Red Tide (16 page)

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G
overnor James Doss unfurrowed his brow just long enough to allow the chubby woman in the blue smock to dab makeup onto his forehead with a small triangular sponge. The sight of Seattle Police Chief Harry Dobson and King County Sheriff Dan Reinhart approaching the makeshift dais in tandem brought the furrows back…harder…deeper than before. “Nice touch,” he thought to himself. “Showing up together…shoulder to shoulder. Nice show of solidarity.”

When she reached out with the sponge again, he pulled his head back. “That’s enough, Ruth,” he said. “Time for me to go to work.”

Without a word, she pocketed the sponge and waddled down the stairs, past the pair of bodyguards, out onto the floor, until she was lost among the rush of technicians and security personnel swirling about in the final preparations for the news conference.

Doss appreciated Gary Dean’s choice of venue. In this room it was nearly impossible to get a shot that didn’t include a chandelier. Nice credibility enhancer. Spoke well of the wealth and power of the state. Gave people confidence.

He’d learned about setting from his predecessor Ramsey Haynes. “Remember,” Haynes had told him on the day he’d been sworn in, “half an hour later, all they remember are the pictures.”

When the chief and the sheriff veered left, toward the rear of the stage, where the assortment of dignitaries necessary to present a united front were in the process of assembling, Doss spoke to the nearest bodyguard. “Tommy,” he said, “ask those two gentlemen if they would be so kind as to step up here and have a word with me.”

Directly in front of the governor, three technicians gave a bank of microphones the finishing touches, while another pair scanned the stage area with light meters.

He watched, from the corner of his eye, as Tommy Shannon lumbered over to the pair, watched as they stopped walking and cast quick glances up his way. He had neither illusions nor complaints regarding either Dobson or Reinhart. As governor, he had his own State Police force and thus had no direct power over either of them. Dobson was appointed by the Seattle City Council and the mayor, and, although Reinhart was an elected official, the sheriff was sufficiently popular with both the public and the deputies union that he did not require the patronage of a lame duck governor.

He wondered if Gary Dean was smart enough to know how lucky Gary Dean had gotten. Dobson and Reinhart were both highly able administrators. Lifetime cops who’d risen through the ranks and were nearly universally respected by those whom they led. The kind of guys from whom you could expect a straight answer to a straight question.

“Governor,” Harry Dobson said as they shook hands at the top of the stairs. When his turn came, Dan Reinhart didn’t say anything at all.

“Just wanted to be on hand,” Doss said. “Let ’em know we’re all on board and doing everything that can be done.”

“Which is exactly what we’re doing,” the chief said quickly.

A momentary silence settled over the trio. “What do you think?” Doss finally asked. “What are the chances this threat is for real?”

“I’ve got over a hundred dead citizens who can attest to the reality of it,” the chief said. “We have to treat tomorrow’s threat like it’s a done deal. We have no other choice.”

Doss nodded and looked away. “Our esteemed mayor doesn’t want me to declare a state of emergency and call out the National Guard. What do you two think?”

Dan Reinhart took the lead. “Between the city, the county and the feds, everything’s being done that can possibly be done. Having soldiers standing around on street corners isn’t going to make things better.”

“Amen,” the chief said.

“Speaking of the feds…” the governor said.

Neither man blinked. “What about them?” Harry Dobson inquired.

Doss offered a thin smile. “Because of you two, I’ve spent most of the morning with feds so far up my behind I could taste Brylcreem.” The governor waited for a laugh but didn’t get one. “Last I saw of them they were on the phone to the State Department.” He sighed and looked away again. What all three men knew had been left unsaid was that James Doss had spent the first half of his final year in office lobbying for a cushy ambassadorship somewhere in Europe where they made wine, and this wasn’t going to help his chances a bit.

Before the mantle of guilt could be firmly fitted to his shoulders, the chief spoke up. “If they were on the phone to D.C. it must mean you refused to order the State Police to do their dirty work for them,” Harry observed.

“Murchison would do it if you told him to,” Dan Reinhart said quickly. “Clint’s strictly rank-and-file.”

