“Nope, I like mine like I like—”
“Okay, okay, heard that one before,” Sarah chided. “I would like some, please.”
“Sugar?”
“What?” Washington smiled broadly.
“What is with him?” Cole asked.
“Natural early riser,” Sarah said with a half sneer.
“So, aren’t you happy to see us?”
“Nope,” Cole said without expression as he put the half-and-half and a sugar bowl on the table. There were three large cinnamon rolls sitting on bakery tissues atop the torn brown bags. One was covered in chocolate glaze.
“Chocolate one’s for you. So you can get your fix early.”
“Looks great.”
“So, you want to know why we’re here, other than the obvious?” Washington asked.
“Not really. I am looking forward to the cinnamon roll, though.” Cole turned so Washington couldn’t see him grinning. Why was everything so funny? With as little sleep as he got, Cole should be as grouchy as a bear.
Cole heard the clicking of Washington’s briefcase locks. When he turned, he saw him removing a folder with a photo clipped to it. Washington closed the briefcase and put it on the floor next to his chair.
“We got a break. Guy at San Quentin got a little worried about his being upwind from San Francisco and went to the warden after seeing our man Reed’s letter in the paper. And here he is, Richard Edward Shipman the Third, no less.” Washington handed Cole the file.
“He looks like a Disney caricature of a bookworm. What’d he do?”
“Check it out. He’s ready to sing like a canary for some reduced time. Since your little chat last night, I figured you should be there to listen to what he says. See if what he says matches up.”
“Murder, murder for hire, arson, bank robbery, sale of a controlled substance, interstate transport of hazardous materials, weapons violations and identity theft. Anything else?” Cole looked at Washington and then Sarah.
Sarah recited, “He has been underground since the early ’70s. He first came to the Bureau’s attention when he signed up during the last days of the Weather Underground. Dropped out of MIT to join a Maoist group that loved to rob banks. They weren’t revolutionary enough, so he moved on to at least a dozen different groups before his first arrest for illegal arms possession. Got off. It couldn’t be proved the weapons were his—“in a commune we all share,” you know. Mr. Shipman has an IQ of 225-plus and because of his meticulous recordkeeping and volumes of journals, he’s now locked up for a long, long time.” Sarah stopped and looked toward the whistling teakettle.
“How much time can he get shaved off his sentence?” Cole asked, picking up the kettle.
“We can be very generous. I’m thinking at least 100 years,” Washington offered.
“How many is he serving?” Cole asked, pouring hot water into Sarah’s cup and onto the waiting tea bag.
“Three 99-year sentences, back to back. Less time served, of course.”
Cole put the kettle back on the stove. “Is it possible he knows Reed?”
“They certainly ran in the same circles. My main concern is Reed’s claim of having a nuclear device,” Sarah said solemnly.
“Why’s that?” Cole asked.
Washington spoke up. “The money. Sarah’s part of a Russian Mafia task force. Tell ’im, Sarah.”
“Research not in the field,” she began. “Our best data suggests that an entry level backpack nuke can be had for around $300.”
“Million,” Washington added.
“Sorry. A suitcase nuke capable of the kind of damage Reed has threatened is at least $700 million. Where does a radical underground guy like Reed get that kind of money?” Sarah sipped her tea.
“Goods for services?” Cole said, taking a seat.
“Exactly. We know from Western European intelligence reports, that the principal suspects in most of the smuggling cases are ‘renegade,’ according to renegade military officers and civilian nuclear technicians from Russia, Ukraine, and Romania. Most of these characters have been welcomed into the fold by the Russian Mafia. We think there’s a link between the man we’ve been calling ‘Comrade X’ and the sale and distribution of nukes and other weapons that have disappeared since the breakup of the Soviet Union. If Reed is our man, he could easily have moved enough munitions to take a nuke on commission. Or, he could just as easily have made it a condition of the sale. If Reed is our guy, he’s the Donald Trump of terrorists. Connecting all these dots could be a huge break for us. If Shipman talks, we could get an accurate description of Reed, and if we can snag him, we could cripple large parts of the underground trafficking in weapons and explosives.”
