'I do know what is there,' Rodgers said. 'A fire escape and a hotel security camera.' He smiled. 'I like to know where the exits are.'
Stone did not like this conversation or the turn it had just taken. He could not tell if Rodgers was still being philosophical or whether he was baiting Stone with references to the chaos of the past few days.
What Rodgers did not say was also informative. He had mentioned nothing about Op-Center's investigation or the arrest of Darrell and Maria McCaskey. He knew, of course. When Detective Howell arrested the couple, he noted that the last number dialed on McCaskey's cell phone belonged to Mike Rodgers. Stone wanted to find out more about that if he could.
Quickly.
'You know, General, this is not the conversation I expected to have the first time we met.' Stone laughed. 'But it does interest me. In fact, if you have a minute, all I need to do is grab my laptop from the room. Then we can go over to the convention center together. I would appreciate your input.'
'I would prefer to meet you there,' Rodgers said. 'There are a few things I have to do first.'
'I can wait if you'd like.'
'Your steaks will burn,' Rodgers said. 'I'll catch up with you. Maybe we can have a drink later.'
'I would like that,' Stone replied.
The convention manager continued down the corridor to his room. As he opened the door, he glanced to his left. Rodgers went to Kat's door and knocked. He did not attempt to conceal it. Was that innocent or meant to inspire concern? Stone could not be sure, and that frustrated him. More than the conversation, Stone did not like the man himself.
Rodgers had launched salvos from his moral high ground. When Link spoke, it was with persuasive author-A ity. This man lectured, as if there was no correct opinion other than his own.
Not that it mattered. He had learned what he needed to learn.
Mike Rodgers was not an ally. And if he was not an ally, then moderate or not, war hero notwithstanding, there was only one thing he could be: an enemy.
FORTY-FIVE
San Diego, California Wednesday, 1:16 p.m.
When Mike Rodgers was thirteen years old, a local Connecticut YMCA organized chess games against a local grand master. Rodgers got to play one of those games, and won. The reason he won was simple: apart from knowing how to move the pieces, Rodgers had no concept of chess strategy. As his opening move, he developed the pawn that sat in relative anonymity in front of the queen's rook. He liked rooks or castles, as he preferred to call them. That sounded more militaristic.
He liked their sweep, their power. He wanted to get them out of their corner and ready for the fray. The grand master responded with Sokolsky's opening. But Rodgers's unorthodox move, located so far from the center of the board, unbalanced virtually every classic attack pattern for black. The grand master resigned the match after sixteen chaotic moves.
As Rodgers knocked at Kat's door, he had to admit that what Eric Stone had just mounted was the clumsiest, most amateurish psyops probe he had ever experienced. In and of itself, it made Rodgers doubt that these people could be responsible for any kind of conspiracy. Yet, in a way, that was also what made them dangerous. They fit no profiles. They were unpredictable.
Kat answered the door. She was impatient, from her eyes to the cock of her hips. 'Yes, General?'
'I need to talk to you,' he said. He walked around her and entered the room.
'By all means,' she said sarcastically. 'Come in.'
'Sorry, but I did not want to stand there discussing this with Eric Stone watching and possibly listening.'
Kat let the door shut. 'Why would Eric be listening? Could it be he is worried that you're a loose cannon, dangerous to have at the convention?'
'No. He thinks I am concealing information. And he's right.'
'What information?'
