Lou chuckled. “I was hoping you’d go on the Sunday shows. We could get you on
“And say what?” Webb asked, getting to the point.
“And say you think the President’s stimulus package will be just the thing to return us to the robust economy we all expect, especially the tax incentives. ”
“Hmm.”
“. and the devaluation of the dollar to stimulate overseas trade.”
Martin hesitated, letting thin white noise fill the void between them. This price was a bit higher than he wanted to pay, but he wasn’t sure the country could wait much longer. The economy needed a plan and, more importantly, it needed the confidence of the citizenry to keep the consumer engines churning. And Martin Webb knew, without ego, that his word would go a long way toward bolstering that confidence.
“The devaluation process first, Lou,” he said finally.
Lou let out an audible sigh of relief. “Deal. You’re going to save us, Marty. I know it.”
Jack jogged back to the parking lot where he’d dumped Peter’s car. His feet hurt — he’d been on the run for hours. The sun was fully up now, which reinvigorated him a little, but he hadn’t been this exhausted in quite some time. He was going to steal his third car since breaking out of jail; he was getting good at it. This one was a green Chrysler Sebring. He chose it from the monthly parking area, hot-wired it, and drove it out, paying the full days’ fare because he didn’t have the ticket.
Talia Gerwehr’s address was listed and not far away. He headed for Beverly Glen.
Zapata sat at a small, circular cafe table outside the Starbucks on Larchmont Avenue, nursing a caramel machiatto. He had a decadent habit of patronizing Starbucks. He pretended to himself that he was getting to know his enemy, but the truth was, he simply enjoyed it. He doubted it would survive his vision of anarchy, and he wanted to savor the elegant process that created elegant coffee on an assembly line before it disappeared for good.
And of course he liked to watch the people. At this moment in time, this Starbucks was the center of a ripple reaching out, touching all their lives. Coffee or not, he would have loved to have blown up that coffee shop, just to watch the disruption in the pattern of their existence.
He gave some thought to his larger plan. The ability of the Federal authorities to get so close was still disturbing, but he could see the reasons clearly, and that comforted him because it meant he could fix the problem.
Losing Aguillar was a setback, but a minor one. The real question was whether his goal could still be accomplished. After due consideration, he did not see why it could not succeed. The authorities could know nothing. Vanowen knew nothing of his real plan, and Ramirez knew less than nothing. Aguillar’s knowledge had died with him. Besides, his plan had already been set in motion. There was no reason to stop it, even if Zapata wanted to leave town.
But he was not ready to leave. He wanted to see the ripples.
As he finished the last sip of coffee, a gold Lexus pulled up to a metered space near the Starbucks. A blond man got out and began searching. Casually, Zapata stood and walked over to him, holding out a latte he had been saving. “Kyle,” he said.
The blond man looked at him uncertainly at first, then recognized him. “That’s a good look on you,” he said with a laugh.
“So I’ve been told. Do you mind if I spend the day at your house?”
They got in the Lexus and Kyle said, “As long as you promise me the kind of chaos I can profit from, you can stay there all week.”
13. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Nina reached the elevator at the same time as a John Wayne look-alike. “Ma’am,” he said, motioning her to enter first. She did and then turned, watching his enormous shoulders fill the elevator doors, which closed behind him. She checked the elevator’s weight capacity.
He grinned. “They grow ’em big down in the Gulf. But I just think light and the elevator does the rest.”
He reached for the fifth floor button and saw that she’d already pushed it. He smiled at her again, but this time his look showed that he was assessing her.
Finally, he stuck out his beefy hand. “Dan Pascal,
U.S. Marshal.” With his left hand he brushed back his brown jacket, showing the badge now attached to his belt.
“Nina Myers, Counter Terrorist Unit,” she replied. “I guess we’re headed the same way.”
Pascal chuckled. The sound was a low rumble in his chest. “Truth to tell, ma’am, I don’t know which way I’m headed, your boy’s got me turned around every which way.”
“He does that to everybody.”
The elevator opened on the fifth floor and they walked together to Ryan Chappelle’s room. Several uniforms were already there, including the one who’d been handcuffed to the sink. There was also a woman in a doctor’s coat — Nina had been told her name was “Chick-ow-liss” but you wouldn’t have known it by looking at her name tag. And there was Chappelle, lying unconscious on the hospital bed. Nina decided that he looked more lifelike than she’d ever seen him.
Nina let the U.S. Marshal introduce himself. He had a down-home quality that put people at ease, and he clearly used it to his advantage.
“I know you’ve already given your statement to these fellas,” Pascal said, “but could you run through it again, just ’cause I’m slow.”
Dr. Czikowlis looked bent, but not broken, as she told her story. The fact of having a gun pointed at her had clearly unnerved her, but there was no fear in her voice when she described Jack himself. She seemed to regard him with a certain amount of respect for having done what he’d done. Nina thought begrudgingly,
Aloud, she said, “So Chappelle was awake?”
Dr. Czikowlis nodded. “He’ll wake up again. Now he’s just asleep, unconscious. Not a coma, though. That man was right. He was a victim of barbiturate poisoning. But the test came back negative, so—”
“There was a mistake on the tests?” Nina asked.
Pascal shifted back onto his heels, clearly content to let her take the lead and ask the aggressive questions.
“Well, they were wrong. The man with the gun said he thought the test had been switched, but I don’t know anything about that.”
“Tell me again what Mr. Chappelle said when he was awake.”
“He wasn’t awake for long. The man asked him about his Zapata resource. He seemed really desperate to get it.”
Nina’s eyes flickered, the only outward sign of her complete inward shock. “What was that he asked again?” she said casually.
“Zapata,” Czikowlis replied certainly. “He said ‘Zapata resource.’ Mr. Chappelle whispered a name, and then he collapsed. The man with the gun locked me in the bathroom and left.”
“What was the name Mr. Chappelle whispered?”
The doctor shook her head. “He was barely conscious. It was Taylor Gerber, Talia Gerber, something like that.”
Nina nodded. “I see. Hard to hear. Is Mr. Chappelle going to recover?”
“Oh yes, now he will. He’ll sleep for a few more hours, though.” Nina nodded again and walked out, aware