“Okay, the ‘100 years off three life sentences’ is funny, but what’s really in it for Shipman?” Cole asked, tearing off a piece of cinnamon roll.
“The warden said that Shipman is freaked out about the possibility of Reed letting off a nuke in San Francisco, so he came to the warden to verify that Reed really did have one. The warden called us, pretty rattled himself.
“So, we’ve got an hour to get up there. We have a team already on their way to get recording equipment ready and secure an interview room,” Washington said as he ran his long, thin index finger around the lip of his mug.
“What’s your gut feeling on this?” Cole asked Sarah.
“I’ve had my nose in the paperwork of this for five years. I really want to believe Reed’s our guy.”
“But—?”
“It’s too easy. This Shipman thing, I don’t know.” She sighed, stirring a half-teaspoon of sugar into her cup.
At the curb in front of Cole’s house was a dark blue Crown Victoria, a man in aviator sunglasses behind the wheel. Without a word, Washington jumped in the front seat. In an uncomfortable moment that seemed to last forever, Cole and Sarah stood on the sidewalk looking at the car. At the same instant, they both reached for the door handle. Sarah’s hand landed on Cole’s and rested for just a moment. He opened the door and sheepishly smiled.
“Share a cab, miss?”
“Thanks,” Sarah said as she slid into the back seat.
As Cole jumped in beside her, his eyes met Washington’s, who turned in his seat and was looking over the top of his sunglasses. Cole hoped Sarah didn’t see the way Washington’s eyes laughed and the grin that showed nearly every tooth in his head.
“Let’s go to prison!” Washington said, turning back around and fastening his seatbelt.
No one spoke until they were at the toll booth at the Golden Gate Bridge.
“I’ve never been on the bridge before.” Sarah broke the silence. “It’s not the color I expected.”
“I ride my bike across two or three times a week,” Cole offered.
“It’s hard to imagine. One of the most famous places on earth and you’re right here, and riding a bicycle.” Sarah gave a delighted little giggle. “It must be wonderful!”
Cole was pleased with her response. “So, where is home Sarah?”
“Georgetown for now. My uncle had a townhouse that his firm owned. When he died two years ago, my aunt said I could use it as long as I wanted. They had no children, and she always spoiled me. Still does, I guess.”
“I understand a pushy guy like Carter becoming an FBI agent, but you don’t quite fit my image of a G-man, uh, person.”
“I grew up in Baltimore. My father’s a rabbi. When I was 12, our synagogue was vandalized and torched. Skinheads, neo-Nazis or whatever you want to call them, trying to make the news. I’ll never forget when the FBI came. My father took me to meet with them and show them the damage. When they were all finished, a tall man in a dark suit and sunglasses came to where I was sitting, mussed my hair, squatted down, and lifted his sunglasses. He looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘Don’t worry, little miss. The FBI always catches the bad guys.’ I never saw him again. But they caught the punks who burned our synagogue, and made them examples under the new Federal Hate Crime laws. First cas
e. The FBI caught the bad guys. After college, the thought of actually practicing law didn’t appeal much to me. I always dreamed of being an FBI agent. So, I was accepted to the Academy, and here I am! More than you needed to know, right? I kind of ramble.”
“No, not at all,” Cole said. He could have listened to her talk all day.
“Problem is, I’m too good at my job—research, analysis, and all—that they won’t give me a field assignment. I love what I do, but I never get out like this!”
“So, how is it you’re out here, then? The bombings hardly connect to the Russian Mob, do they?”
“I was fast asleep when I got the call about Shipman. He’s been on my list for years. An hour later, I was on a plane. Washington picked me up at the airport.”
Cole wanted to keep her talking. The sound of her voice touched something deep inside him, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. They spent several minutes in uncomfortable silence. The sound of Washington’s heavy breathing brought a smile to Sarah’s lips.
“He puts up a good front, but he must be exhausted,” Sarah said softly.
“Have you known him long?” Cole whispered.
“Since the academy. We were classmates.”
“Nice guy.”
“Very. He said he’s been working with you since last week.”
“Picked me up in D.C., then we went to Chicago, and now here.” Cole paused. “Sarah, do your people really think Reed has a bomb?”
“Best guess?” Sarah took a deep breath. “Yes.”
As they sped along Highway 1 in silence, Cole remembered as a teenager watching the news with his father every night before dinner. He saw riots, marches, sit-ins, and the images of a country coming apart. He saw a war in a far-off black-and-white country, soldiers bandaged and bleeding, carried to helicopters, and monks setting themselves on fire for an appetizer. The table talk would be of meatloaf, vegetables, and Vietnam, hamburger, noodles, and Ho Chi Minh. At its worst, Cole’s father feared for the survival of the nation. Cole feared the draft and dying in a black-and-white rice paddy.
In the years since, the radicals and revolutionaries of Cole’s youth grew old and faded away. America grew fat, lazy, and stupid. Then Timothy McVey woke us up. All the Y2K frenzy was for naught, and the Camouflage Militia in the Idaho hills turned out to be nothing to worry about either. September 11th showed the real threat to be radical Islamic fundamentalists with a hatred for America, Jews, Christians, and the Western world in general. Then came Reed. Just like the jets slamming into the World Trade Center, we never saw him coming.
“Mr. Sage,” Sarah said, touching his arm. “My father always taught us that worry won’t make the sun set sooner or the milk uncurdle.”
“Who said I’m worried?” Cole didn’t look at her.
“Washington is snoring, and you’re working your jaw muscles like you’re trying to get pumped up for a Mr. Universe competition. We’re all in this together, and we will win. Trust me. The FBI always catches the bad guys.” She smiled as though she really believed what she was saying.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was—” Cole broke off. “Cole, please, call me ‘Cole.’”
“So, Cole, what do you like to do when you’re not trying to save the world’s most popular tourist spot and riding your bike across the Golden Gate Bridge? And, please, no work stories.” Sarah rolled her eyes, letting him know she thought work was not the making of the man.
“I’m a movie junkie. Can’t ever get enough. I have a granddaughter I love to take for the day and spoil.”
“A granddaughter! How is that possible? How old are you?” Sarah was surprised at herself for her blunt response and raised her hand. “Sorry, over the top.”
“No, no it’s fine. Forty-six on my birthday. My daughter Erin is 24, almost 25. Jenny is four. I don’t know how old Ben is, almost 30, I think.”
“Who’s Ben?”
“Son-in-law.”
“Jewish?”
“Presbyterian.”
“And your wife? Might as well get it all.” Sarah smiled coyly.
“Well, now there’s a story.” Cole wondered how he could tell Sarah about Ellie and Erin. He never told anyone but close friends before.
Over the next 10 minutes, Cole recounted how he had gotten reunited with Ellie and learned that Erin was his daughter. He shared the story with ease and didn’t mind some of the odd questions Sarah asked. He really liked this woman. He loved the way she smiled and frowned at the same time. He loved her directness and honest reactions. He saw in her the strength of the women from the Old Testament, and he hoped that Queen Esther or Ruth looked like her.
“You made that up,” Sarah said when Cole finished.
“I did not!” Cole said, a bit taken back.
“Just kidding! A joke.” Sarah laughed and Washington sat up with a jolt.
“Are we there?” Washington asked with panic in his voice.
“There? We’re on our way back. We didn’t want to wake you.” Cole laughed.
“Funny. I must have dozed off.”
“I guess! We’ve discovered a new level of REM—Racing Eye Movement!” Sarah poked Washington in the shoulder over the top of the seat. “It’s okay, Carter, you needed it.”
“Up on the left.” The driver spoke for the first time.
The driver showed ID at the guard shack at San Quentin’s main gate and was directed to a parking lot next to Gate G. He said they would be met there and to please wait on the sidewalk.
“Solid California granite,” Cole said, pointing to the grey fortress in front of them.
