This one was a twenty-eight-and-a-half-foot Boston Whaler with a small enclosed cabin and two large Mercury outboard engines of 225 horsepower each. Zhang eyed the Supermarine radar on top of the small bridge area.
“You probably know all about Boston Whalers,” the salesman purred. “Unsinkable. You can cut ’em in half and both halves will float. Safest boat ever made, yes sirree.”
“Will he guarantee that every system in the boat works?”
“Of course,” the salesman replied after Choy put the question. “We’ll take her out in the bay and make sure every single gizmo on this whole boat works like it did when it came from the factory four years ago. GPS, radar, depth finder, bathroom facilities, kitchen stove and refrigerator, both engines, the works. If something don’t work, we’ll fix it and you’ll boat out of here like you were driving a new one. This is our business. All customers completely satisfied, yes sirree, that’s our motto. No complaints. We make things right.” He kept on with the sales patter, but Choy didn’t bother to translate it, which Zhang thought just as well.
They left the marina, which was in an inlet on the south shore of the Chesapeake, heading north. Both engines purred like kittens. Zhang was at the helm. He looked left, to the west, but didn’t see Willoughby Spit. It was too far west, hidden behind a head of land. He looked at the radar, ran the range out to maximum and saw the Chesapeake Bay Bridge to the Eastern Shore, ships, the shape of the shoreline. He brought the range in, played with the gain, brought it in to five miles, adjusted the gain again … It was a nice unit.
He ran the boat flat out on the step with the engines singing and a big wake pouring out behind, then at cruise speed, still on the step, maneuvering tightly. The boat responded like a racehorse. She heeled and ran and bucked the waves as the wind blew whitecaps on the bay and low clouds scudded overhead.
After an hour they turned back for the marina. Just a few miles out, the salesman leaned over the scope and pointed out the radar reflectors on pilings that marked the entrance to the inlet.
Zhang haggled and got the salesman to come down ten thousand dollars on the price. He had plenty of funds in his American bank account, but he didn’t want the salesman bragging to his friends that a couple of Chinese fools paid the asking price, thereby calling unnecessary attention to Choy and himself.
Zhang played hard to sell. He had Choy demand another ten thousand off the price. When they didn’t get it, they left. They came back an hour later, after lunch, and the salesman made free pier space part of the deal.
“You can keep her here at a berth through the winter, if you want, or let us haul her out and put her in storage for spring, whatever you wish. But you will have to have her out of here by May. We’ll need our pier space for inventory.”
Zhang agreed to all that and signed a paper that Choy Lee approved. Actually he signed a stack of papers, contracts, all printed in four copies. Then he wrote a check on his bank for the whole amount plus sales taxes.
When the salesman heard Zhang wanted to pay cash, before he had the documents prepared, his eyes widened. “Don’t get many folks in here who don’t wanta finance, ’less of course they’re in the drug business. By chance, you guys ain’t bringin’ in shit, are ya?”
He laughed at his own wit, heartily, with his big gut pumping up and down. Choy Lee smiled thinly and didn’t bother to translate for Zhang. American humor is an acquired taste, he thought.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Organized force alone enables the quiet and the weak to go about their business and to sleep securely in their beds, safe from the violent without and within.
—Alfred Thayer Mahan
Things were happening. In the next two days Grafton learned that the FBI had found the trail of the Air Force One shootdown team. Good solid police work had revealed their trail from the day they arrived in the United States until they died. Where they stayed, where they ate, telephone calls, even some fingerprints, none of which had yet been identified. The FBI was working with Interpol and police agencies worldwide, all of which seemed to be cooperating to the best of their ability.
Jake had his chauffer and bodyguards take him to the hospital to see Tommy Carmellini.
*
“How come I haven’t heard from you?” Grafton asked me.
“My phone is dead. Or so the hospital staff said. It was in my pocket. Anyway, it’s gone.”
“I saw the doc. He wants to do another brain scan tomorrow.”
“They already did one and said it was fine.”
“They want to do another.”
“Anybody got anything on the guy who blew us up?”
“No. We’ll talk about it when you get back to the office.”
“Where’s my shoes and clothes?”
“Damn if I know. We can get you some clothes. The stuff in your place is a mess. The FBI salvaged what they could, a couple of your guns, a photo album, some of your CDs, a little bit of other stuff, but no clothes. Stuff was impregnated with chemicals and smoke. What are your sizes?”
He talked a little more, didn’t say much. No sympathy. All matter-of-fact. Jake Grafton was no softie, not by a long shot. He looked like he had other things on his mind tonight. What they were he would never tell. He was also the most close-mouthed man you ever ran across. Kinda the opposite of Willie Varner, who was a Grade A gossip and told everything he knew, almost. Willie could keep a secret, if it was important. If he thought it important. But that was a big if.
When Grafton left I lay there in the bed thinking about Anna.
Finally, when the hospital had quieted down and the nurses had checked on me for the last time, I got to thinking about my car sitting in the long-term lot at Dulles Airport without a battery. If some scumbag had stolen the battery, that was one thing. But what if the bomber had stolen it, just to piss me off, giving me the finger, knowing that he had a dynamite bomb rigged in my apartment that was going to kill me dead in just a few hours?
