A Time for War (22 page)

“She is with ONI,” he said. That was a purely defensive remark. He knew that Mike would already know that. Siegel wanted him to know that he wouldn't have received “just anybody.” “Ms. Griffith was looking into a couple of electrical shutdowns, wanted to make sure none of our technology was involved.”

“Why would she assume it was?”

“There were total systems failure in specific vehicles,” Siegel replied. “We have a pretty public track record there. It would be a reasonable stop on anyone's search.”

“Except that she was suspended from the ONI and had no official standing,” Alexander said.

“She presented credentials at the desk—”

“I saw them. I checked. This reckless investigation is what got her sidelined.”

“I see.” Siegel felt a low-level burn in his belly. “Well, all I told her was that it's not possible we or any of our proprietary technology was involved. I said I'd look into it, though I know what I'll find. She's coming back tomorrow. I had intended to confirm that this is a dead end. That will be the end of it.”

Alexander's silence on the other end told him this was not the case.

“The woman is apparently a radical in league with other radicals,” the security chief said at last. “I'm instructed to tell you to have no further contact with the woman, to leave this matter with security.”

“Of course,” Siegel said. “I want you to know that this was strictly a fact-finding meet on my end.”

“I'll pass that along,” Alexander said.

“Thanks,” Siegel said. “Sorry if I was a little overambitious.”

“I'm sure it's fine. That is what I'm here for, Dick. To make sure the lab, its interests, and its personnel are safe.”

Alexander clicked off and Siegel sat for a moment, feeling used and stupid. And the word “Squarebeam” once again had the quality of a malediction, one that was not only unuttered but unthought. The burning was replaced by a big, lonely hollow in his gut, the feeling that his bad call would come to the attention of Hawke himself and stall him in this office for years.

Another victim claimed by that damned technology,
he thought, as he sucked it up hard to make the call.

Fairfield, California

For most people, night evoked an image of quiet, restful darkness. What Sammo Yang had discovered over the past few weeks was that only at night did the personality of a place or individual truly emerge. And night was different wherever he went. Night in this small city in Northern California was nothing like night in Afghanistan, which was nothing like night in China. It was not quite ideal for the activity he was planning.

Dressed in jeans and a dark sweater with bulky sleeves, he went out at seven
P.M.
He headed north on Central Way. According to the minutes he had read and crudely translated online, air traffic over the city was terminated at nine
P.M.
The last few hours of every flight day were always the busiest as cargo, loaded in the morning, arrived at Travis.

There was no sidewalk so he crossed the parking lots of shops and businesses that lined the main artery. Traffic was still heavy as people went home. He tugged the right sleeve of his sweater every minute or so; the device caused it to ride up. The fabric had been specially treated so as not to generate even a mild static shock, something that might upset the delicate circuitry. He moved toward storefronts, where there were other people and he was less conspicuous. He watched them going about their business, unaware of the holocaust he was about to unleash. It made him feel important, powerful, godlike, this knowledge that he alone possessed: that he was going to change their lives, in some cases end them.

It was a harsh price, but a necessary one. If Sammo did not believe that, he would not be here.

As he crossed the parking lot he became aware of someone crossing diagonally behind him. Sammo waited. The chill of the Northern California night had begun to descend. He pulled at his sleeve. He looked to his right. The man walked back toward the road and waited by a light to cross. Did he know he was being watched?

Sammo continued on. He saw the man cross and then continue in the same direction Sammo was headed. He was almost certainly a tail. But why?

The low buzz of an engine came from somewhere in the distance. Sammo scanned the skies. It was still too distant for the bright wing lights to be visible. He did not know how often the big planes came in. But if someone was following him, he knew that this incoming plane—still not visible—was his best option, perhaps his only option.

He walked more briskly. He wondered if he had underestimated the FBI. They might not have fallen for him sending the consulate car away.

No matter,
he thought.
Whoever that man is, he's only observing. So far.

That changed suddenly. The man was even with Sammo and moving more rapidly. In moments he was a few paces ahead. If the tail was watching for an attack, he probably figured he was safe for the next few blocks since there was nothing but homes and empty lots here.

What if he's concerned about a rendezvous with a consulate car? One that was unmarked, not being followed? He would want to be ahead of it, in the direction traffic was going.

Sammo kept going. The man was nearly jogging now. Evidently he had it in mind to cut back across the street and intercept his prey before he reached a populated area or side streets where he could lose himself. The man could not know what Sammo's target was, only that it was probably better to stop Sammo sooner rather than later.

Sammo could be wrong about all of that. And he had his consulate credentials in Chinese and in English.

He continued forward. The other man was well ahead of him now and did as Sammo had anticipated: he came back across the street, this time not bothering to wait until he reached a traffic light.

The man can do nothing to you, legally,
Sammo told himself. But this was a dark patch of road and accidents can happen.

If Sammo turned back now, the man might think this was a dead-end pursuit and go away. Or he could use the delay to summon assistance—perhaps the local police, whose cars Sammo had seen drive by. They could watch him in shifts, pen him in.

The sound of the plane was much nearer. To reach it now, Sammo would have to pick up the pace. If the man interfered, Sammo would have to get past him. That meant using his knife.

What are you prepared to do?
he asked himself.

The man was ahead of him now, leaning against a tree, touching buttons on his cell phone. Maybe he was texting; maybe he wasn't. He was clearly there to see what Sammo did next.

Sammo had been schooled in diplomatic protocol. The local authorities could not prosecute him, even for murder, but they could detain him. Doing so, they would find the device.

He could not allow that to be taken.

