Joshuas Hammer km-8

by David Hagberg

  San Francisco Candlestick Park

  “Ms. McGarvey, I’ll take you down to meet her now,” Chenna Seranni said. “We’re identifying you as one of her personal trainers.”

  “Sounds good,” Elizabeth said. “But my friends usually call me Liz.”

  Chenna allowed herself to relax just a little. She had no idea how the CIA was going to act out here, and especially not in the person of the daughter of the deputy director of Operations. “Okay, Liz. It’s just that we’re all pretty protective of Deb. And not just because it’s our job. She’s a good kid.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Elizabeth said. She was dressed in a dark blue jogging outfit with the ISO linked rings logo on the back. She carried a Walther PPK in a quick-draw holster under her left armpit, and a comms unit that fit nearly out of sight in her ear like a hearing aid. The unit was voice-operated, and the tiny microphone picked up her words through the bones in the side of her head. They walked out of the skybox high above the field where hundreds of athletes and their coaches were working out, and took an elevator to the ground level. There were Secret Service and FBI agents everywhere. Orders had come down to tear the stadium apart for the third time in an effort to find the bomb, and the cops were doing so with discretion but with a lot of enthusiasm. There were hundreds of other people in the stadium as well; family members, journalists, technicians, ISO officials and a handful of park staff. Everyone had been vetted, and no one got near the stadium without the proper pass. Todd Van Buren had gone off with Brace Hansen to review the security procedures for the start of tomorrow’s half-marathon. He shared Elizabeth’s feeling that protecting the President’s daughter in this crowd would be next to impossible, but they had no other option than to try.

  Down in the field the day was absolutely gorgeous; a lot cooler and windier than Washington, but just perfect for most of the track and field events. They got into an electric golf cart and Chenna drove them to the opposite side of the field where Deborah Haynes was going through her stretching and warmup routines with Terri Lundgren. Elizabeth was struck all at once by how beautiful the President’s daughter was. She could have been a runway model from somewhere in eastern Russia; Siberia maybe, except that when she looked up, her eyes were somewhat blank. Her face was animated, but something was missing; something that was hard for Elizabeth to put her finger on even knowing that the girl suffered from Down syndrome.

  When she saw them pull up, her face lit up like a million watt lightbulb and she bounded over. “Chenna,” she cried. They hugged.

  “I brought someone over to meet you,” Chenna said. “Her name is Liz and she’s going to be working out with you during the games.” Deborah gave Elizabeth an oddly appraising glance as they shook hands. “Do you work for the CIA?”

  Elizabeth was somewhat taken aback, but she smiled. “What makes you think that?”

  “Ah, I heard my mom and dad talking about it this morning. Are you a spy?”

  “I guess you could call me a spy,” Elizabeth said, exchanging glances with Chenna and the other Secret Service officers standing nearby. “They sent me over to help keep an eye on you.”

  “Oh, cool,” Deborah said with genuine enthusiasm. “Can you work out with me? Can you run?”

  “I can give it a try, Deb, but I don’t know if I can keep up with you. I heard that you were awfully good.”

  Deborah’s face went blank for just a moment. “That’s an oxymoron … awful and good.”

  Elizabeth had to laugh. “That it is.”

  “Let’s go,” Deborah suddenly shouted. She looked to her coach for approval and Terri Lundgren gave her a nod.

  “Just take it a little easy, we don’t want to kill the new girl on the first day.”

  Deborah laughed from the bottom of her toes, then turned and practically leaped onto the track as if she had been shot out of a cannon. Elizabeth scrambled to catch up, and after forty or fifty yards they settled into a very fast loping run. Dozens of flags from all the participating nations fluttered and snapped at the top of the stadium, while in the stands more than a thousand spectators watched the athletes work out on the field — pole vaults and high jumps, shot puts and discus throws. A couple of dozen runners shared the track with them, and when Elizabeth looked over her shoulder she saw Chenna and Terri Lundgren in a golf cart pacing them on the outside line. For a second or two she seriously wondered if she was up for this, but then she turned back and began to enjoy the moment that for the President’s daughter was one of absolute and total joy.

  San Francisco

  FEMA Operations Center “We have orders to do it all over again,” Secret Service unit leader Jay Villiard announced.

  There were only a few groans from the dozen people assembled because each of them knew what they were facing, and none of them had any illusions that stopping bin Laden was a hundred percent certainty no matter how many people and resources they threw at the problem.

  Setting up the mission nerve center in the Federal Emergency Management Agency’s ops center seemed appropriate under the circumstances. Besides, it was located downtown in a hardened concrete shelter in the basement of the federal building. Earthquakeproof, flood-and fireproof, they all sincerely hoped that it would be nuclear bomb proof if it came to that.

  “We’re scheduled to make our final sweep of the bridge at midnight. I have assets already in place,” the San Francisco PD’s chief of antiterrorism David Rogan said. “Does it make any sense to start one now?”

  “We do the same for every presidential visit if we think there’ll be trouble, David,” Villiard said from the podium. “By the numbers; a hundred times if need be. We do it this way, people, because the method is tried and true. It works.”

  There were two tiers of consoles facing a big projection screen on the wall behind the podium. Rogan picked up the phone at his console and looked up at the screen as he began issuing orders to start the search of the Golden Gate Bridge and its approaches.

  A giant map of the Bay Area from Pacifica and San Bruno in the south, to Sausalito and Tiburon in the north and to Oakland, Berkeley and Richmond in the east was projected on the big screen. Candlestick Park was highlighted in red as was the route that the half-marathon runners would take tomorrow at noon: West Park Road to Third Street; south to the Bayshore Freeway, one lane of which would be barricaded; north to U.S. 101; from there north to Van Ness Avenue where the road made a jog, and onto the bridge. On the Marin County side the runners would head east, off U.S. 101, past Fort Baker and then the last mile and a half to the finish line at the Sausalito houseboat docks. Buses would be waiting to return the runners to the Special Olympics village at Candlestick Park.

  Tens of thousands of spectators from all around the world were expected to line the route. More than one thousand city, county, state and federal cops would be there to keep them away from the runners so far as that was humanly possible. But nobody would get close to the presidential motorcade leading the race, or to Deborah Haynes who was expected to be among the first fifty runners by that point.

  Two dozen helicopters would pace the runners from behind, directly above and at the head of the pack. A pair of Coast Guard cutters would be stationed, one on the bay side of the bridge and the other on the ocean side, to make sure that the only vessels moving during the race were the pilot boats. The biggest concentration of manpower would be at the start and finish of the race as well as on the bridge. All traffic on the bridge itself would be halted a half-hour before the first runner hit Van Ness Avenue and would not be allowed to resume until the last runner had safely made the Fort Baker turn on the Marin County side.

  All air traffic in and out of San Francisco International Airport would be rerouted around Daly City to the south and San Quentin to the north. Everything in between would be a no-fly, exclusion zone for the duration of the race.

  Every known or suspected member of any hate group, anarchist society or even mildly left wing organization had been interviewed. Any person o
r organization that had even the slightest hint of being Arabic, having Arabic ties or having so much as checked out a copy of the Koran in the last two months from the public library system was screened; their driver’s license numbers, car tags and Social Security numbers or passport numbers were computer searched. All of it was done as quietly and as discreetly as possible.

  The FBI’s San Francisco SAC Charles Fellman checked his 401k retirement fund the day before yesterday and gave a realtor friend the heads-up on their Russian Hill home. With all the civil rights they were trampling on he figured that he might be looking for another line of work sooner than he’d counted on.

  “If we’re sweeping the bridge we might just as well go over the park again, Jay,” he suggested. “But it’s going to be tough with everybody out there. Have you seen the place since last night? It’s a madhouse.”

  “Our people started a half-hour ago,” Villiard told him.

  “How about us?” Toni Piper, the San Francisco FEMA director, asked. “I can field a hundred volunteers to canvas the neighborhoods along the route.” She was the one who had come to Villiard with the offer of the FEMA ops center. She was a dynamic woman with flaming red hair. “Might not turn up a thing, but it can’t hurt.”

  “If something actually develops they could be placing themselves in the middle of it,” Villiard said.

  Toni shrugged. “They’re used to dealing with earthquakes, you know. Buildings falling on their heads.” “Do it,” Villiard said, making his decision. “But make sure that they carry proper IDs. I don’t want to turn this into a three-ring circus, my people arresting yours.”

  “I’ll have them on the street within the hour,” she said.

  Villiard gave her a smile. She was on the ball. She’d had her people organized and standing by even before she’d been given the green light. Maybe she belonged in Washington. He’d have to see.

  The phones on the various consoles were starting to ring now, and the noise level was rising as people began gearing up for the first crucial thirty-six hours. The Olympics would be here for ten days. Just because something didn’t happen tomorrow didn’t mean that they were home safe. But by this time tomorrow night, Villiard thought, the biggest period of danger would be past, the machinery for dealing with the threat would be firmly in place and running and he would be able to breathe his first sigh of relief in two months.

  Thirty-six hours. Please God, he told himself, just get us through the first hurdle and I promise a double novena, all eighteen days of it.

  Candlestick Park

  “Just this way, Mr. President,” Marty Grant, one of his Secret Service agents, said, holding the door. “The skybox has been cleared for you.”

  The team owner’s private elevator took them directly up to the glass enclosure used by the media during sporting events. The cameras and equipment were in place, but the technicians were gone, replaced by four additional Secret Service agents. They’d gone through a lot of hassle to pull this off.

  “This is great,” the President said. “Tell Dick Evers thanks for me. I didn’t want to cause a fuss, but I wanted to see my daughter.”

  “She’s on the track, Mr. President,” one of the agents said, handing him a pair of binoculars. “Out by the right field foul line.”

  The President adjusted the focus and found Deborah right away, her long blond hair streaming behind her unmistakable. A young woman in blue sweats was running with her. At first he thought she was the chief of Deborah’s Secret Service detail, but then he spotted Chenna riding shotgun in a golf cart with Terri Lundgren.

  “Who’s the girl running with Deb?”

  One of the agents also watching through binoculars said something into his lapel mike. “Elizabeth McGarvey, sir.”

  Watching them running together it was clear that Deborah was the superior athlete, though not by much. But it was also clear in his mind the great difference that existed between the two young women. Elizabeth had her entire future ahead of her; varied, interesting, maybe with a husband and children, maybe alone. There would be challenges in her life, problems to overcome, situations to be faced and dealt with. Deborah’s life on the other hand was already determined for the most part. She would be protected, loved and cared for around the clock. She would never marry or have children. The dangers she would face were only because of who and what her father was. And the major challenges she would have to overcome were her mental limitations. Every morning when he got up, President Haynes prayed to God that Deborah would never fully understand her handicap. It was a rotten, selfish attitude, he knew that. But he wanted to protect his only child from all harm, not only to her physical self, but to her self-esteem.

  He lowered his binoculars, and he couldn’t help but think about Sarah bin Laden. Her death was something that he would regret for the remainder of his life. He could clearly understand bin Laden’s rage, and he didn’t even want to think about what he would do in the same circumstances. God help the sorry bastard who ever harmed a hair on his daughter’s head.

  “Too bad the First Lady isn’t up here to see this,” Tony Lang said, watching through binoculars. “Deb’s a heck of a runner.” The First Lady was meeting with three separate women’s groups this afternoon and wouldn’t be coming up from Los Angeles until later this evening.

  “That she is,” the President said. “Marty, would you tell Chenna to bring her up here, and ask Ms. McGarvey if she would join us.” “Yes, sir,” the chief agent on his detail said. He spoke into his lapel mike, listened, then spoke softly again. “Be just a couple of minutes, Mr. President.”

