She parked, then leaned over and kissed him, making it very clear that she enjoyed his company. He managed to keep from recoiling and actually returned her smile.
“Shall we?” she said, as she popped open her door.
“Indeed.”
They found their way to Lands End Trail, which was far from rustic and perfectly maintained, surrounded by lush green foliage. They followed a winding path, feeling the wind in their faces, enjoying the quiet—which seemed so unusual considering that they were still in the city.
As they passed the USS San Francisco memorial—little more than a flagpole and plaque surrounded by a few large gunmetal-gray pieces of an old warship that, to Haddad, looked like giant Dumpsters—Tally glanced about, then grabbed his arm and steered him toward the edge of the cliff.
“This way,” she said.
The cliff looked quite steep, but they were both wearing clothes for climbing—jeans, flannel shirts, rugged shoes—so Haddad followed her down through the rocks and trees, until they were very close to the water. He could feel the ocean spray on his face as she led him around a small outcropping, then upward again until they found a secluded patch of land just below the cliffside, full of dirt and rock and grass and surrounded by thick green trees.
Glancing around again for prying eyes, Tally moved up to a large grouping of stones gathered near the base of one of the trees. Taking hold of the largest stone, she said, “Help me with this.”
Haddad grabbed on and they huffed and struggled a few moments until they rolled it aside to reveal a crevice just wide enough to squeeze through. The crevice was formed in a slab of cement, rather than earth, and Haddad could see that it was an exposed portion of a larger structure that had somehow been dislodged, possibly in an earthquake.
“This is it?” Haddad asked. “This is the entrance?”
“Only the brave know for sure,” she said, casting a look around to make sure they had not been observed. “You want me to go first?”
Not one to back down from a challenge, especially coming from a ridiculous female, Haddad waved her away then studied the crevice, looking for the best way to proceed. Deciding to go feet first, he sat down and stuck his feet into the opening, then lay on his back and slowly wormed his way downward, shimmying into the hole.
As his feet penetrated the darkness, he felt the ground suddenly give way beneath them, nothing but open air below.
Catching hold of the edge of the slab, he said, “How far is the drop?”
“Not far,” she told him. “Just let yourself go and be mindful how you land.”
Haddad steeled himself and let go of the slab, working his way downward until his legs were dangling in open air. Then, turning his head to the side, he squeezed through and let himself drop.
He landed hard, but on his feet, the sound of the impact echoing against cement walls. Pulling a small flashlight out of his shirt pocket, he flicked it on and found himself inside a narrow concrete shaft. To his left was another shaft with a built-in rusted rebar ladder that led deeper into the earth.
“Watch out,” Tally said, “here I come.”
He shifted his flashlight beam upward as she shimmied through the hole, having a much easier time of it thanks to her smaller size. As he stepped back she dropped down beside him, faltering only slightly as she landed.
Pulling her own flashlight out, she flicked it on and gestured to the second shaft. “What are you waiting for, slowpoke? Let’s do this.”
She stepped onto the rebar ladder and started down.
Haddad followed her, perturbed by her familiar manner. In a way, that was more annoying than her purely biological need for sex. This behavior was learned.
When he got to the bottom of the ladder he saw only her flashlight shining into the darkness. What he saw was a marvel. A long, wide tunnel—big enough to fit a truck through—made of reinforced concrete. There was occasional graffiti spray-painted on the walls, names of other explorers and when they’d been here. Most of it dated several decades ago, which Haddad assumed meant that the place was only rarely frequented these days. Rusted remnants of a rail system with narrow-gauge tracks ran along the ceiling and he could clearly tell that this had indeed been a military bunker. He had seen this kind of setup before, in Egyptian coal mines in the north Sinai. It maximized space by allowing workers to walk under the cars.
The tunnel seemed to go on forever into the darkness.
“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Tally asked.
“More than I imagined,” Haddad said, thinking that if this tunnel led where he believed it did, the final piece of Allah’s plan was indeed in place. “How far does it go?”
“It branches in different directions,” Tally told him. “Some of the old-timers say there are at least eighty-seven thousand square feet down here.” She gestured. “But if you follow this tunnel right here without deviating from the path, it’ll take you straight to the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Amazing,” Haddad said. “And it also leads to the place we spoke about?”
She nodded. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
She took the lead, working her way through the tunnel with the confidence of a regular visitor. They walked through the dark tunnel for quite some time. As they turned to their right, moving into another tunnel, Haddad saw that it opened out into a space that could have been a bunkhouse or a storage supply. They continued past it, took another turn, and the floor began to rise, getting steeper with every step. They crested the rise and made another turn into a tunnel on their right, where it opened into a single rectangular room. There was another narrow shaft at the far side, a rebar ladder leading upward into darkness.
“This is it,” Tally said, stopping.
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Oh, I’m sure. It’s right over your beautiful Egyptian head.”
Haddad’s lips parted in a smile and Tally came toward him with a seductive look on her face. “Happy?”
“Better than you will ever know,” Haddad told her as he grabbed her by the throat and shoved her into the cement wall, her eyes going wide as she slammed against it.
He ripped at her flannel shirt, breaking away the buttons, then gripped her exposed left breast and squeezed as hard as he could, enjoying the look of pain and terror in her eyes.
This was how all infidel whores should be treated, Haddad thought as the woman squirmed under his grip, her features contorted. They needed to be taught their place in the world.
When he was done here, there would be one less pig inhabiting the earth.
Thanks to her, countless others would soon follow.
31
Jack and Sara flew from London on a private charter, a Gulfstream G550 courtesy of Senator Harold Wickham.
Although Jack had been reluctant to get the senator involved before, he knew he had no choice now but to bring him into this mess.
Harold Wickham was a Texas oilman, a hard-line hawk who always put country first and politics last. Jack had met him several years before, when he and two fellow senators were visiting Iraq’s green zone while the search for WMDs was still ongoing. Jack had interviewed Wickham for GNT. Wickham had assured him that the weapons were out there somewhere and it was only a matter of time before they were found.
Off the record, however, Wickham confessed to Jack over a beer that he wasn’t all that confident that they ever would find the weapons. He had become convinced that the U.S. was either victim to sloppy intelligence or—more likely—that the WMDs had been quietly smuggled into Iran.
Neither scenario made the senator happy.
Over the years, Jack had interviewed Wickham many times, and during the days of Truth Tellers, the Texan became a regular panelist who always had insightful observations about the news and politics of the day. The senator leaned heavily right, but had an independent streak that sometimes rankled his fellow Republicans when he refused to vote the party line.
It was a trait that Jack had always admired. But
what had sealed the deal was Wickham’s unwavering support after the public relations fiasco that had destroyed Jack’s career. Wickham had even made the rounds on the news show circuit, trying to rehabilitate Jack’s reputation, but the tone had already been set and the senator was drowned out by the braying of the crowd.
So when Jack saw the message in those encrypted e-mails he immediately got on the phone to Wickham and laid it all out for him, from beginning to end. If either phone was tapped and someone was listening, they were welcome to the information. It was too late to be overly cautious.
Wickham had never been prone to alarm, but Jack heard a slight rise in his voice. “Goddamn it, Jack, are you sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be, Senator.”
“You’re talking about the British government, for God’s sake! How far up the chain do you think this thing goes?”
“It’s hard to say. Possibly all the way to the top. The group I told you about, the one that Copeland was involved with, has been shut down, and all of their databases are fried.”
“So you’ve got no evidence.”
“Just the USB key. But if I’m interpreting those messages correctly, there’s gonna be big trouble at the Legion of Honor on Saturday night.”
“With the President smack in the middle,” Wickham muttered.
“I know it all sounds crazy, Senator, but I think we have a major crisis on our hands. The first thing you need to do is to find out who these e-mails went to. The initials are TDL, which doesn’t help much. It could be a throwaway account. But it’s someone at Allied, which leads me to believe they’ve got a shipment coming in.”
Wickham sighed heavily. “I’m bowled over, Jack. Completely bowled over. If this thing is as pervasive as you seem to think it is, I’ll have to go into stealth mode and tread very lightly.”
“But quickly,” Jack urged. “From what I’ve learned, the Hand of Allah isn’t an organization you want to underestimate. I’m pretty sure their top soldier is already in San Francisco, doing God knows what. A guy named Hassan Haddad. Somebody has to find him and stop him.”
Wickham was silent a moment, then said, “All right, Jack. I’m gonna trust you on this one. Never had any reason not to.”
“Thank you, Senator. Even if I’m wrong, it’s like my father always told me: better to look inside the watch than wait till it stops ticking.”
“Damn straight,” Wickham said. “Now, what I need you to do is get on a jet and get back to the U.S. as fast as possible. I’ll arrange to have a friend’s plane fly you out here to San Francisco.”
“San Francisco? What are you doing there?”
“The Legion of Honor dinner.”
“You, too?”
“The President’s in a nonpartisan mood and invited me to the gala on Saturday night. I decided I’d throw him a bone and make an appearance. So I’ve got personal reasons to hope you’re wrong.” He paused. “Now get on that jet and bring the woman with you. We’re gonna want to hear what she has to say, too.”
The knot of anxiety that had been plaguing Jack ever since he saw those messages was finally starting to dissipate. Wickham wouldn’t let him down.
Jack asked him if he could have some clothes brought aboard. Nothing fancy, just clean. The senator said he’d do what he could.
An hour later, Jack and Sara boarded their flight. It was a Gulfstream 550 that Jack and Sara had all to themselves, attended by a lone flight attendant. The young attendant explained that they had a choice of four separate living areas, each with its own climate control. There was a wireless broadband network and satellite communications should they require it. Abundant sunlight streamed through the fourteen oval windows, illuminating the deep leather seats, each with its own DVD player. With brawny Rolls-Royce turbofan engines, this flying carpet had a range of 6,750 nautical miles and flew at 51,000 feet.
Jack and Sara just wanted to shower and change. There were a stack of boxes from Harrods onboard. Jack slipped into slacks, a button-down shirt, and a black blazer. Sara snuggled into a pantsuit. Jack was pleased that he’d guessed right when he gave the senator her size. She looked like a runway model, only more radiant.
Two of the boxes contained formal wear: a tuxedo for Jack and a gown for Sara. Obviously, the senator intended for them to go to the dinner.
Unlike commercial aircraft, the air was one hundred percent fresh, the sound levels were extremely low, and no sooner had they sat opposite one another on the sofas in the rear cabin than they were asleep. They slept for more than half the flight then enjoyed a leisurely meal from one of London’s best restaurants. The ultralong-range jet took them directly to a private terminal adjacent to San Francisco International. They arrived in the late afternoon and found a limousine waiting for them at the bottom of the steps, a chauffeur standing with the rear passenger door open.
“Welcome back, Mr. Hatfield. Senator Wickham is looking forward to seeing you.”
Jack looked at Sara then glanced into the rear of the limo. “He’s not here?”
“He had another engagement,” the driver said. “You’ll be meeting him there.”
“Where?”
The driver smiled. “At the dog show.”
* * *
Jack had been to the Cow Palace many times in his life. Built on sixty acres of land in 1941 as a livestock pavilion, it was a San Francisco institution—although the only piece of it that actually stood on city land was a corner of the parking lot. The bulk of the property was in Daly City.
A large, indoor arena, the palace had been host over the years to the San Francisco Warriors, the San Jose Sharks, numerous rock concerts, wrestling events, two Republican national conventions, and a number of livestock exhibitions, including the Horse & Stock Show and the Grand National Rodeo.
Jack vividly remembered one trip here as a boy, when the palace was hosting an antiques exhibition. His father had known that a number of watch and clock collectors would be participating, and had brought Jack to show him some of their priceless wonders. They saw glass cases lined with watches from Rolex, Tudor, Lord Elgin, and Girard-Perrigaux, exhibit booths displaying grandfather clocks, Victorians, porcelains, cuckoo clocks, steeple clocks, and a variety of others, the rhythm of their ticking giving great comfort to young Jack.
It was a day he’d never forget.
The Cow Palace was an unimposing gray building from the outside, but once you set foot through the doors and moved past the concourse into the main arena, you were amazed by its size. A large oval, surrounded by high walls with satin curtains and gold and yellow seats, it boasted a capacity of up to sixteen thousand patrons, and often filled every single chair. Lights shone down from a maze of metal rafters overhead, reminding Jack of an alien craft hovering above the earth.
When they entered, Jack and Sara were guided by an usher toward a section near the arena floor. On the floor itself, men in blazers and women in conservative suits led dogs on leashes around a cordoned-off area, as the judges carefully eyeballed them, and the audience applauded. This was an all-breed conformation show, and there were a variety of purebreds in competition, including poodles, Irish wolfhounds, Boykin spaniels, German wirehaired pointers, Great Danes, mastiffs, Rottweilers—from large to small, fluffy to nearly hairless, all magnificent in their own way, the best of the best on display. An Irish wolfhound caught Jack’s attention—a breed he had always admired for its beauty and fearlessness. They were known to hunt wolves in packs. There were also Turkish sheepdogs, their gigantic, spiked iron antiwolf collars displayed beside them as they got to their feet. These Anatolian shepherd dogs hid among the sheep, giving an attacking wolf a huge surprise when they bit into their iron collars.
Jack had long been a dog lover, and seeing a gray poodle parade proudly across the floor made him instantly miss Eddie. But he knew the little guy was in good hands with Tony, and he’d be home soon enough to greet him.
He hoped, he prayed, it wasn’t to say good-bye. That was the thought that ha
d haunted him from the moment they landed—that this city he loved, his home, would be harmed, possibly destroyed, by some lunatic with no regard for anything but his own, sick zealotry.
The usher led them to a pair of seats that were just a few yards from the arena floor. As they approached, Senator Harold Wickham rose from his chair and held out a hand. The men shook warmly. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Wickham’s bodyguard—an athletic, powerfully built guy in a dark suit—watching them closely.
“Good to see you, Jack,” Wickham said. “Even if it’s under such pressing circumstances.”
Jack was immediately comfortable in his presence. “Good to see you, too, Senator.”
Wickham was trim and well built, with thinning silvery hair that framed an angular, green-eyed face. He wore an expensive charcoal-gray suit, and carried himself with what could only be called Republican charm—warm, fatherly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes. The gentle Texas accent completed the picture.
Wickham’s gaze shifted to Sara in the way that most men seemed to look at her when she entered a room—with sudden great interest.
“I take it you’re Ms. Ghadah?”
Sara shook his hand and smiled. “Sara.”
“Well, Sara, it’s a great, great pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry you’ve found yourself caught up in this mess.”
“Completely by choice,” she said. She added quietly, “I want to stop these madmen as badly as you do.”
Wickham smiled. “That’s good to hear.” He gestured. “Have a seat. Both of you.”
Jack glanced at Wickham’s bodyguard, who didn’t seem to approve of either of them. In a way it was fitting. Jack just found out what it was like to be a Muslim under suspicion. Jack noted, curiously, that the bodyguard had what looked like a laser pointer clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket and wondered what it was for. Did he use it as some kind of defensive weapon? Jack certainly couldn’t imagine the guy giving PowerPoint presentations.
All of this vacated Jack’s mind as he and Sara sank into the two chairs next to Wickham. The senator was quiet for a moment, staring out at the show in progress, applauding as others applauded.
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