They were met by a tall, thin uniformed guard and a stout man in a pale grey suit. The guard wore mirrored sunglasses and stood ramrod straight. The man in the grey suit had his top button undone and wore a tie that was far too short to cover his belly.
“I’m Bill Conte, Assistant Warden. Welcome to San Quentin.”
Washington stepped forward and shook Conte’s hand. “Special Agent Carter Washington. This is Special Agent Spiegelman, and this is Cole Sage of the Chronicle who has agreed to assist our investigation.”
“I know Mr. Sage’s work.” Turning to Cole, he said, “I read all your columns.”
“Thank you,” Cole said as he shook Conte’s hand.
“Welcome to San Quentin, ma’am.” Conte gave Sarah a quick nod of the head.
They entered Gate G and went through a massive metal door that a guard unlocked. Two more guards sat behind a mesh barrier.
“Please pass your weapons through,” one of the guards said, pushing out a heavy metal drawer.
Washington placed his 9mm automatic in the drawer. Cole watched as Sarah reached inside her jacket and withdrew a large caliber revolver. The drawer slammed closed again with a conclusive thud.
“They’ll be waiting for you here,” the other guard said.
“This way, please.” Conte pointed with his hand palm up to a reinforced door of half-inch wire mesh.
They passed through the door and started down a long hall. The walls were an institutional green, and the tile was a speckled grey. Cole hadn’t realized it, but he somehow got in front of Sarah.
“What’s your favorite movie?” Sarah whispered over Cole’s shoulder.
“The Godfather,” Cole whispered back.
“Mine, too.”
Cole grinned from ear to ear. He wanted to turn around but felt it would spoil the moment. He walked on. They worked their way through a maze of hallways. Cole was reminded of the stories of bunkers in World War II that wound their way underground and into the sides of mountains. As they walked along, they could have been 50 feet underground as far as Cole could tell. They finally turned, and before them was a spacious, modern hub of offices and secretarial desks. The group was escorted into a conference room and seated at a long wooden table.
A very severe looking man of about 30 entered the room. He was in a white button-down oxford cloth shirt and a perfectly knotted red-and-black diamond-checked silk
tie. His trousers were stiff and pressed with razor-sharp creases. He was closely shaven, but it was obvious from the dark cast of his cheeks and jaw line that he had a heavy beard.
“I’m David Abrahamoff. Sacramento sent me over to observe the interview. I want you to know I appreciate the urgency and gravity of the situation. My role here is to protect the Department of Corrections and the State of California from any possible problems arising from your zeal to get your job done. I have no doubt that you’ll conduct yourselves in a manner that will be in strict observance of Bureau regulations. If I can assist in any way, I am more than willing to lend any legal knowledge. Who’s actually doing the interview?”
“I am. Special Agent Carter Washington,” Washington said, reaching out to shake Abrahamoff’s hand. “This is Special Agent Speigelman, and this is Cole Sage, on loan to the Bureau by way of the San Francisco Chronicle.”
“How do you do?” Abrahamoff nodded without smiling at Cole and made no recognition of Sarah at all.
“We have the use of Interview Room 2. Your crew is up and ready and every word will be recorded in duplicate to ensure both our protection and the rights of Mr. Shipman.”
“Why the kid gloves?” Sarah asked.
“Shipman is from very old money that’s connected at the highest levels of government, even though he’s a violent felon with a deep-seated hatred of that very government and is sworn to its destruction. His family still says he was framed. One slip-up on our part and they would, through every means available, fight to get a new trial and eventually his freedom. We don’t want that. Ms. Speigelman, what is your role here today?”
“Observer.” Sarah’s short reply was not the explanation Abrahamoff was looking for.
“I see. Mr. Sage, I’m told you are involved in the investigation.”
“I’ve spoken to Jason Reed, the suspected bomber, twice.” At Cole’s answer, Washington’s eyes darted in his direction. “I’m here to see if any of Shipman’s statements jibe with what Reed said.”
The door opened, and a uniformed guard smiled broadly and said, “He’s here.”
“Good luck, Mr. Washington. I hope you get everything you need.”
[Cole Sage 03.0] Helix of Cole Page 18