The more I thought about that angle, the better I liked it. A pro would never have done that, but a killer who had a score to settle … well, he just might have.
It was something to think about.
*
When Jake got home Callie asked, “How is Tommy?”
“Depressed. He—” Grafton made a gesture. He couldn’t think of anything else to add.
“When will they release him?”
“They were going to release him tomorrow, but I asked them to hold off a few days. They’ve taken his pants and shoes, so he can’t jackrabbit unless he wants to do it in a hospital gown with no back.”
“I understand.”
“He wants to arrange for a funeral for Anna. I told him there’s no hurry. The police scientists are still working with the remains. Nothing can be done until they release them.”
She nodded. “Better take a shower and change clothes.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Your favorite. Meatloaf, peas and corn.”
“Thanks.” He went to the bedroom to clean up.
*
It was a Tuesday morning when they told me I could go home that afternoon. I called Willie and asked him to come get me. Everything I owned was in the bombed apartment, and I didn’t want to go sift through the rubble, if the cops would let me, which they probably wouldn’t. I was going to have to do some serious shopping. Then the nurse came in and pulled out my IV and put a Band-Aid where it had been.
When Doc Gordon popped in I asked him to bring his pal. It was Willis Coffey.
“Hey guys. As soon as I get some duds I’m outta here. Grafton was supposed to send some over. Tomorrow at eight o’clock, I’d like to have all four of you guys come over to the lock shop.” I gave them the address.
“What’s the deal?” Willis asked.
“Tomorrow. Will you come?”
“Langley know you’re being discharged?”
“Not from me.”
“Well, we’re supposed to be your guardian angels, so
what the hell, we’ll say we’re still on duty.”
“Gonna need Travis and Pablo, too. All four of you guys.”
“Okay.”
The nurse brought clothes that Grafton had sent over the day before. I got into them. Then I looked into a mirror. Still some half-healed cuts that were pretty scabby. The big one on the front of my head, up in my hair, still had stitches. The color of my bruises had mostly faded, and I was only a little sore. Good to go.
When Willie showed up, I rode out of the hospital in a wheelchair. The nurse was sweet, too. Willie brought the lock-shop van around, I thanked the nurse and climbed in, and we rolled.
“Where to?” Willie asked.
“Sears. Need some clothes.”
“You got money?”
“Plastic. My wallet survived the adventure intact. Gonna use the Company credit cards.”
“That’s the spirit. Stick it to Uncle Sam. Ever’body else does.”
After our shopping expedition and a gourmet repast at a Mickey D’s, we went to the FBI headquarters downtown in the Hoover Building. It took me an hour, but I left with my guns and shoulder holster. A bag of ammo because the box split. The shoulder holster had two tears in the stretch material, but it was serviceable. I made a mental note to buy another holster when I had an opportunity.
I spent the night at Willie’s place. He didn’t have a spare bedroom, but he had a couch and a bottle of good whiskey. I checked the pistols, which seemed undamaged, and laid them aside. We drank, laughed, drank some more and finally cried. Then we collapsed.
I woke up in the morning on the floor with a hell of a headache. Willie had aspirin. I took three. Washed them down with coffee.
I got dressed in my new duds, put my Kimber 1911 in the shoulder holster and put it on. Put on a light jacket to cover it up and keep me warm.
When the guys showed up at the shop, I was ready to talk. The headache was almost gone.
“Here’s the deal.” I told them about my dead Benz stranded in the long-term lot at Dulles. “I need to go ransom the thing before the parking tab is more than the car is worth.”
“I’ve seen your car, Tommy,” Travis Clay said. “You may have already crossed the line.”
“Yeah. Gotta install a battery and cables. But there are at least three possibilities. First, and most likely, some scumbag may have stolen my battery because he needed one and couldn’t afford to buy it, and nothing may happen when I start diddling with the car. Second, the car could have a bomb in or under it set to pop when I open the car door or the hood, or try to start it. Finally, the killer may be sitting around watching, and even if there is no bomb, he may try to shoot me.”
They discussed it. “Seems to me,” Pablo said, “that a guy who needed a battery could have found one a little closer to home. Hell, Dulles is twenty-some miles from downtown, a dozen miles west of the Beltway.”
Willie the Wire chimed in. “Kinda hard to figure a poor man goin’ all the way to Dulles to score a battery and payin’ a parking fee while he’s doin’ it.”
After they had chewed the rag a while, Travis Clay said, “What do you want us to do?” No one suggested calling the bomb squad.
I grinned. These guys were all right.
“I don’t want the son of a bitch dead. I want him alive to talk. If he’s a little sore here and there and bleeding a little, that’ll be okay.”
They looked at each other and nodded.
“What are you gonna do with him afterwards? Or them, because there might be a couple of ’em.”
“Nothing you want to know about. What you don’t know, you can’t testify to.”
Everyone agreed with that assessment. America is full of low-information voters, who presumably are ignorant and happy.
Doc Gordon pointed out, “If there is any shooting out there, the cops and Homeland are going to be on us like fleas on a dog.”
