Countdown to Mecca (11 page)

“So it could be one guy or a dozen.”

She nodded.

“Good work,” Jeffreys said. “Last contact?”

“About an hour ago.”

Jeffreys looked directly into Burnett's brown eyes. “Is your shift over?”

Burnett shook her head. “Just taking a quick break.”

“Okay. See if you can track him down and keep in constant touch. If he's anything like the ones who tried to deep-six ‘ice eyes' at Levi Plaza, he should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

Burnett nodded, turned.

“Hey,” he said. “You haven't got room for Kevlar under that getup. Don't be a hero: call if you think you see him.”

She winked, back in character, before closing the door.

 

13

“That's him.”

As Ana spoke, Ric looked over and Sammy looked up. Her ice eyes, however, were still locked on the images on the computer screen before them. Miwa and Ritu heard her, too, and came over from the sofa where they had been flipping through magazines. Personal cell phone use was not permitted, in case they were being monitored. Eddie, who had been sleeping between them, remained there.

“Yes,” said Miwa. “That is him.”

Ric studied the face of the Asian girl before turning back to the computer screen. They had been at this all day while Ana's escorts had been down in the public safe house, occasionally advising, but mostly listening to the life stories of the occupants of the halfway house. Ritu, the more sensitive of the pair, had needed some coffee breaks to have a cry, while Miwa had become noticeably more contemplative. Earlier in the day, Ric overheard the girls talking how horrible it was to be a hooker by necessity, not by choice.

Sort of like being forced into a life of crime instead of choosing it
, he thought, reflecting on his own life. Ric had been a ball collector at a golf club where Sol was a member. The gangster saw him swing a club in anger one day and offered him a new line of work—using the same club. Ric rose quickly through the ranks, becoming the mobster's trusted driver.

They were now all looking at Sammy's screen where the image from a San Francisco online newspaper's society page showed One-Star General Montgomery Morton, his wife, Cynthia, and their two lovely children—Thomas, five, and Brook, seven—at San Francisco's Flower & Garden Show, held annually at the San Mateo Event Center.

“Nice going,” Ric exclaimed, clapping Sammy on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” Sammy said, grinning with pride.

One of the reasons they had been going at this all day was that the U.S. military had become extremely cautious and particularly secretive since September 11, 2001. Finding personal information on army officers outside specifically chosen public relations representatives or high-ranking political appointees had become increasingly difficult. It had been Sammy's idea to scour horticultural sources simply from Ana's mentioning that Morton had smiled at a vase in the suite after Ric had her recount her experiences in as much detail as she could remember. She could, it turned out, remember a lot.

“So we've got a name and we have a face,” Ana said. “What now?”

“We also know his immediate family,” Miwa said.

“You're both right,” Ric said. “But none of that is important at the moment. Let me tell you what happens when the cops nail a wise guy. The first thing they do is look into ‘known associates.'”

“What does that mean?” Ritu asked.

“It means we start looking out who his pals are,” Sammy said, his fingers already moving across the keyboard. “For instance, who served in the special forces, who's been mustered out, who lives or recently arrived in San Francisco.”

With that lead, more information came quickly. One of the first things they found was Morton's name in the West Point yearbook. Once they knew he had graduated from that august academy, they trolled the yearbook pages, seeking out any clubs he frequented.

“There!” Ritu suddenly cried, pointing. “There!” They all looked to where she was pointing. It was a picture of the archery team, where Morton had been an advisor.

“Whoa!” Miwa said.

“What?” Sammy asked.

“There,” Miwa said, wagging her finger. “The gold medal winner. Isn't that the ‘Kid'?”

They all looked closer. “It could very well be,” Ana concluded.

“Okay,” Ric enthused. “Looks like we're on the right track.” He checked the names in the caption. “Andrew Taylor,” he read. “Let's see where his name leads us.”

Within minutes, Sammy leaned back, his eyes widening. “Sweet mother of Mary,” he breathed.

