Soon (6 page)

On the way back to his office, Paul swung by the division lab. It was presided over by Trina Thomas, a vivacious redhead from the South who seemed to enjoy flirtatious banter as much as Paul did. Though she was married, Paul always thought it was the fact that they worked together that kept them from taking the next step.

“Dr. Stepola!” she said. “I’ve missed you. It’s been far too long since you’ve honored us with a visit.”

“Only the most pressing business could have kept me away.”

“Mexico, wasn’t it? And what do you have for us? Some precious artifact?”

“A personal favor actually. For Jae.”

“Is she ready for me to take you off her hands?”

“Afraid not. No, it’s more of a—it’s a genealogy project, I think. She came across some document and wondered if its age could tell her who in her family produced it.”

“I’ll run it this afternoon—for a price. Lunch?”

“That’s a price I’d be glad to pay. But not today, unfortunately. I’m leaving on assignment tomorrow.”

“I’ll collect when you get back.”

Jae was guardedly impressed with Paul’s new job. “I’m glad it’s stateside. But since you just got home, I can’t say I’m excited you’re leaving again.”

“Don’t start, Jae. I know what you’re worried about, and I’m sick of defending myself. If I had a desk job, you’d still be sure that I was seeing another woman.”

“Paul, when you get back, do you think we should go to counseling?”

“You go. You’re the one who’s paranoid.”

5

PAUL’S PLANE TOUCHED DOWN
at San Francisco International just after noon on Saturday. His favorite city had grown from around seven hundred thousand people to more than a million during his lifetime alone.

He took a cab north on 101, which now ran seven lanes in both directions and looked out over the deep blue waters of the San Francisco Bay. Since the war, the skyline had bloomed with towers built to withstand the occasional tremors that still plagued the area. The glass O-shaped Pacifica Life & Casualty Building was a marvel, and the side-by-side regional and municipal centers—one shaped like an infinity symbol and the other replicating an ankh—drew photographers from all over the world. Downtown San Francisco, rebuilt following residual tsunami damage, boasted replicas of its quaint and colorful row houses. Even the cable cars had been restored.

Paul checked into the Presidio Hotel, equidistant between the reconstructed Palace of Fine Arts and the National Cemetery in the new Golden Gate Park. As he settled into his room, Paul felt something new and strange, something he hadn’t experienced in his overseas assignments. There had been nervousness, sure, excitement, anticipation of the unknown. But never a sense of real danger. It was thrilling.

A ping from the flat screen in the wall indicated a message. Paul aimed his remote control at it and called up a note from Larry Coker, an operative in the local bureau office supervising the next morning’s operation.

“Looking forward to meeting you. Pick you up for dinner at six. Reservations at Smyrna’s Sole Emporium. Call me if you don’t like fish. We’ll go somewhere else.”

Paul was a steak man, but he enjoyed fish, especially in San Francisco. The no-nonsense message seemed to confirm what he’d heard about Coker—that he was a real take-charge guy. He was younger than Paul and had been a Navy SEAL. Paul felt sure they’d hit it off.

Coker pulled up in an agency sedan a minute before six and seemed pleased that Paul was waiting outside. He burst from the car and vigorously shook hands. He had short blond hair and red cheeks, stood about six feet, and was thick and solid. Paul guessed 225 pounds. “Hey, man—sir—I’ve heard great things about you,” Coker said.

Paul smiled. They took 101 south, and when they got near the rebuilt Fisherman’s Wharf, Coker began pointing out all the areas of interest, from the memorial to the destroyed Maritime Museum to the fully computerized interactive Fort Mason, and from the holographic Art Institute to the historic Cable Car Barn. He talked a hundred miles an hour, and Paul didn’t have the heart to tell him that he probably knew as much about San Francisco as his host did.

“You know there aren’t any fishing boats docking here anymore,” Coker said. “They process the catches on freezer boats and deliver them directly to retailers and wholesalers.”

“I know.” To Paul, a city located between the Pacific Ocean on the west and San Francisco Bay on the east needed no promotion. It had once consisted of forty hills and was now made up of twenty. Coker insisted on driving up and down both Russian and Nob Hills, exulting about the sights, but still got them to the Wharf and Smyrna’s in time for their reservation.

They were seated in a secluded corner, and Paul loved the ambiance—an old-world, dark-wood, linen-and-silver air of class. He could hardly believe Coker had chosen such an elegant restaurant. Maybe there was more to him than met the eye.

Over dinner they compared notes on their time in the military, with the usual jocular army/navy rivalry. “Now about tomorrow,” Coker said finally, spreading papers on the table so Paul could get the right perspective. “These are aerial and land photos of the Polly Carr residence. That’s her code name.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Does it, like, mean something?”

Paul filled him in briefly.

“Weird. Wonder why they picked that.”

“Not sure,” Paul said. “Maybe because these people are asking for trouble, like Polycarp.”

“I guess,” Coker said. “Anyway, I’m gonna drive you by there tonight, give you the lay of the land. The neighborhood’s mostly deserted, so we shouldn’t have trouble with nosy nellies.” He pointed to the aerial diagram. “We’ll park nondescript vans here and here. You’ll be with my squad and me in this one, about a block and a half south of her place on Twenty-fifth. You’ll have a clear view of the house and people coming and going, and we have a monitoring card for you that will serve both as a tracking device and a relay of the audio from the bug inside the house to your molar receivers.”

