Whirlwind (21 page)

“But Sam told me, they had prom… promised to leave Whirlwind alone.”

A promise? From the Chinese? What the blazes is that supposed to mean?

Charlie still knew next to nothing. He framed his next sentence carefully, choosing words that Henkes could misconstrue. “Not everyone keeps their word. People break their promises.”

Henkes reddened. “Your pc … pc … people didn’t hold up their end of the bargain? Is that what you’re say … say … saying? That the Chinese hired some Russians to steal Whirlwind because you broke the deal?”

A reciprocal agreement. The White House gave the Chinese something, and the Chinese gave the White House something. Charlie turned both of his palms up, the universal gesture of open candor. “Now I didn’t say that, Mr. Henkes.”

“But you’re imp… imp… implying it.”

“Not at all. I might be implying that Dr. Wing cut a side deal “

“Bullshit!” No stutter in his voice, Henkes suddenly was furious. “He’s your damned man, personally vouched for by the national security advisor!”

Sam? What the hell? Christ, I’m out of my depth here!

“Not that I objected. Dr. Wing is a brilliant scientist. Whirlwind wouldn’t have succeeded without him. But more to the point, he hates the Reds, hates them with every bone in his body. Yes, he made a mistake by going to the mainland to recover his son. But, no, he made no deals, promised no promises. I know that, and you know that. How the hell many lie detector tests did you give him anyway?”

For a moment Charlie thought about explaining what an utter crock polygraphs were a hocus-pocus technology in the same league as perpetual morion machines. Instead, baffled by Sam’s personal involvement with Sangin

Wing and needing badly needing more information, he tried to calm Henkes down. “I apologize. I trust you understand why I had to raise the issue.”

Henkes was in no mood for apologies. “If the Chinese are behind this, then the only question you should ask is what promise the White House has broken. I don’t know what agreement Sam negotiated. Quite frankly, I didn’t want to know and I still don’t want to know. The one thing on my mind was getting a vitally important employee out of a dangerous situation.”

Nuts! This guy is out of the loop. Whatever is going on, it’s between Sam and the goddamned Chinese. “Understood. Consider the matter closed. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a few other questions for you.”

The world contains few sights as glorious as San Francisco seen from north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Coming out of the Waldo Tunnel, Charlie drove into light like liquid honey, the bridge luminous, a hue such as Tintoretto might have used. Beyond its breathtaking towers lay that white city whose gossip-laureate had immortally nicknamed “Baghdad by the Bay.”

Four hours south, Charlie thought. Not that far a drive. You go down a coast that’s God’s grandest sculpture, turn onto a little back road, and there you are. There we were. Me and Mary. We’d start out here, and we’d wind up there, and maybe that’s what I should do after all. I can afford to move there now. It’ll be a fresh start for me, for Carly, and most of all for Jason and Molly. I don’t want my grandkids growing up to be Washington brats. By God, once this mess is over, I’m going to buy that seaside ranch Mary and I always talked about.

Once this mess is over… Well, hell, that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Now that he was certain what Whirlwind was Henkes had unknowingly confirmed Charlie’s theory he knew that Irina Kolodenkova was in a great deal more peril than he’d imagined. In and of itself Whirlwind was worth killing for. Worse yet, he still didn’t have a clue as to what else Sam was covering up. All he could say for certain was that whatever it was, it had to be even more dangerous than Whirlwind. Jesus wept, he asked himself silently, what have I gotten myself into?

Charlie braked to a stop at the toll plaza, passing the booth attendant five dollars. As he pulled away, he flipped open one of Sam’s scrambled cell phones. No doubt every law enforcement agency in the country was on the alert for its roamer signal. Charlie didn’t want to disappoint them.

Thumbing the On switch, he keyed in Sam’s private line.

One ring, then, “Yes.”

“Hi-ya, Sam.” Charlie eased into the right lane, taking Nineteenth Avenue a shortcut to the airport.

“Charlie!” No joy in his exclamation. “I’ve been wondering how you’re doing. Have you made any progress? Where are you, anyway?”

“To answer your first question, yes. To answer your second, in San Francisco.”

“What!?!” Utter disbelief. Charlie had been hoping for foaming rage. Oh, well, sooner or later he’d ignite Sam’s powder-keg temper. And that’s when the useless ape would start making mistakes.

“Pretty close to Golden Gate Park actually.”

Confused, Sam muttered, “Schmidt said you were in Arizona.”

Charlie felt a happy smile creep across his face. “Hey, Sam, if you send a boy to do a man’s job, don’t be surprised at the results.”

“Why are you in California anyway?” Sam’s voice was pitched higher. Ditto Charlie’s spirits.

“Interviewing your buddy Max Henkes at DefCon Enterprises.”

A low groan, a wounded animal: “How did you find out about DefCon? Just how “

Come on, Sam, you know you want to go ballistic. Be a good boy and blow your stack. Here, I’ll give you a little incentive. “Irina told me. You know Irina. Nice girl. I like her a lot.”

“Kolodenkova? You’ve got her? Thank God! Good news at last!”

“Good for me at least. We spent the night together.” It was a petty thing to say, and thus doubly pleasurable. “At the Airport Marriott. Just up the road from the Hilton Schmidt stayed at. You know, Sam, he really is a bonehead.”

“Forget him. Just fucking forget him. Bring me Kolodenkova and “

“No can do, Sam. I let her go.”

Gratifyingly, Sam was propelled past the point of shouting. He could barely whisper. “You’re lying.”

“No lie. I kid you not.” Charlie gunned his rent-a-car through a yellow light, cut across traffic, and wheeled onto Route 280 south. If he pushed it, he could hit the airport in fifteen minutes. He planned to push it. Likewise Sam.

“If you had your hands on that bitch and you cut her loose … Fuck! Do you know what I’ll do to you? Do you have any idea?”

“Twice, Sam. I had her twice. So to speak. Turned her free both times. But not to worry there’ll be a third time. Although maybe I’ll let her go then, too. Maybe not. That’s up to you. No, Sam, do not swear at me, do not insult me, and least of all do not make me angry. Making me angry could put me in a vindictive frame of mind. You don’t want me in a vindictive frame of mind, Sam. Uh-uh, no. Trust me on this, if you piss me off, to use your very own favorite word, you’re fucked.”

“You want more money, right? Of course you do. Well, I’m certain we can work something out.”

Charlie laughed. He was on a roll, having a grand time. “Hell no! I’ve got all the money I need!”

Sam spat, “Then what? Tell me. Name your fucking price.” He was on the edge, right on the brink, and Charlie could explode him like a toy balloon.

Tempting, mighty tempting.

However, a pleasure postponed is a pleasure doubled. Besides, the only way Charlie could be sure of getting everything he wanted was to do it face-to-face. “I will. But not now. Meet me at the Albuquerque airport in … oh, adjusting for the differences in time zones… meet me at three forty-five local time. If you tell your pilot to put the pedal to the metal, you can make it. But don’t be late, Sam. If you’re not on the tarmac parked next to Air Charlie which is a blue and white Citation at exactly three forty-five P.M.” I’m outta there. And you, Sambo, will be left twisting slowly, slowly in the breeze.”

So saying, Charlie hit the disconnect button and tossed the cell phone out the window.

Well now, he grinned, that has well and truly set the cat amongst the pigeons.

Glancing at his speedometer, Charlie tapped the accelerator. Eighty miles an hour. Safe enough on this particular road, the scenic route to Silicon Valley. The highway patrol didn’t even blink unless you were clocking ninety.

Timing was everything now. He had to get airborne fast, had to be on the ground in New Mexico a few minutes before Sam. If he wasn’t, his plan wouldn’t work.

It was a good plan, or at least he hoped it was. It had only one flaw-Mitch Conroy. Letting Sam know that he, Charlie, was in California was as good as telling Schmidt that the black BMW X5 he was following was a red herring. As soon as Sam’s plane was in the air, he’d be on the radio giving the mercenary the reaming of his life. Schmidt would be livid. If he was mad enough, he might take it out on Mitch.

Nah, Schmidt’s not that dumb. By now, Johan would be at least three hundred miles from Albuquerque; once Sam called him, his top priority would be getting there ASAP. Yeah, he’d grab Mitch for a quick Q&A session, and yeah, being the sadist he was, he’d probably leave a few bruises. But Schmidt was a pro. He’d understand that Mitch was hired help, an innocent bystander, and he wouldn’t waste his time doing serious damage to someone who didn’t deserve it.

Charlie turned his thoughts elsewhere. What he wanted now was quiet time a couple of airborne hours to relax, empty his mind, and sift through the miserably few pieces of information he had about a defense scientist named Sangin Wing. Something wasn’t right, more than a single something. The story told by the newspaper downloads didn’t cohere; Sam’s role was twice the mystery it had been; the whole damned puzzle had blown to smithereens and nothing seemed to fit.

He was missing the heart of the matter. Infuriating, it was like … it was … suppose you’ve mislaid something important. Suppose you know there are only four or five places you could have put it. Suppose you look in every single one of those places but you can’t find it Nonetheless, you know it’s there. It’s in the drawer or on the shelf or under the counter, and damnit, it’s probably even in plain sight. But you look and you look, and you can’t see it for the life of you. Some inexplicable mental blind spot is keeping you from finding what you know is there; and try as hard as you can you just can’t remember and the only thing to do is…

Forget about it for a while, then come back afresh.

That’s what he’d do on the flight to Albuquerque. He’d re-read his downloaded files, then he’d shut his eyes and meditate. Sooner or later he’d see it, because he always did, and that was the one thing he did best of all.

SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

MAIN TERMINAL LEFT LANE CARGO AND GENERAL AVIATION RIGHT LANE

Sledgehammer was waiting at the private plane boarding area. Charlie

didn’t like the frog’s smirk on the hacker’s face. He figured he was about to hear some distasteful news.

“No refunds,” Sledge said, handing Charlie a computer disk.

“You damaged it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sledge sneered.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Nothing on it, man. It’s virgin. You paid me fifteen grand to crack a blank disk.”

Charlie blinked, shaking his head with disbelief. “You sure?”

Sledge drew himself straight, mastery addressing amateurishness. “What do you mean am I sure?”

“Sorry. Of course you’re sure. Which means …” Charlie’s mouth broadened. “.. . which means…” A smile spread from cheek to cheek.

And he laughed.

He roared and rollicked and guffawed, and could not control himself as he doubled over whooping like a loon, immobilized with hilarity, gasping breathlessly at Irina Kolodenkova’s outrageous, monumental, positively epic brazenness.

“You all right, man? Like, are you having an attack or something?”

“No!” It was so diabolically funny he could barely stand. “I mean yes!” She’d flummoxed him like a raw recruit, switching disks, and he’d never noticed. It was beautiful. It was perfect. And he was … he was…

“Then what are you laughing about? I mean, fifteen grand to scope out a blank disk is not so funny to me. So tell me the joke, man, what am I missing here?”

“What you’re missing, Sledge…” Another gale of laughter erupted. “What you’re missing, my friend,” Charlie gasped, “is that I think I’m in love!”

“In my personal estimation,” reflected Mr. Schmidt. “A. G. Russell is the finest knife maker in America.”

Mitch Conroy watched the mercenary through a single swollen eye. The other was crusted closed with blood. “I’ve heard that said,” he mumbled, his lips bruised and numb.

Not far from Mitch, a portable CD player rested on a rock. Act I of La Boheme echoed through the arroyo, Mirella Freni’s voice soaring as she sang that she was only a humble seamstress, an ordinary girl nicknamed “Mimi.”

“This particular knife,” Schmidt continued, “is one of two hundred and fifty, a genuine rarity. Titanium case, one-handed operation, and a damascened blade sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel. I’ve taken a man’s hand off with it. Flesh, sinew, and bone a single stroke. The fingers were still wiggling when it hit the ground.”

“I can believe that.” Mitch forced himself to nod. It was the best he could manage with his wrists lashed behind a stunted juniper tree, his legs wound tight with towrope.

“The important thing, Mr. Conroy, the very important thing for you to know is that you won’t feel it. Not at first. That’s how sharp the edge is. It cleaves clean and fast. You don’t notice until quite a few seconds later. Then your nerve endings sense something’s missing. Neurons fire signals to receptor cells that are no longer there. When they receive no answer, they fire harder. I am told the pain mounts to astonishing levels. Any man who’s lost a limb will assure you the agony is quite beyond comprehension.”

“There ain’t no need for this, Mr. Cobra. I done told you everythin’. Heck, I told you the whole story before you and your boys started whuppin’ on me.”

(Now Rodolfo sang, the incomparable Domingo as the struggling playwright.) Mercenaries stood at some distance, unmoved by the music, more interested in their cigarettes than anything else.

“So you say, so you say.” Cat-like, Schmidt stalked back and forth across loose cobbles. The sun was behind him. Mitch squinted painfully as he watched him prowl. “I suspect you have told the truth. Indeed, I’d assign a high probability to it ninety-nine percent, shall we say. Alas, that leaves me one percentage point’s uncertainty. Under normal circumstances, I’d let so trivial a figure pass. However, these are not normal circumstances. First, you have annoyed me mightily “