When he had been hidden in the Tangi Valley, waiting for the helicopter to pass within range, Sammo had learned the importance of patience. He recognized the sudden deflation of spirit he experienced, as though an
off
switch had been thrown in his muscles. But that was as much a part of the job as courage and flexibility. The attack on the plane would have to wait.

Sammo made a show of pulling back his left sleeve and looking at his watch, as though he had been out for a constitutional and time was up. Then he turned into a pizza restaurant just past Lookout Road. He ordered takeout by pointing. He had no idea what he had asked for; it didn't matter. He would return to the hotel with his dinner, go to his room, and slip out as soon as he could. If he were being followed, he could not risk staying there. He would go out via the pool area, pick his way through the dark, tuck himself behind a bush or a dumpster all night, and try again the next day.

But not like this. They had interfered with his plan. Walking back, running the plans of the air force base through his head, he decided on something a little bolder and much bigger.

Something so grand it wouldn't matter who followed him.

*   *   *

“He turned back, chief.”

As soon as Agent Al Fitzpatrick saw his target walk into the hotel with the pizza he'd picked up along the way, the agent got on his phone and went out back to the hotel's pool area for privacy. Upon establishing the Chinese Consulate Detachment that morning, Field Director Carl Forsyth had added a directive ordering that he be contacted directly if anything unusual happened. The presumed diplomat's twilight run seemed to qualify.

“What do you make of it?” Forsyth asked.

“The subject was definitely working,” Fitzpatrick said. “I think he was probably trying to hook up with the people who came by today. What did they do?”

“They took your partner up to College City, drove around the town, then went back to the consulate. He's been watching the consulate. The car hasn't come out again.”

“Sir, I've been sitting in the hotel wondering if this whole thing is just a ploy to tie up manpower. Except for Travis there are no high-value targets here, and if he was scoping out the base he was going in the wrong direction.”

“Does he know you're there?”

“No doubt,” Fitzpatrick said. “I wanted to get ahead of him, watch for a make and tag if he was picked up. We were the only two people on foot. No way I could slip that one past him.”

“You think it's worth staying with him?”

“I do,” Fitzpatrick said. “There's something off about the guy.”

“All right. Do you have a picture?”

“Took some cell phone shots,” Fitzpatrick said. “Sending now. They're dark and grainy but maybe Tech can make out something useful.”

“Good work,” Forsyth said.

Fitzpatrick ended the call and went inside for a much needed trip to the bathroom. The target would probably need at least five minutes to eat his pizza dinner.

Murrieta, California

It was dark and the area around the door was illuminated by just a single dull bulb in a bug-filled lantern above the threshold. Dover didn't notice the black Mercedes until she heard it pull behind her car in the motel parking lot. She was just putting her key in the door of the one-story building when the vehicle stopped perpendicular to her car, the passenger's side at her trunk.

Her first thought was that she should go inside, shut the door, and call 911. She turned the key, popped the lock, but stayed outside waiting to see what this was about.

Both doors of the Mercedes opened and two men emerged. They were stocky, dressed in black suits, their hair cut short, marine style. Their expressions were unsympathetic, their eyes steady. The driver remained where he was. The other man came over. Dover's heart rate quickly doubled.

“Ms. Griffith?” the man asked as he approached.

He wouldn't have asked if he didn't already know the answer. She said nothing.

“I'd like to talk to you about your interest in Hawke Industries,” he said.

“I'm kind of tired,” she said, backing into the room. “Can this wait?”

“I'll only need a minute,” the man said.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Dover told him. She stepped inside quickly and shut the door.

From which you forgot to remove the key.

The young woman heard the key turn. The curtains were drawn and it was dark outside. She switched on an unsteady floor lamp. There was no rear exit and there were no windows in the back. She hurried to where she had left her phone plugged in on the night table. She activated it as the man entered.

“Please put it down,” he told her.

“I'm calling the police.”

“The sheriff's office is about a half hour from here,” he informed her. “You might get a deputy who is already on the road and can be here in ten or fifteen minutes—or he may be off in another direction entirely.”

“I don't care.”

“Ms. Griffith, it doesn't have to be this way.” The intruder's hand slipped inside his blazer and remained there, behind the lapel. “Please be reasonable. I only need a few minutes.”

Dover hesitated. The man had left the door open. His associate had moved from the driver's side and was standing just a few paces behind his partner.

“What do you want to know?” she asked. Her mouth was dry. The words sounded like rice paper.

“Put the phone down and we can talk,” he said.

She continued to hold it. He remained where he was, his hand inside his jacket. She didn't think he would shoot her, but her odds seemed a little better if she cooperated. Slowly, she laid the phone on the table.

“All right,” she said. “Talk.”

He removed his hand and stood with his arms at his side. “We would like you to leave Murrieta tonight and end your investigation into Hawke Industries.”

She stood there, dumbfounded. Dover had clearly crossed more than the Rockies on her way out. She had gone back in time about 150 years.

“You have no right to make those demands,” she said. “I haven't done anything wrong.”

“You misrepresented yourself as an investigator with the ONI,” the man said.

“No, that is the truth.”

“You are a civilian analyst with the Current Events Bureau, current status ‘suspended.' You are not authorized to initiate, conduct, or contribute to field investigations. We have a text from Commander Morgan confirming this.”

It had been a little more than a half hour from the time she reached HITV and returned to the hotel. In that time, Hawke Industries had used professional contacts and influence with the military to obtain private information about her. That abuse of access was worse than anything she had done. Dover was angry now, and indignation that deep had a way of trumping fear.

“What you just said is bullshit intimidation,” she told the man. “If I worked at the Starbucks down the street, I would still be
allowed
to stay at this hotel. I would be
allowed
to walk into your building and ask to see whoever I wished. Are you really going to shoot me for that?”