“Yeah, and about five seconds later, that son of a bitch would issue a press release telling the world how appalled he was to have to do this, and that I gave him a direct order to do so.” Doss waved an impatient hand. “Besides…I’m not ordering anyone’s arrest on the basis of his middle name being ‘bin.’”

He gave the pair a nod of appreciation and began to make his way through the crowd, shaking hands, gripping elbows and patting shoulders as he went along. Before his cologne had completely cleared the area, the mayor came trotting up the stairs. His eyes were bright behind small metal frames. His cheeks were flushed red. He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“You fellas aren’t exactly making friends and influencing people,” he said while wiping his glasses with a hankie.

“We start acting like the gestapo…the terrorists win,” Dan Reinhart said.

The mayor nodded and held up an understanding hand. “You’re preaching to the choir. I’m on board here.” He puffed his cheeks and blew out a gust of air. “But don’t think I didn’t hear about it. Congressmen. Senators. Certain City Council members who shall remain nameless. Hell…I had Bernie Pauls on hold for ten minutes,” he said, naming the new head of the Department of Homeland Security. “I had to make him wait because our senior senator wasn’t through ripping me up one side and down the other about our refusal to cooperate with the D.C. crowd.” He gazed out over the ballroom. “It’s like the President said this morning…we can’t let them drag us down to their level. We’ve got to stand firm in the face of the pressure.”

“Five minutes,” was shouted from the back of the room, ending the conversation, sending the three men back down the stairs and around the corner, out of view, where half a dozen tables offering coffee and cold drinks had been hastily set up for the dignitaries. Ben Gardener stood in the corner, half a head taller than everyone else in the room. Harlan Sykes was huddled up with Mike Morningway and a contingent from Emergency Management Services. The mayor was animated, emphatic with a clipboard. Out in the center of the staging area, Bernie Pauls was huddled with Doctors Belder, Abrahams and Stafford for a little photo op session. Watch the birdie.

A sense of dread began to spread through Harry Dobson as he took in the melee. He watched intently as if something about the scene couldn’t be trusted. He sensed he was experiencing one of those rare moments when it becomes apparent that one’s senses cannot always be relied upon to relay information in an accurate and timely manner. Like a frozen moment in traffic when a glance out the side window of your car tells your central nervous system that your car is rolling backward. You stand on the brake, but the slippage continues…your leg pumps like a dog in a dream and still the car eases backward…until you realize it’s the bus in the next lane creeping forward, not your car rolling backward…and a nervous little chuckle escapes your chest. A chuckle that assures you this was just an aberration…the exception that proves the rule…because god forbid you should be that far off base on a regular basis.

Harry Dobson’s foray into the Twilight Zone was brought to an abrupt end by the arrival of Colonel Hines at his shoulder. He’d broken out the full array of medals and military campaign ribbons for the news conference, but his expression said he’d rather be nearly anyplace else. “Not your cup of tea, Colonel?” the chief inquired.

“I’d like it better if we were going to tell the people the truth,” Hines said while sizing up the crowd.

“Which is?”

“Which is…which is…this is a joke.”

“How so?”

The colonel made a rude noise with his lips. “We play at readiness. We create new agencies. We throw money at every new technology that comes down the pike. We do everything except what needs to be done.”

“Which is?” the chief inquired.

“Commitment,” Hines said.

“To what?”

“To the reality of the situation. To the fact that we don’t live in Mayberry anymore, Chief. To the fact that the rest of the world hates our guts and wouldn’t lose a minute’s sleep if we all turned up dead one fine morning.”

Hans Belder called from across the room, “Colonel Hines.” He gestured with a hairy hand for the colonel to come join in the photo session. Hines tried to demur, waved back and shook his head, until it became obvious that Belder wasn’t going to take no for an answer and so Hines excused himself and began to pick his way through the crowd.

Dan Reinhart whistled under his breath. “Old boy’s got quite a burr under his saddle this morning.”

“I hear it’s permanent,” said the chief.

“Guy’s only slightly left of Attila the Hun.”