There, on his screen, was a video of Captain Steven Reynolds in a hospital bed, flanked by his sniffling wife, Mary, and his best friend, Colonel Andrew Taylor, apologizing for a shooting accident that occurred at their alma mater just a few hours before.

“This was an unfortunate accident for which I'm totally responsible,” he was saying on a raw local news feed. “There is no reason to pursue an inquiry any further and I apologize for whatever inconvenience or discomfort anyone may have suffered as a result of my personal, actions.”

“That's Pallor!” Miwa cried.

“Another of our clients,” Ana clarified.

“You sure?” Ric double-checked.

Miwa nodded. “He's paler than before, if that's possible, and a little gaunt, but yes, I'm sure. That's Pallor.”

Both Sammy and Ric looked to Ana for corroboration. They had all come to depend on her for the final word regarding the girls and the men who were both hunters and quarry. She nodded.

“It's funny, though,” Ritu noted.

“What is?” Sammy asked.

“He sounds like a robot.”

Sammy returned to the computer keys to find any other information on the shooting. Ric watched his progress.

“It's not on any of the local websites, buried,” Sammy said.

“Most of them are joking it up, using it to slam recreational shooters,” Ric said disgustedly. “Like when Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally shot that campaign donor during a quail hunt in 2006.”

“Yeah,” Sammy said. “You gotta love these guys who use the First Amendment to trash the Second.”

“But that's not really the story here,” Ric said.

“What do you mean?” Ana asked.

Sammy, who knew about military justice, piped up. “What your friend here is doing is shutting down any investigation into the accident. Why would he do that?”

“Why, indeed?” Ric replied, his eyes still on the screen. “Let's see if we can find out about what else Morton, Pallor, and the Kid liked to do together.”

Ric pulled up a chair and relieved Sammy at the keyboard. Miwa and Ritu wandered back to the sofa. Ana headed to the kitchen to make more coffee.

From the suddenly eager looks on the faces of Ric and Sammy, it was going to be a long night. Sammy needed a break and joined Ana.

 

14

Livermore, California

By all rights, The Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory should have shone like a beacon of knowledge and learning in the morning sun. In reality, it stretched like a scab on the dewy, misty ground.

Doc looked at it doubtfully as he drove another vehicle Sol had supplied: a 2014, tuxedo black, Ford Escape SUV, with tinted windows, fog lamps, a two-liter EcoBoost engine, four-wheel drive, a voice-activated direction, phone, and entertainment system, and everything else short of machine guns and ejector seats.

“I liked the name,” Sol had told them before turning over the keys. “‘Escape.' Fitting, eh?”

The whistles and bells aside, the powerful engine and roomy interior had served them well during the forty-five-mile drive from San Francisco.

“This is where you're going to find out what's what?” Doc asked Jack dubiously as his eyes peered through the smoky windows, scouring the seemingly worn, squat buildings.

“Don't let the unassuming exterior fool you,” Jack informed him. “In those many walls is the most extensive in-depth knowledge of nuclear and atomic weaponry in the world. It was created in 1952 as an offshoot of the UC Radiation Lab and as competition for Los Alamos.”

Doc sniffed. “Looks like they haven't changed the wallpaper since '52, either. But we may not be looking for nuclear material. How's this help us in that case?”

“Gossip,” Jack replied. “Apart from lawyers, no one likes telling tales more than scientists, especially when one of their hated rivals screws up.”

“You never go wrong trusting the worst in people, do you?”

“The day I do, I can retire happy,” Jack replied. “It'll mean humankind is saved.”

“You've got a job for life,” Doc laughed.

Jack grinned, still looking for the right building. They passed the Center for Accelerator Mass Spectrometry, the Center for Micro- and Nanotechnology, the High Explosives Applications Facility, the Jupiter Laser Facility, and the Joint Genome Institute before Doc spoke up.

“So where do we park for The Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory's Discovery Center?”

Jack was about to answer when the vehicle's installed computer system beat him to it. “The Discovery Center is located off Greenville Road on Eastgate Drive,” said a calm female voice from the dashboard. “There is parking on site. Would you like me to give you directions?”

