old cathode ray TV.

“Knock, knock,” Doc said as he strode into the room. He holstered the gun and grabbed the man's shoulder and put the knife to his throat. “You were expecting someone. Who?”

The man said something in Chinese.

“He wants to know by what right you come in here,” Dover said as she and Jack walked through the door, which was swinging on just one hinge.

“Tell him we've got his pal from the Farallons in the car. We want the rest of the story, whatever it is.”

Doc was talking as the Chinese man continued to speak.

“He says that whoever we are, we have no right to be here,” Dover said.

“One more time,” Doc said, pushing the knife at his throat. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I think I have a clue,” Jack said.

Doc and Dover both looked over. Jack held up a work order that he had pulled from a bulletin board. “They're on the clinic job—excavation prior to demolition.”

“So?” Doc asked.

Jack looked around the room. He walked to a closet in the back. The door had a padlock. “Doc, open this?”

Doc pulled the Chinese man with him as he sheathed his knife and took out his handgun. He put the barrel above the doorknob, angled toward the jamb, and put two rounds in the wood, shattering the lock catch. The padlock remained in place but the door creaked open. Jack found the light switch, looked inside.

“As I thought—explosives.”

“Meaning what?” Dover asked.

Jack literally sniffed around the room. “It may be a coincidence, but this closet smells just like the clinic did after it went sky high. Not a lot of places in the city are licensed for high explosives. Dover, ask this gentleman if these people had anything to do with the explosion, and if so why? If he doesn't answer—Doc, start cutting off parts of him.”

Dover swallowed as Doc put the blade above the man's right ear. She asked the question.

The man listened, waited, then put the cigarette between his lips. He puffed. There was nothing in his demeanor or expression that suggested fear.

“He's not going to answer,” Dover said. “Please don't do this. Don't become like them.”

Doc's eyebrows arched questioningly; there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looked at Jack.

Jack glanced down. “Jesus.” He thought for a moment, then sighed. “All right. How about Dover and I go to the clinic and check it out,” he said. “We'll leave this guy and the other clown here with you.”

“I'm good with that,” Doc said.

Jack looked at Dover and shook his head. “That OK with you?”

She nodded.

“You're ruining our rhythm, girl,” Doc said.

“I'm good with that,” she replied

Jack went outside and got their prisoner, threw him at the feet of the other man. He watched for a reaction from either man. There wasn't one. Either they were well trained or they didn't know each other. Another piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit.