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 mumble
d.
“As soon as you come up with something call me,” McGarvey said.
While Adkins was setting up his transportation, McGarvey went home to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes. He called his wife on his cell phone on the way out to Andrews Air Force Base.
“I’m leaving for San Francisco now.”
“It’s going to happen tomorrow or Sunday, isn’t it?” she said after a slight hesitation.
“I think so, Katy. I can’t stay here.”
“I know you can’t. But listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Come back to me, Kirk. Bring Elizabeth with you. Just come back.”
“Promise,” he said.
M/V Margo West of Los Angeles
Green came onto the bridge out of breath as if he had run up the stairs from the engine room two at a time. He was a mess, Bahmad saw, his eyes were bloodshot, he had a serious five o’clock shadow, his uniform was dirty with blood or oil stains and his complexion was sallow. But the navigation he’d worked out that would take them north to the Farallon Islands where they would turn east into the Golden Gate was already entered into the autopilot. If they did not touch the controls the Margo would sail on her own into San Francisco Bay.
“Something’s happening with one of the engines,” Green said.
Bahmad had been dozing in a chair he’d brought from the captain’s cabin. The afternoon sun slanted at a low angle through the bridge windows. For as far as the eye could see the electric-blue ocean and pale blue sky were clear of all traffic. Only a high contrail marked the passage of a Hawaii-bound jet.
“What’s the problem?” Bahmad asked languidly.
“There’s some kind of a vibration in the shaft bearings. They’re starting to heat up. Lazlo traced it to the port engine. The gearbox may be frying itself. He wants to shut down the engine and take the cover off the heat exchanger.”
“What will that do to our speed?”
“It’ll cut it in half unless we push the starboard engine. But if we do that we could end up a shit creek. Both engines could go down.”
“Is Schumatz an engineer?”
“You don’t have to be a fucking engineer to read a temperature gauge.”
“For all he knows the temperature of the gearbox could be well within normal operating limits—”
“The dial is marked red.”
“And the mechanism could run for a week, perhaps cross an ocean before it had to be tended to. But we need less than twenty-four hours.”
“I’m not going to get stuck out here with a locker full of dead men. I say we take the helicopter and the three of us fly to Los Angeles.”
“We need to get to San Francisco.”
“The ship will make it on its own. It’s even programmed to make the turn at the Farallon buoy.”
“But you said the port engine might not make it.”
“So we won’t be on schedule. I don’t give a shit, do you understand, you fucking wog?”
Bahmad suppressed an evil grin. People were so easy. “Why didn’t Schumatz come up here and tell me himself? Or pick up the ship’s phone and call me?”
“How the hell should I know? Why don’t you go down there and ask him yourself?”
“I think I’ll do just that,” Bahmad said. He got up, turned slightly as if he was heading for the door, pulled his pistol, thumbed the safety catch off and turned and shot Green in the forehead at a range of less than five feet.
The first officer’s head snapped back, his arms shot out and he was flung to the deck, killed instantly:
Bahmad cocked an ear to listen to the sounds of the ship now that Green had stopped complaining. They were still making fifteen knots, which would put them in the Golden Gate around ten in the morning, two hours before the runners were expected to be on the bridge. Everything was going as planned.
He stuck the Glock 17 in his belt and headed down to the engine room. From what he personally knew about the Sulzer diesel engines there was nothing to worry about. As long as they had sufficient fuel and air they would run practically forever. It would take a catastrophe to stop them. Such as something a motivated man might do.
His step lightened. First he would take care of Schumatz, then he would get something to eat and finally get a few hours’ sleep. The radar’s proximity alarm would warn him of any impending obstacles in their path. He needed to be alert. Tomorrow promised to be a long, interesting day.
Golden Gate Bridge
It was ten o’clock already and the lights of the city were on. Traffic on the bridge was heavy, made more difficult for the motorists because a half-dozen highway patrol cars blocked one lane for fifty yards at the crown of the span. McGarvey stood at the rail. He’d had a hell of a time convincing Dick Yemm to stay behind, but he had more freedom of movement without a bodyguard. He’d already managed to check out the security arrangements at the park and on the bridge, though he’d missed Liz who’d gone with the President’s daughter to a welcoming ceremony in the Olympic Village.
