The Rook (22 page)
Authors: Steven James
“But we’ve already done that.”
“You have?”
“Si. San Diego is one of the world’s most important seaports and military hubs, so MAST regularly does sweeps through the city to look for radioactive isotopes, for any evidence of terrorist activity.
In the past we’ve identified traces of cesium-137, but mostly that’s from the medical research facilities here.”
“Cross-check the records.”
I knew I was getting tense, and I think she could hear it in my voice because it was a long moment before she said, “All right. I’ll let you know what we find.”
We ended the call. I looked at the clock.
5:37 p.m.
Lien-hua Jiang watched the video of Cassandra over and over again, each time pausing at different places. At last, she opened her notepad and wrote, “It isn’t the killing that excites him the most.
It’s the power, the high he gets from holding another person’s life in his hands. And he wants to make that feeling last as long as possible.”
She paused. Yes. Cassandra’s terror would go on for hours as she watched the water slowly rise around her—all the while knowing she couldn’t escape. And he would be enjoying every minute of her suffering. Lien-hua put her pen to paper again, “Once the victim is dead, the thrill is over, so killing once isn’t enough for him. He wants to experience it again and again. That’s why he’s taping her death.”
When Lien-hua closed her eyes, she saw the face of a woman staring lifelessly through the water. A face pale, and shaded with death. She’d seen a face like that floating in the water once.
A long time ago.
She opened her eyes, rewound the video to the beginning, and started watching it again.
I felt the familiar tug in my heart: dad vs. FBI agent.
I needed to pull away and be a dad for a couple minutes. I tried Tessa’s number. No answer.
Of course not.
I was a little worried about her, so I punched a few buttons on my cell phone to see if I could find her. Then I stood to stretch and clear my head, walked around the room twice.
When I took my seat and looked at my screen, my video chat icon was flashing. I clicked it and Terry’s face appeared. “There you are, Pat. Good news. The video of Cassandra isn’t on the Internet.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“Angela’s team scanned the web with their latest image-based search engines. We don’t have to type in text anymore, just grab an image and go. It’s like worldwide facial recognition. Web looks clean.”
“Good. What else?”
“We deciphered the encrypted files. It’s mostly all shark research, something about the ampullae of—”
“Lorenzini.” I was getting antsy. “I got that too. Anything else?”
The clock on the wall.
5:49 p.m.
“Well, there’s a Project Rukh and some guy named Dr. Osbourne.
I looked him up. He works for Drake Enterprises. First thing we thought—maybe the kidnapper, right? We did some checking on him, though, he’s speaking at a convention in Boston. Been there for the last three days. Won’t be back in town till tomorrow.”
I thought through flight times and time zones and realized he couldn’t have flown to San Diego and then back to Boston during the night to be part of the abduction. But I wrote down his name.
I could follow up on him later. “What’s Project Rukh, Terry? Do we know?”
“Looks like a DARPA project, although the Pentagon is pretty guarded about its defense contracts, and my intel is patchy. All I could come up with is that Drake Enterprises landed the contract.”
Drake Enterprises again.
So, Cassandra did have a grant from the government after all.
In my mind I flew through a few of the things I knew about DARPA: theoretical weapons research—technology that’s still twenty to fifty years out, sometimes they subcontract weapons systems to civilian organizations. But why an aquarium? Why a biotech firm? “Terry,” I said, “DARPA. Talk to me. Quick summary.”
“They’re way out on the lip, Pat. If I wasn’t here I’d be there.
NASA grew out of DARPA, so did modern computer operating systems, artificial intelligence, voice recognition …” He must have been a bigger fan of DARPA than I thought. He continued to rifle through his list: “Hypertext, virtual reality, laser technology for space-based defense systems, submarine technology, and the Internet—all DARPA babies.”
For just an instant I felt like saying that I thought Al Gore invented the Internet, but this wasn’t the time to joke around. “So, what are you thinking?”
“DARPA doesn’t just subcontract the big projects like jets or armored vehicles anymore. They use private firms to develop lots of smaller, high-tech items.”
I thought back to my conversation with Maria at the aquarium.
“What about killer ray guns?” I asked.
Silence. “What’s going on here, Pat? This isn’t just an abduction case, is it?”
That’s when the door banged open and Ralph burst in. “Hunter struck,” he said. “There’s been another fire.”
5:53 p.m.
“Terry,” I said. “Keep looking into the DARPA connection. I’ll talk to you later. I have to go.” I closed my computer and directed my attention on Ralph. “Casualties?”
“Unknown.”
“Dirty bomb?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
I slipped my computer into its bag and gathered my notes. “How do we know it’s Hunter?”
“Aina can explain when we get there.”
“So where is it?”
“You’re not gonna believe this: Coronado Island. One of the buildings on the Navy SEAL Amphib Base. They call it Building B-14.”
I was already halfway to the door. “Game on.”
General Cole Biscayne paced to the window and stared into the night. Sickly moonlight wandered over the hills surrounding his West Virginia home.
He’d seen someone out there in the yard last week, just on the edge of the tree line. He knew he had, even though he couldn’t be absolutely sure, even though the military police he’d brought in to investigate the area hadn’t found anything. Still, Cole knew he’d seen someone. And he had a feeling he knew who it was.
Sebastian Taylor.
Years ago they’d worked together in the CIA, back when Cole served as the handler for a team of covert agents in South America.
He’d trained Sebastian himself. Honed him into one of his unit’s top operatives. But since Taylor had disappeared last October, the ex-assassin had contacted the general twice and made it quite clear that he blamed him for his fall from grace. Cole had done everything in his power to track down his protege.
And had failed.
Cole scanned the yard again and saw nothing unusual, nothing out of the ordinary.
He was turning away from the window when the dogs began to bark.
47
6:06 p.m.
1 hour 54 minutes until Cassandra’s deadline Lien-hua, Ralph, and I skidded to a stop in front of the huge, slithering blaze that had all but consumed Building B-14. The ocean stretched like a dull smear of oil in the background.
A cluster of military personnel, firefighters, and even a smattering of what appeared to be privately hired security detail scurried around the burning building. Thankfully, the fire’s location on the amphib base precluded a crowd of civilian onlookers.
Ferocious bursts of flame crackled and flared from the building, and the air all around us was scorched hot with soot and ash. The rigid heat from the flames kept us at a distance, but I caught sight of the Navy Fire Suppression Unit doing their best to direct their streams of water at the flames licking out of the windows. They aimed four hoses at the heart of the building, but in reply, the fire just ate the roof and roared toward the night sky.
Austin Hunter had made it out of the building just in time.
He crouched low, scanned the area. Clear.
Now, to get off the island and save Cassandra.
General Biscayne crept down the stairs and peered between the curtains, the revolver he always kept under his pillow gripped tightly in his hand.
A car in his driveway.
A man walking up the stone path to his door.
Military uniform.
Not Sebastian Taylor.
But who?
Then Cole recognized him: Sergeant Bier, one of his assistants in the Department of Defense. Cole lowered his gun. Opened the door just as Sergeant Bier was about to knock.
The sergeant saw the gun in Cole’s hand and froze. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, of course. What is it, Sergeant?”
“Project Rukh, sir.” The sergeant kept his eye trained on the general’s gun. “There’s a problem. There’s been a security breach in Building B-14.”
“What?”
“A fire. I was told to deliver the message in person. They believe the fire was intentional, sir.”
The general felt his gut tighten.
It had to be Victor Drake. It had to be.
So, Drake wanted to play it like this, huh? In order to hide his failure in completing the project, he decides to burn down the research facility that the military was providing him. Then he could just use the fire as an excuse for not delivering the device.
It sounded exactly like something a spoiled, self-centered billionaire would try.
OK. You want to play hardball; it’s time to play hardball.
“Contact the members of the oversight committee,” General Biscayne said as he spun away from the door. “And arrange for an immediate flight to San Diego. It looks like I’ll be meeting with Mr. Drake a day early.”
6:24 p.m.
1 hour 36 minutes until Cassandra’s deadline Dusk was over, night was here.
It took me a few minutes to locate Lieutenant Mendez, but finally I found her talking with one of the base liaisons. They’d spread out the blueprint of the building on the hood of an MP’s car.
I hurried to her. Just as I arrived, she finished her briefing with the senior chief petty officer and then gave me a quick rundown: No known casualties. The base had received an anonymous bomb threat two hours before the fire. They’d cleared Building B-14, swept for explosives, found none, and were just about to let the staff return when the fire alarms went off. Because of the bomb threat, there was some confusion about whether to send in the bomb squad or the firefighters. Ten minutes later, it didn’t matter. The building was in flames, and all they could do was try to control the blaze.
“He was really quite clever,” Aina said. “He got everyone out of the building, plus he created enough confusion to give the fire time to ignite.”
“You’re sure it’s our guy?”
“Pretty sure.” She drew my attention to the blueprint. “Fire started here, on the east wing, near the A/C center.”
I immediately saw why she thought it was our arsonist. “Fits the pattern.”
“Si.”
I traced my finger along the blueprint. “Just like the first fourteen fires, he used vents and airflow to direct the blaze.”
Aina picked up on my train of thought. “The building’s main air-conditioning vents blew directly on the fire, feeding it a steady stream of air, here—”
“Creating a giant blowtorch that shot the fire through the building’s air ducts. Building B-14 didn’t have a chance.”
“You think like an arsonist,” she said.
“No,” I said, turning to face the fire. “If I did, I’d know why he chose this building.”
Creighton Melice grabbed the new cell phone he’d bought half an hour ago. Time to leave the warehouse and meet with Hunter to make the exchange.
Well, to be more accurate: to get the device. There wasn’t going to be any exchange. There was only going to be a dead ex-SEAL.
He didn’t want to worry about Cassandra somehow escaping, so he double-checked the security of the cotter pins that locked the metal bars in place at the top of the tank. The pipes passed through holes drilled into the glass, and since the cotter pins that secured the pipes were outside the glass, there was no way for her to get out, even if she were able to break the chain.
“See you soon, Cassandra,” he called. “I hope I make it back in time to say good-bye.”
The water was up to her chest. Cassandra shouted at him, a muted, hollow cry, and spit at the glass. Creighton waited a moment to watch the saliva slide into the water, and then he left her, locked the warehouse door behind him, and stepped into the cool San Diego night.
While Lien-hua went to speak to some base personnel about the nature of the bomb threat used to clear the building, I met with Aina and Ralph to try and narrow down where Hunter might be hiding.
“He could be in the crowd,” Ralph said.
“We thought of that,” said Aina. “We’re checking on everyone who’s here.”
“No,” I said. “Not this guy. He leaves. Remember? The trolley system. He likes to disappear fast, and he knows how to do it.
He’s not going to stick around. Besides, he needs to get to shore.
He wants to save Cassandra.”
I tried to figure out what the best entrance and exit routes would be.
How would I get off Coronado Island?
Obvious choice: drive. Either the Coronado Bridge or the Silver Strand, the narrow strip of land that leads from the island to Impe-rial Beach. Aina seemed to read my mind. “The military is treating this as domestic terrorism,” she said. “They’re stopping all traffic leaving the island.”
“Boats?” I asked her.
“Already on it. We took a few people in for questioning. It doesn’t look like anything though.”
I heard the sound of a chopper and noticed a news helicopter hovering above the shore of the mainland. Hmm. It was possible.
“See if there’s been any base air traffic in the last hour. Choppers especially.”
“You serious, Pat?” said Ralph. “You think he flew out?”
“Just trying to eliminate the possibility.”
Aina spoke into her walkie-talkie. “No air traffic,” she said.
“Not in the last two hours.”
“Then there’s only one option left,” I said.
“What’s that?” she asked.
I pointed to the dark ocean. “He swam.”
Austin Hunter threw his arm out of the water and grabbed the edge of the dock. It had taken him longer than he expected to get to shore, but he knew there would be too much attention drawn to this fire to get off the island any other way.
After he’d hoisted himself onto the dock, he slipped out of his swim fins and then yanked off his face mask and snorkel. Normally he would have used a scuba tank and a rebreather to eliminate bubbles, but tonight he’d needed to pull something with him.
In his black hybrid wet suit he doubted anyone passing by could see him, but he needed to make sure. He gave the area a quick visual.
OK.
Clear.
Austin glanced at his waterproof watch: 1839 hours.
He needed to hurry; he was supposed to have checked in nine minutes ago.
The rope that was tied around his waist tugged at him, telling him that the five-foot-long inflatable sack containing the device was floating past him toward shore. Before it could bump into any of the dock’s pilings, he pulled the floating waterproof bag toward him, and carefully lifted it onto the dock.