“Bug’s already planted?”

“Two days ago.”

“Great.”

Coker gathered up the papers and packed them away. “If you don’t mind, I want to go in with my people on the first wave, since we’re used to working as a team.”

“Makes sense,” Paul said, disappointed.

“There’ll be more than enough action,” Coker said. “We’re gonna have us some fun!”

“You expect resistance?”

Coker cocked his head. “Hey, the law’s crystal clear—meeting to practice religion is forbidden. If they were unsure about it, they wouldn’t be sneaking around in the dark.”

“Any evidence of arms?”

“My instructions are to roust a widow and her group of anti-government plotters. I don’t think we can just knock and expect them to come quietly. But if you’re thinking ‘excessive force,’ don’t worry. I got a team chomping at the bit, but everything will be by the book.”

“I’m not worried. And the word’s
champing
.”

“Huh?”

“The correct term is
champing
at the bit.”

Coker laughed.
“Polycarp, champing
. . . that’s another difference between the Army and the Navy. No vocabulary class in the SEALs, man.”

“Sorry, I’m a bit of a wordsmith.”

“I know, Professor. And tomorrow you’ll get to see what SEAL training can do. My team and I will have these perps subdued quicker than you can say ‘Delta Force.’ Then you can play Scrabble with them, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

Coker arrived at four the next morning in a plain white van with tinted windows. The damp cold cut through Paul, despite his hat, heavy overcoat, and gloves.

Coker rolled down the passenger-side window to let Paul know it was him, and when Paul climbed in, he noticed Coker wore navy from head to toe, including calf-high boots. His thick belt bore several compartments for everything from ammunition to Mace to handcuffs to a fifty-caliber Glock Century Three.

“Greet half our team,” he said as he drove west on 101 toward Highway 1. “Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Paul Stepola, our adviser from the Chicago office.”

Four men and two women, all dressed like Coker and carrying Bayou Solar assault rifles, called out variations of “Good morning, Doctor” and “Good luck, sir.” No one spoke further as Coker headed south on 1, west on Geary Boulevard, then north on Twenty-fifth Avenue, stopping short of California Street. There he cut the engine and affixed night-vision goggles to his head, handing a second pair to Paul and lowering his voice so his people couldn’t hear.

“The other half of the team is in position with visual contact of the home. Two unit leaders, including myself, and twelve SWAT team members.”

“How many attendees are we expecting?” Paul said.

“Most we have been aware of is twenty-three, sir.”

“Paul.”

“Here you go, Paul.” Coker handed him what looked like a credit card with an embedded circuit board, which he had aligned with the frequency in Paul’s molar-implanted receivers.

“You’ll be able to hear all our transmissions, as well as the ones from the bug in the house. And it also tells us where you are, no matter what.”

The fidelity was amazing. Through the night-vision goggles Paul detected no movement between them and the dark house. He heard an animal—probably a dog—padding around, whining quietly. He also heard the hum of what he assumed was the refrigerator and the tick of a clock.

About half an hour later he and Coker looked up when they heard more noise in the house. “Has to be the old lady,” Coker said. “We’re sure she lives alone.”

The dog came to life when a light came on, and Paul heard running water as the woman fussed in the kitchen. She was clearly talking to the dog and filling water and food bowls.

Several minutes later, Coker said, “Bogey, three o’clock.” Paul smiled at his calling the first visitor by the same term he would use for incoming enemy aircraft.

A tall, slight man in his early twenties approached the house. He wore modest-to-cheap clothes and a jacket too light for the weather. His hands were in his pockets.

The man knocked lightly three times on the front door. When the woman opened it, he said, “He is risen.”

She responded, “He is risen indeed.”

“Sounds religious to me,” Coker said.

Paul recognized the phrase as an early church greeting, referring to Jesus.

What made two such ordinary, unprepossessing people—an old woman living with a dog in a ramshackle house and this nondescript shabby dresser whose very bearing seemed timid—join a forbidden group, given the danger? Neither seemed particularly bold or visionary or dangerous.
They’re not firebrands,
Paul thought.
They’re losers with empty lives they try to amp up with
make-believe and the hope of some glorious reward after death. Secret
meetings are their only excitement.

But that didn’t explain Andy Pass, who had a family, the respect of his colleagues, and an important, fulfilling career. And what about Paul’s own father? He flushed at the thought.

“See something?” Coker said.

“No. These people make me sick. That’s all.”

Over the next fifteen minutes a score of visitors showed up, singly and in pairs. Paul noted a middleaged couple, probably the oldest aside from the hostess. He guessed them to be in their late fifties. The man was thick and walked with a limp. The woman carried a large purse and appeared to be wearing a white uniform underneath a tattered coat.

“Could be armed,” Coker said.

“Yeah,” Paul said. “Bonnie and Clyde. What a couple of sad sacks.”

“House could be a bomb shop, for all we know.”

“Well, I think we’re all here now,” the elderly woman’s voice said.

“All right!” said Coker, reaching for his helmet.