More than three hundred city, state and federal law enforcement officers aided by Golden Gate Transit people were searching the bridge as unobtrusively as possible. But passing drivers couldn’t help but notice so they slowed down to gawk, which further snarled traffic.
An unmarked Chevy van with federal government plates came up and stopped in the far right-hand lane behind a GGT maintenance truck. Jay Villiard got out and came over.
“How does it look?”
“Hello, Jay.” McGarvey said. They shook hands. “If you can’t search the city you might as well search the bridge.”
“That’s what we figured.” He bummed a cigarette from McGarvey. “Lousy habit. Maybe I’ll give them up again next week.”
“How’d you do it last time?” McGarvey asked. He was ready to pull the pin himself, mostly because Kathleen had taken up smoking because of him, and he hated to see her with a cigarette in her hand.
“Cold turkey. It’s the only way. Tried and true,” Villiard answered. “Why is it that I don’t think you brought good news with you. God only knows we need some, because we haven’t turned up a thing.”
“We thought we had a pretty good lead in New York,” McGarvey said, and he briefly explained what had happened. “We’re back to square one, right here.”
“The President won’t quit.”
“I know, I’ve tried, and so has Murphy.”
“Bin Laden won’t quit either,” Villiard said glumly. They leaned against the rail watching the night deepen. “I met your daughter; pretty sharp kid. My people are already in love with her.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“Are you pulling her out?” Villiard asked.
A genuine pain stabbed at McGarvey’s heart. “No,” he said. “She wouldn’t go if I ordered her out anyway.” He turned to face Villiard. “You have kids, Jay. Do they always listen to you?”
Villiard laughed. “I have a fourteen-year-old daughter who hasn’t listened to me since she was ten. I was trying to tell her something, you know, something to help. Anyway, when I was all done she put a hand on her hip, raised an eyebrow, and said: ‘Obviously.’” Villiard laughed again. “I told my wife that maybe we should just kill her and make a new one.”
McGarvey had to smile. He knew the feeling. He flipped his cigarette over the rail, then looked up at the towers soaring high overhead, the cable bundles tracing perfect arches. “If I were going to do it, this would be the place.”
Villiard followed his gaze. “It’d be a triple play if he could take out the President, the President’s daughter, and the bridge. Not to mention your daughter and a couple of thousand runners and spectators.” He paused. “There won’t be a nonsecure aircraft of any type within five miles, or a boat we don’t know about within three miles. No cars, trucks or buses. Nobody on foot with any kind of a package bigger than a purse. Every television van will be assigned a cop. We’ve searched the bridge and everything around it three times and
we’ll do it twice more before the race tomorrow. We’ll have sharpshooters in the towers, Coast Guard helicopters overhead, Coast Guard cutters in the water on both sides of the bridge, and even though you’re not supposed to be able to launch this thing on a missile, we’ll have men watching every place from where a missile could be launched.” He shook his head. “Goddammit, we’ve got it covered. Just like in the textbooks. Just like every time before. Tried and true. It works. But I’m real scared.”
“It’d have to be pretty close to take the bridge out,” McGarvey said.
“A plane right overhead or a boat under the span, we’ve got them covered.”
“Someplace on the bridge.”
“We’ve searched every square inch of it from both ends and top to bottom.”
“How about inside the concrete?” McGarvey asked. “Have there been any repairs in the past six or eight weeks? New concrete poured on the roadways, maybe in the piers? Someplace the bomb could be buried?”
A startled expression crossed Villiard’s face. “I never thought of that,” he said softly. He was the expert and he’d been caught flatfooted. It showed in his eyes. “I’ll get on it right now.” He started to go, but McGarvey stopped him.
“Better put some divers in the water around the base of the towers too. Bin Laden’s chief of staff is an inventive bastard.”
Villiard nodded tightly. “Anything else?”
“Not for now.”
“I’m going to get my people together. We’re going to rethink this thing from the get-go.”
“It’s not the stuff that we think of that gets me worried,” McGarvey said.
“Yeah,” Villiard replied. “It’s the shit that we don’t think about.” He studied McGarvey’s face. “Where you going to be?”
“Around.”
“Sleep?”
“Later.”
“I know what you mean,” the Secret Service agent said, and he left.
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