“That cuts both ways,” I said. “That’s why I kinda think we’ll find a bomb in the car. However, this guy is nursing a serious grudge. There isn’t a reason on the planet I’m a threat to anyone but him, and that’s only because I saw him. My assessment is that there’ll be a bomb, and he’ll be close by to watch it go bang.”
“Maybe,” Willie said, and the others nodded
“It may be radio controlled,” Travis pointed out. “He may blow it when he sees you, just for the kick. This guy strikes me as having that little piece of the devil in him. He makes his living killing people because he likes the work.”
I got out a sheet of paper and a pencil and began drawing. “Let me make a diagram of the lot and let’s figure out how we’re going to snag this guy … if he’s there.”
*
The director’s suite at Langley had a soundproof conference room beside the director’s office. The room was really a well-disguised high-tech media center, complete with pop-up displays, projectors and screens. It could be accessed from the office or the reception area. It was equipped with the standard long table, a credenza and a small refrigerator filled with bottled water. All the screens and gizmos were hidden behind panels that could be moved with the push of a button. Jake used it when he had more people to talk to than his office could easily seat or when someone needed to make a presentation on the gadgets.
On the credenza he had a model of an A-6 Intruder that he had brought from his old office. He liked to glance at it from time to time because it reminded him of his youth, when his only problems were bombing assigned targets and staying alive. Somehow those concerns seemed easier, cleaner, than the challenges he wrestled with these days.
After his morning chat with Zoe Kerry, Harley Merritt came in with three scientists, who looked around as if they had never been in the head honcho’s office. After the introductions, Jake asked. They hadn’t.
He took his four visitors into the conference room, made sure the door to the reception area was locked and said, “Whatcha got?”
“The paper is Russian,” Merritt said. “The map is apparently computer generated from an Internet database.”
“Okay,” Grafton said slowly, searching faces.
“The lettering appears to be standard computer stuff that the Chinese use.”
“Bottom line?”
“Anyone with access to Russian paper who was savvy on Chinese computer tech could have made this thing.”
Could be right out of Ilin’s shop, Jake Grafton thought, although he didn’t say it.
“If the dot represents the location where a detonation is expected,” the weapons wizard said, “to get the kind of damage represented by the circles, we can estimate the potency of the explosion. If it’s an airburst, at optimum altitude, which would be about nine thousand feet, something like two or three megatons would do it.”
“Surface burst?”
“About ten megatons, more or less.”
The experts launched into technical explanations, which Jake listened to carefully. The stakes were too high for guesses.
When they had all said everything they wanted to say, Jake had one last question for the weapons expert. “Assuming these circles accurately predict the damage a weapon would inflict, how many people will die in the Norfolk/Virginia Beach/Hampton Roads area?”
The expert, a young, prematurely bald Ph.D. who wore thick glasses and was already carrying a paunch, took time to consider. “The area is thinly populated, as metropolitan areas in the United States go. Very suburbanized. There is also a lot of water within those circles. This isn’t New York or Boston.
“That said,” he continued, “I would expect a million people to die instantly, and another million to die of their wounds or radiation poisoning within … say, six months. After that, maybe a hundred thousand will die of radiation poisoning within the next ten years. Finally the deaths will slow to a trickle. But people will suffer from radiation poisoning and die from complications until everyone, even present fetuses in vivo, who is within perhaps a hundred miles of the blast finally passes on eighty or ninety or
a hundred years from now.”
“A hundred miles.”
“Yes.”
“That takes in Richmond and a lot of the Delmarva Peninsula.”
The expert nodded sadly.
*
After Merritt and the wizards departed, Jake Grafton sat staring at the wall, trying to get his mind around mass murder. In the navy he had been trained as a nuclear weapons delivery pilot. The indiscriminate horrors that nuclear weapons could and would inflict if used had had a profound effect on him then. Today, when he was forty years older, the effect was almost devastating. He sat immobile, trying to visualize the implications.
The danger, he knew, was that the problem would become so overwhelming that he would lose the ability to think about it rationally.
How did the Chinese think they were going to avoid war with the United States? Nuclear war? As horrific as an explosion in southeastern Virginia might be, nuclear weapons popping in densely populated Chinese metropolitan areas would slaughter people in the hundreds of millions.
He stared at the circles on the map on the table in front of him. Did they think America lacked the will or ability or guts to retaliate?
An attack on the United States. Any plan for that must have been approved at the very top.
If that was what this map represented. Does it?
What other explanation could there be?
The telephone on the desk buzzed. He picked it up. It was the receptionist. “Sarah Houston to see you, sir.”
“My office. Send her in.”
He extracted himself from the chair at the conference table, picked up the map and went into his office. Sarah was coming through the other door. He waved to the chair nearest the desk, and she seated herself.
“Hey,” he said.
“I have a conversation that you should hear. I put it on your computer.”
Jake didn’t even sit. He bent, typed in some secret passwords, hit the ENTER button a couple of times, got to a screen he liked, then waved to his chair. Sarah switched sides of the desk and addressed the keyboard.
The Art of War: A Novel Page 22