“As far as Hines is concerned, Attila was soft on terrorism,” the chief whispered, sweeping his eyes across the crowd. Stopping his gaze here and there on one face or another, moving backward and then onward again until something clicked like a roulette ball falling into the slot.

There she was. Lingering at the back of the crowd with a smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand. She’d been with the doctors yesterday. Same thing. Standing in the back. Keeping out of the spotlight. And then it hit him. This was the woman Corso had described from the bus tunnel. Wearing a tailored suit of an unusually warm fawn color and sensible shoes to match. He watched her for a moment. She had an air of competence about her. A sense that she was somehow above the proceedings.

The chief stepped around Dan Reinhart and walked over to the entrance to the walled-off area. Over to the governor’s security chief, Tommy Shannon.

He leaned in close. “Who’s the woman in the brown suit?” he asked.

Tommy was an old hand. Without seeming to move his eyes from the crowd, he scanned the room, picked her out, took her in, then reached into his inside jacket pocket and came out with a laminated list. After a quick perusal, he said, “Irena Kahn. She’s with the Israeli delegation.”

“In what capacity?”

“They list her as a cultural attaché. Diplomatic passport.”

“Which makes her what?”

Tommy Shannon rolled his watery eyes. “With the Israelis, you never know,” he said. “They’re only slightly less full of bull than the Russians. She could be anything from a personal nursemaid to a government spook.”

He told Tommy thanks and was told not to mention it. Without looking her way, he sidled over to the edge of the enclosure. When he felt as if he was as alone as he was going to be, he pulled his hand radio from his belt, pushed the red button and spoke.

“This is Chief Dobson. Patch me through to the Downtown Precinct station.” A yessir and a couple of clicks later, he had Lieutenant Carmen Pirillo on the radio. “Carmen,” he said. “I need a pair of plainclothes detectives at the Olympic Four Seasons. Five minutes ago,” he said.

“On the way,” came the response. “Anything else, Chief?”

“Hurry.”

Harry pocketed the phone and quickly crossed the room, not wanting her to spend too much time out of his sight. It was no more than sixty feet from where he stood to where he had seen her last, but when he arrived, she was gone. He checked the back of the throng and then moved among the crowd, smiling and fondling elbows when necessary, but she had simply disappeared.

That feeling of disassociation and uncertainty washed over him again, leaving him cold in his center and unsure of what to do next. He turned away from the crowd and swallowed several deep breaths. That’s when he noticed the coffee cup. Sitting on the starched white tablecloth. White on white, nearly invisible to the naked eye.

He strolled over and looked down at the table. Frosted orange lipstick was smudged along the nearest edge. A brown eye of coffee stared up from the bottom of the cup. Instead of a saucer, the cup rested on a cardboard coaster, which had been flipped upside down and written on. He moved the cup and picked up the coaster.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said.

Harry pocketed the coaster and turned back to the room. Dan Reinhart had wandered over his way.

“He got it from
The Sopranos,”
said the sheriff.

“Got what?” Harry asked.

“The line about tasting Brylcreem. Doss robbed it off
The Sopranos.
Uncle Junior said it to Tony a couple seasons back.”

Harry looked incredulous. “You watch that crap?”

“It puts me to sleep.”

As if on cue, a great rush of noise filled the air, as the doors were opened and the press rushed into the room. The ambient noise, which, until that moment, had consisted of little more than a low buzz of conversation, suddenly sounded more like a herd of cattle on the prod.

Harry watched from the corner of his eye as the other room filled, hoping to catch another glimpse of her. He’d decided he didn’t give a damn who she was. Or about her diplomatic passport either. Nobody but nobody was going to stick a needle into one of his officers and walk away with impunity. Nobody.

“One minute,” was shouted above the noise of the arriving crowd.

The governor adjusted his tie and smiled. The agency people began shuffling toward the stairs at the side of the stage. Tommy Shannon left his post at the bottom of the stairs to make a final sweep along the front of the dais looking for nuts who didn’t belong in the front row.

Harry’s eyes rolled over the remaining crowd looking for the woman. No sign of her. He could feel the blood rising to his face.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the coaster. He was in the process of turning it so he could read the writing, when someone called his name.