“Besides, Mrs. M. made me an honorary family member. It’d be incest, ya know.”
“Then I’d have to kill you.”
“Yeah,” Rencke said glumly. He looked at his computer screen. “It got across the Atlantic either by air or by ship. And from there it got to California by air, by road or by rail.”
McGarvey’s headache was bad now, making it hard for him to focus. They were missing something, he felt it, and he had felt it all along.
“So we cover all the possibilities,” Rencke was saying. “It’s like a double-ended funnel with the small ends in Afghanistan and California.” He looked up, but it was obvious that his mind was already elsewhere, chewing on the problem, setting up parameters and methodologies. “Violet,” he mumbled.
“As soon as you come up with something call me,” McGarvey said.
While Adkins was setting up his transportation, McGarvey went home to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes. He called his wife on his cell phone on the way out to Andrews Air Force Base.
“I’m leaving for San Francisco now.”
“It’s going to happen tomorrow or Sunday, isn’t it?” she said after a slight hesitation.
“I think so, Katy. I can’t stay here.”
“I know you can’t. But listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Come back to me, Kirk. Bring Elizabeth with you. Just come back.”
“Promise,” he said.
Green came onto the bridge out of breath as if he had run up the stairs from the engine room two at a time. He was a mess, Bahmad saw, his eyes were bloodshot, he had a serious five o’clock shadow, his uniform was dirty with blood or oil stains and his complexion was sallow. But the navigation he’d worked out that would take them north to the Farallon Islands where they would turn east into the Golden Gate was already entered into the autopilot. If they did not touch the controls the Margo would sail on her own into San Francisco Bay.
“Something’s happening with one of the engines,” Green said.
Bahmad had been dozing in a chair he’d brought from the captain’s cabin. The afternoon sun slanted at a low angle through the bridge windows. For as far as the eye could see the electric-blue ocean and pale blue sky were clear of all traffic. Only a high contrail marked the passage of a Hawaii-bound jet.
“What’s the problem?” Bahmad asked languidly.
“There’s some kind of a vibration in the shaft bearings. They’re starting to heat up. Lazlo traced it to the port engine. The gearbox may be frying itself. He wants to shut down the engine and take the cover off the heat exchanger.”
“What will that do to our speed?”
“It’ll cut it in half unless we push the starboard engine. But if we do that we could end up a shit creek. Both engines could go down.”
“Is Schumatz an engineer?”
“You don’t have to be a fucking engineer to read a temperature gauge.”
“For all he knows the temperature of the gearbox could be well within normal operating limits—”
“The dial is marked red.”
“And the mechanism could run for a week, perhaps cross an ocean before it had to be tended to. But we need less than twenty-four hours.”
“I’m not going to get stuck out here with a locker full of dead men. I say we take the helicopter and the three of us fly to Los Angeles.”
“We need to get to San Francisco.”
“The ship will make it on its own. It’s even programmed to make the turn at the Farallon buoy.”
“But you said the port engine might not make it.”
“So we won’t be on schedule. I don’t give a shit, do you understand, you fucking wog?”
Bahmad suppressed an evil grin. People were so easy. “Why didn’t Schumatz come up here and tell me himself? Or pick up the ship’s phone and call me?”
“How the hell should I know? Why don’t you go down there and ask him yourself?”
“I think I’ll do just that,” Bahmad said. He got up, turned slightly as if he was heading for the door, pulled his pistol, thumbed the safety catch off and turned and shot Green in the forehead at a range of less than five feet.
The first officer’s head snapped back, his arms shot out and he was flung to the deck, killed instantly. Bahmad cocked an ear to listen to the sounds of the ship now that Green had stopped complaining. They were still making fifteen knots, which would put them in the Golden Gate around ten in the morning, two hours before the runners were expected to be on the bridge. Everything was going as planned.
He stuck the Glock 17 in his belt and headed down to the engine room. From what he personally knew about the Sulzer diesel engines there was nothing to worry about. As long as they had sufficient fuel and air they would run practically forever. It would take a catastrophe to stop them. Such as something a motivated man might do.
His step lightened. First he would take care of Schumatz, then he would get something to eat and finally get a few hours’ sleep. The radar’s proximity alarm would warn him of any impending obstacles in their path. He needed to be alert. Tomorrow promised to be a long, interesting day.
It was ten o’clock already and the lights of the city were on. Traffic on the bridge was heavy, made more difficult for the motorists because a halfdozen highway patrol cars blocked one lane for fifty yards at the crown of the span. McGarvey stood at the rail. He’d had a hell of a time convincing Dick Yemm to stay behind, but he had more freedom of movement without a bodyguard. He’d already managed to check out the security arrangements at the park and on the bridge, though he’d missed Liz who’d gone with the President’s daughter to a welcoming ceremony in the Olympic Village.
More than three hundred city, state and federal law enforcement officers aided by Golden Gate Transit people were searching the bridge as unobtrusively as possible. But passing drivers couldn’t help but notice so they slowed down to gawk, which further snarled traffic.
An unmarked Chevy van with federal government plates came up and stopped in the far right-hand lane behind a GOT maintenance truck. Jay Villiard got out and came over.
“How does it look?”
“Hello, Jay.” McGarvey said. They shook hands. “If you can’t search the city you might as well search the bridge.”
“That’s what we figured.” He bummed a cigarette from McGarvey. “Lousy habit. Maybe I’ll give them up again next week.” “How’d you do it last time?” McGarvey asked. He was ready to pull the pin himself, mostly because Kathleen had taken up smoking because of him, and he hated to see her with a cigarette in her hand. “Cold turkey. It’s the only way. Tried and true,” Villiard answered. “Why is it that I don’t think you brought good news with you. God only knows we need some, because we haven’t turned up a thing.”
“We thought we had a pretty good lead in New York,” McGarvey said, and he briefly explained what had happened. “We’re back to square one, right here.”
“The President won’t quit.”
“I know, I’ve tried, and so has Murphy.”
“Bin Laden won’t quit either,” Villiard said glumly. They leaned against the rail watching the night deepen. “I met your daughter; pretty sharp kid. My people are already in love with her.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“Are you pulling her out?” Villiard asked.
A genuine pain stabbed at McGarvey’s heart. “No,” he said. “She wouldn’t go if I ordered her out anyway.” He turned to face Villiard. “You have kids, Jay. Do they always listen to you?”
Villiard laughed. “I have a fourteen-year-old daughter who hasn’t listened to me since she was ten. I was trying to tell her something, you know, something to help. Anyway, when I was all done she put a hand on her hip, raised an eyebrow, and said: “Obviously.” ” Villiard laughed again. “I told my wife that maybe we should just kill her and make a new one.”