“No,” the two men said at the same time. As much as burgeoning technology interested them, they were both a bit old-fashioned when it came to talking cars. Or women telling them how to drive.

“I'll find it myself, thank you,” Doc growled.

“You don't have to apologize to the dashboard, Doc,” Jack jibed as he opened the door.

“Shut up,” Doc replied pleasantly as he stepped out, stretching. “Who are you seeing again?”

“Mel Connors, the media relations director. We've had a somewhat jousting relationship during my
Truth Tellers
years, but he once admitted I kept him honest about possible government excess in his programs. He said he'd point me in the right direction.”

By then Doc had found the Discovery Center and they joined a surprisingly large group milling around the lobby.

“All these people going to see your friend?” Doc wondered as he studied the myriad group of everyone from suit-and-tie business types to leather-clad latter-day hippies.

Jack frowned, then motioned Doc to follow him to the Information Desk. He smiled at the woman seated there. “I have an appointment with Mel Connors. My name is Jack Hatfield.”

“Welcome to the Laboratory's Discovery Center,” she said pleasantly. “One moment, please.”

While she called over to Connors's office, Jack turned back to Doc, who was still surveying the crowd.

“They're having a lecture today,” Doc informed him, nodding to a poster and banner located near the entrance to an auditorium. “Part of an open series, apparently.”

Jack gave a small grunt in reply, busy thinking about how best to approach Connors—and how much to tell him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hatfield?” the woman at the desk said. “His office has informed me that something has come up and Mr. Connors has asked for your patience. He'll be down as soon as he can.”

“Do you have any idea how soon is soon?” Doc asked. Patience was not his greatest virtue.

“I'm sorry, I don't,” the woman said behind a tolerant smile. “Please feel free to visit our exhibits while you wait, or we have a nice cafeteria in the building. I'll page you as soon as Mr. Connors is available.”

Jack thanked her, resisting the urge to probe what the delay was. He turned to Doc with a sigh. “Want to go to a lecture?”

“Not especially,” Doc admitted. He was the kind of guy who liked to learn by doing, not by listening. “But it beats sitting in a lobby.”

Jack followed Doc to the signpost listing the lectures. Today's talk was Security in the 21st Century and the speaker was General Thomas Brooks.

Doc nodded in recognition. “Second-ranking officer in the U.S. Special Command,” he informed Jack. Doc had seemingly been in every field of battle since 'Nam, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the military. “On second thought, this might be interesting.”

“Sure,” Jack said, “if you don't mind the same old party line. You know, ‘We're facing grave times and ominous threats, but give us carte blanche and trust us.' On second thought, you go ahead if you want to. I'll be in the caf
é
.”

“We're like a married couple,” Doc teased. “When I want to do something you don't and vice versa.”

“I look at it as partners covering more ground,” Jack said.

He started to walk away when a text came in on his smartphone. It was from Sammy. The message was
Getting close, sit tight
and the attached picture showed the online newspaper clipping from the Flower & Garden Show.

Jack looked at the clipping as he walked toward the cafeteria, his eyes absently taking it all in, then froze. He enlarged the photo's caption: “Son, Thomas, daughter, Brook.”

Jack turned back toward the lecture series' poster. His eyes seemed to zoom in on today's speaker's name. “No,” he said quietly. “It couldn't be.”

He hurried over to Doc, who was filing in with the eggheads. Doc turned in slight surprise as Jack's hand clapped on his shoulder in the lecture hall doorway.

“I changed my mind,” Jack said. “This might be interesting after all.”

“You're definitely the female part of this marriage,” Doc joked.

The lecture turned out to be very interesting. Far from being a bore, General Thomas Brooks was an electrifying speaker. While he didn't quite come up to the standards set by Patton, a man whose name he seemed to insert in every other sentence, Brooks was definitely the real deal—the sort of man who could look a soldier in the face and get him to run directly into enemy fire.