A Time for War (39 page)

Doc threw Jack his car keys. Jack hurried to Doc's car, Dover running after him.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Sure. I like letting terrorists off the hook.”

“We don't know that the other man did anything wrong,” Dover said.

“Due process is a wonderful thing, and ordinarily I'm all for it. But there is something going down and that man may have been withholding essential information.”

“That's possible, maybe even likely,” she agreed. “But the same way you walked around that office and pulled together clues, I have a feeling you're better at fieldwork than torture. What you almost did in there—I think that was mostly about your friend Abe.”

Jack wasn't sure whether his higher calling had been praised, his baser instincts condemned, or both. In any case, she was probably right.

*   *   *

The Eastern Rim van was parked outside the destroyed clinic. Jack saw a few work lights as he drove by, along with two police officers sitting in their patrol car. One was texting; the other was eating takeout. He didn't blame them: this wasn't what anyone would call glamour duty.

Jack did not want to get into a discussion with the officers about his business here, and risk being delayed or barred. Instead, he and Dover went to the back of Bruno's and climbed onto the dumpster and over the wooden fence. The back of the clinic was only partly in ruins and they were hidden from view as they went inside.

The ruins were lit on top by streetlamps but the lower half was in complete darkness. They moved cautiously down a hallway, pushing their feet along and feeling in front of them to keep from stepping on broken shards of wall and ceiling or knocking into furniture or cabinets. They were following the tap of laptop keys from somewhere inside. One wall of the hallway was gone; it used to separate the corridor from a series of examination rooms. The ceiling was partly intact, as was the wall on the opposite side. The typing—and now the faint grinding of gears—was coming from one of the exposed rooms toward the front.

Jack neared the room and looked around the shattered wall. A man was sitting in a stool facing the remains of the hallway. He was Asian. There was a hole in the floor and a small, four-wheeled robot beside it. An extension arm was inside the hole.

There was no way around this. Jack pulled a Doc and walked boldly into the room.

“Hey!” he smiled, approaching the man.

“What do you want?” the man asked in English.

“We're with the California Department of What the Hell's Going On?” he said as he stepped up to the hole. A rope ladder covered the short distance to the ground below. A camera attached to the robotic arm was peering down what looked like a passageway. That was what had been making the grinding sound.

Meanwhile, Dover entered and stepped behind the man. He slapped the top of his laptop shut.

“That was damned suspicious,” Jack said.

“You have no authority—”

“Oh,
Christ,
if I have to hear that one more time,” Jack said. “What are you doing here?”

The man took out his cell phone. “I'm calling the police.”

“Great,” Jack said. He took out his own cell phone. “I'll call the FBI. Got 'em on speed dial now.”

The man hesitated as voices came from below. They were shouts, in Chinese. The man in the chair looked concerned.

“Is that not supposed to be happening?” Jack asked.

The man continued to listen. The shouts stopped. Someone yelled from below in Chinese. The man answered. There was more shouting from below.

“Jack, someone told him to get out,” Dover said. “There's a woman down there, attacking.”

“Attacking who? Why?”

Dover shook her head.

The man jumped from his stool and started to run around the hole. Jack stepped in front of him, body-checked him, and grabbed him by the shoulders. The man was smaller than Jack but powerful. He ducked under one of Jack's arms and tried to drag him along.

“You're not leaving until you tell me what's happening!” Jack said.

“We have to go!” he cried.

“Why?”
Jack demanded.

“Let me go!”

The man pulled hard, his jacket tore, and he would have gotten away if Dover hadn't hit him from behind with the stool. The man went down hard, face-first.

“You were saying something about
my
interrogation techniques?” Jack said. He dropped to his knees, turned the man onto his back. The man was dazed but awake. “You tell me what's happening and I'll get you out.”

The man was about to answer when there was a series of loud bangs and the floor shook.

San Francisco, California

The Hawk landed just beyond the 747 at the international terminal. The pilot wished Agent Fitzpatrick “Godspeed” as he got out.

“Safe flight back,” Fitzpatrick said, as the pilot waited for refueling.

An African-American airport security officer who had the distinctive rigidity and alert eyes of a Marine MP was waiting for Fitzpatrick at the door of the mechanics' entrance just below the gate. Carl Forsyth was standing directly behind him.

“I'm Deputy Airport Director Cranston, Operations and Security,” said the security officer, who looked about forty and had the grip of a weight lifter. “Field Director Forsyth has briefed me. It's an honor to meet you.”

“You've got a fan,” said Forsyth as he shook hands with his field agent. “Welcome back. The target is at the gate.”

The men followed the security guard to a card-activated stairwell door.

“Has anyone figured out why he's here instead of at the consulate?” Fitzpatrick asked.

“That's one of the things we hope to find out,” Forsyth answered. “Obviously we're watching for another attack. He's got a carrying case with him. Told the security agent it was ophthalmologic equipment.”

“And they passed him.”

Forsyth shrugged as they started up the concrete steps. “He's Chinese, not Middle Eastern. He's got diplomatic credentials. Not big draws on the profiling list.”

The security agent opened the door to the gate area. He went in first, followed by Forsyth. The field director made sure their target was not looking in their direction before he moved from the doorway and let Fitzpatrick in.

Fitzpatrick recognized Agents Gailey and Kent. One woman was dressed as a flight attendant for another airline. She was seated at a gate across the way. The other was playing Scrabble on her iPad. She was sitting in the same row as the target. Between the two of them, they would see him wherever he went.

Fitzpatrick also saw Pan Kokinos, who was dressed as a janitor. He was the best shot in the field office.

“They're all going to move in as we get you closer,” Forsyth said. “You need to be sure.”

The man was sitting with his face to the big picture window, looking out at the dark tarmac. He was wearing a clean sweatshirt and baseball cap, both of which looked like they were fresh gift shop purchases.