  “Thanks.” The President raised his binoculars and watched as Chenna caught up with them. The two daughters climbed into the back of the golf cart for the trip across the field. It was a madhouse down there; handicapped athletes from all around the world were doing their best, the same as everybody else. Deborah was having the time of her life, and he would not have taken this away from her or from the others, for all the bin Ladens in the world.

  They disappeared down one of the tunnels below, and a minute later the elevator came up. When the door opened Deborah spotted her father, bounded across to him and threw herself into his arms.

  “Daddy,” she cried. She was very strong, and her entire body hummed with an electric joy. He was never more proud of her than he’d ever been in his life. “Did you see me down there?” she bubbled. “Did you see me running?”

  “I sure did, sweetheart. You looked wonderful.”

  “Not awfully good?” she asked, crinkling her nose. “That too,” the President said. Deborah laughed, and he wondered what he had said that was so amusing to her.

  “I’m afraid that it’s a little joke between us, Mr. President,” Elizabeth said.

  “An oxymoron,” Deborah explained.

  “I see,” the President said. “You’re Elizabeth McGarvey?”

  “Yes, sir,” Elizabeth said, and she shook hands with the President. It was clear that she was respectful, but she wasn’t the least bit nervous. She was a lot like her father, the President decided; a heads-up person. McGarvey was stamped all over her. When she matured she was going to be one hell of a woman.

  “Thanks for coming out here and helping out.” “Yes, sir.”

  The President picked up a discordant note. “You don’t think that this is such a hot idea?”

  “No, sir. The games should be canceled immediately, or at least postponed until we bag the bad guy.” Deborah watched the interplay as did everyone else.

  The President suppressed a slight smile, though he was a little irritated. “You are your father’s daughter.”

  Elizabeth’s shoulders squared up a little. “Yes, sir,” she said with a barely concealed pleasure.

  “Do you understand why I can’t do that?”

  Elizabeth started to say something, but then she smiled. “Yes, sir, I believe that I can.” She glanced at the President’s daughter. “My father’ll be here tonight.”

  “Yes. What
about tomorrow?”

  “For me, Mr. President?” she asked. “I’ve already got permission from the ISO to run in the half-marathon, if you have no objections.”

  The President was deeply touched. “I can’t ask you to do that, under the circumstances.”

  Elizabeth grinned and looked at Deborah again. “I know what you mean, Mr. President. I’m probably going to run my legs off trying to keep up with her.”

  CIA Headquarters

  “Start all over again,” McGarvey said in the computer center. Rencke was still at his console and he looked like death warmed over, but his eyes were alive. McGarvey had to wonder if Otto was on something, a stimulant of some sort, but now was not the time to ask. “We’ll start from the assumption that the bomb is already in San Francisco. Probably Candlestick Park. The Secret Service and Bureau are doing everything they can to find it, so we’ll leave that end to them. But if we can get a clue as to how it got here, maybe it’d give us an idea where to look for it.” “Liz is there,” Rencke said. “Right in the middle of it.” “I couldn’t stop her,” McGarvey said. He felt as miserable as Rencke looked. “Maybe she’ll see something that everyone else is missing.”

  “Van Buren is with her. He’ll move heaven and earth to make sure that nothing happens to her. Pretty good motivation, don’t you think?”

  McGarvey laid a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Otto—”

  Rencke smiled a little. “Don’t be, Mac. I’m the uncle, remember? Not the love interest.” His smile broadened. “Besides, Mrs. M. made me an honorary family member. It’d be incest, ya know.”

  “Then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Yeah,” Rencke said glumly. He looked at his computer screen. “It got across the Atlantic either by air or by ship. And from there it got to California by air, by road or by rail.”

  McGarvey’s headache was bad now, making it hard for him to focus. They were missing something, he felt it, and he had felt it all along.

  “So we cover all the possibilities,” Rencke was saying. “It’s like a double-ended funnel with the small ends in Afghanistan and California.” He looked up, but it was obvious that his mind was already elsewhere, chewing on the problem, setting up parameters and methodologies. “Violet,” he mumbled.