As Fitzpatrick approached he noticed two other men get up from different gates and, in unison, converge on the same spot. They were also Asian.

“Company,” Fitzpatrick said.

“I see. Know them?”

Fitzpatrick was looking at one of the men in a rumpled business suit. “Yan Hua,” the agent said. “He's the guy who kept me busy at the hotel while the other one got away. The other one was the ringer.”

“Are they consulate?”

“Yeah.”

Forsyth gave his head a small, slow shake. The other three FBI agents backed off. He and Fitzpatrick reached the seated man at the same time as the others. Both of the Chinese stood in front of the third man, blocking him from the front.

“It's good to see you again, agent,” Yan smiled pleasantly.

“Would you step aside, please?” Forsyth said. “This is U.S. government business.”

“What business would that be?”

“None of yours,” Forsyth answered.

Yan Hua smiled. “Then we have nothing to discuss. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”

“Go around,” Forsyth told Fitzpatrick.

The agent did as he was told. The Chinese diplomats were standing shoulder to shoulder. The target was sitting absolutely still behind them, reading a newspaper that he held in front of his face. Fitzpatrick shook his head, indicating he was still unable to make a clear identification, and took a stance with his back to the window.

“We can detain the plane on some security charge,” Forsyth said. “Are you prepared to stand here all night?”

“If that is necessary to protect the rights of our diplomats, we are.”

“Diplomat? This man is a murderer!” Fitzpatrick yelled.

Other passengers who were waiting for the flight looked over.

“I do not think Lufthansa will appreciate you causing a panic,” Yan remarked.

“Frankly, sir, Lufthansa is the least of our concerns,” Forsyth replied.

Fitzpatrick wanted to grab the man and force him around. But if he or Forsyth did that, any detention would be a violation of international law. That question would have to be adjudicated before they could act on Title II, Section 218 of H.R. 3162, the USA Patriot Act.

The identification had to come first.

Forsyth motioned to the airport security officer, who had been waiting by the staircase. He jogged over.

“Sir?”

“What would happen if I told you that a bomb threat had been called in, against the terminal?” Forsyth asked.

“Aircraft in this section would be grounded and we'd evacuate the building.”

“Would the evacuation be voluntary?”

“No, sir. We would remove any individual who failed to depart.”

Forsyth looked at Yan. “Will you step aside so we can determine the identity of this man?”

“We will not.”

Fitzpatrick could see that his boss was struggling with the call. He didn't blame the field director. Even if they got their man, he would face arrest for making a false bomb report in a public building. The liberal press and their legal advocates would not give a damn about the circumstances. It could mean jail time and the end of Forsyth's career.

Most of the passengers at the gate were watching them. Some of the passengers at other gates were looking over and pointing. Forsyth looked at Fitzpatrick.

Suddenly, Deputy Director Cranston stepped over the row of seats, pushed Yan Hua aside, and ripped the newspaper from the hands of the third man that the two Chinese diplomats had been standing in front of, protecting him.

“Is this the guy who blew up Air Base Parkway?”

Fitzpatrick looked down at the face that he had seen on Central Place, in the lobby of the hotel, and since then constantly, in his mind's eye, etched there like acid on a copper plate.

“That's the man,” he said.

*   *   *

The burning smell was the smoky residue of the health clinic. Maggie had realized that as soon as she saw the hole in the low ceiling and the rubble beyond it. There was a ladder leading to the opening and some kind of camera looking in on them. She had no time to dwell on that, however.

Two men were huddled over something beneath the low ceiling. They were crouched about four yards from the opening, wearing gloves, talking to one another in Chinese.

“Their radio
must
have died,” said one. “They'll be here in a minute.”

“You'd better go and check.”

“What if the charges detonate?”

“I have the trigger!” he snapped.

“But there's obviously a problem—”

That was all Maggie had needed to hear. She scurried forward, in a crouch. There was no time for a slow, silent approach: if the men had weapons, she needed to be close enough to disarm them.

They looked down the corridor as she ran forward.

“Detonate!” one man cried as he ran for the ladder.

“Doing it!” the other man yelled.

A voice shouted down from above, “What's wrong?”

“Go!”
the man in the tunnel told him. “I've already set the king!”

The first man was almost at the opening when the other rose to join him. Maggie was just a few feet from him as he turned a knob on his radio. She grabbed the front of his shirt, dropped on her back, tucked her legs against the man's waist, and cracked him hard against the low ceiling. She completed the somersault by hurling him back in the direction she had come—

As the tunnel exploded around them.

Maggie flipped onto her belly and covered her head as a series of blasts rumbled through the length of the maze. Most of them were behind her; one was between Maggie and the hole under the clinic. Dirt and rock fell in clumps, filling the air with a tawny mist. The sight faded quickly, however, as the pile of debris between Maggie and the exit filled the tunnel.

Her ears clogged by the blasts, her back covered with dirt, Maggie slowly got to her hands and knees. After a few moments she heard what sounded like distant laughing. It was faint at first, but grew louder as her ears began to clear. She pulled out her shirttail and covered her mouth to keep from inhaling dust.

“You have killed us,” the man cried with a terrified expression.

Maggie crawled in the direction of the voice. She felt for him with her free hand, found his left arm.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“The biotoxin,” he said. “It cannot be shut down. All these preparations—I told Liu I should be sad to leave it. And I haven't.”

“That box? Behind us?”

The man just laughed.

Maggie let her fingers move to the man's hand. She pressed her fingers to the palm, put her thumbs on his knuckles, and twisted away from his body. That forced the wrist in two directions it was not designed to go. The pain was awful. The man screamed.

“Talk to me,” Maggie said. “What have you done?” She relaxed her fingers.