31
Jack and Sara flew from London on a private charter, a Gulfstream G550 courtesy of Senator Harold Wickham.
Although Jack had been reluctant to get the senator involved before, he knew he had no choice now but to bring him into this mess.
Harold Wickham was a Texas oilman, a hard-line hawk who always put country first and politics last. Jack had met him several years before, when he and two fellow senators were visiting Iraq’s green zone while the search for WMDs was still ongoing. Jack had interviewed Wickham for GNT. Wickham had assured him that the weapons were out there somewhere and it was only a matter of time before they were found.
Off the record, however, Wickham confessed to Jack over a beer that he wasn’t all that confident that they ever would find the weapons. He had become convinced that the U.S. was either victim to sloppy intelligence or- more likely-that the WMDs had been quietly smuggled into Iran.
Neither scenario made the senator happy.
Over the years, Jack had interviewed Wickham many times, and during the days of Truth Tellers, the Texan became a regular panelist who always had insightful observations about the news and politics of the day. The senator leaned heavily right, but had an independent streak that sometimes rankled his fellow Republicans when he refused to vote the party line.
It was a trait that Jack had always admired. But what had sealed the deal was Wickham’s unwavering support after the public relations fiasco that had destroyed Jack’s career. Wickham had even made the rounds on the news show circuit, trying to rehabilitate Jack’s reputation, but the tone had already been set and the senator was drowned out by the braying of the crowd.
So when Jack saw the message in those encrypted e-mails he immediately got on the phone to Wickham and laid it all out for him, from beginning to end. If either phone was tapped and someone was listening, they were welcome to the information. It was too late to be overly cautious.
Wickham had never been prone to alarm, but Jack heard a slight rise in his voice. “Goddamn it, Jack, are you sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be, Senator.”
“You’re talking about the British government, for God’s sake! How far up the chain do you think this thing goes?”
“It’s hard to say. Possibly all the way to the top. The group I told you about, the one that Copeland was involved with, has been shut down, and all of their databases are fried.”
“So you’ve got no evidence.”
“Just the USB key. But if I’m interpreting those messages correctly, there’s gonna be big trouble at the Legion of Honor on Saturday night.”
“With the President smack in the middle,” Wickham muttered.
“I know it all sounds crazy, Senator, but I think we have a major crisis on our hands. The first thing you need to do is to find out who these e-mails went to. The initials are TDL, which doesn’t help much. It could be a throwaway account. But it’s someone at Allied, which leads me to believe they’ve got a shipment coming in.”
Wickham sighed heavily. “I’m bowled over, Jack. Completely bowled over. If this thing is as pervasive as you seem to think it is, I’ll have to go into stealth mode and tread very lightly.”
“But quickly, ” Jack urged. “From what I’ve learned, the Hand of Allah isn’t an organization you want to underestimate. I’m pretty sure their top soldier is already in San Francisco, doing God knows what. A guy named Hassan Haddad. Somebody has to find him and stop him.”
Wickham was silent a moment, then said, “All right, Jack. I’m gonna trust you on this one. Never had any reason not to.”
“Thank you, Senator. Even if I’m wrong, it’s like my father always told me: better to look inside the watch than wait till it stops ticking.”
“Damn straight,” Wickham said. “Now, what I need you to do is get on a jet and get back to the U.S. as fast as possible. I’ll arrange to have a friend’s plane fly you out here to San Francisco.”
“San Francisco? What are you doing there?”
“The Legion of Honor dinner.”
“You, too?”
“The President’s in a nonpartisan mood and invited me to the gala on Saturday night. I decided I’d throw him a bone and make an appearance. So I’ve got personal reasons to hope you’re wrong.” He paused. “Now get on that jet and bring the woman with you. We’re gonna want to hear what she has to say, too.”
The knot of anxiety that had been plaguing Jack ever since he saw those messages was finally starting to dissipate. Wickham wouldn’t let him down.
Jack asked him if he could have some clothes brought aboard. Nothing fancy, just clean. The senator said he’d do what he could.
An hour later, Jack and Sara boarded their flight. It was a Gulfstream 550 that Jack and Sara had all to themselves, attended by a lone flight attendant. The young attendant explained that they had a choice of four separate living areas, each with its own climate control. There was a wireless broadband network and satellite communications should they require it. Abundant sunlight streamed through the fourteen oval windows, illuminating the deep leather seats, each with its own DVD player. With brawny Rolls-Royce turbofan engines, this flying carpet had a range of 6,750 nautical miles and flew at 51,000 feet.
Jack and Sara just wanted to shower and change. There were a stack of boxes from Harrods onboard. Jack slipped into slacks, a button-down shirt, and a black blazer. Sara snuggled into a pantsuit. Jack was pleased that he’d guessed right when he gave the senator her size. She looked like a runway model, only more radiant.
Two of the boxes contained formal wear: a tuxedo for Jack and a gown for Sara. Obviously, the senator intended for them to go to the dinner.
Unlike commercial aircraft, the air was one hundred percent fresh, the sound levels were extremely low, and no sooner had they sat opposite one another on the sofas in the rear cabin than they were asleep. They slept for more than half the flight then enjoyed a leisurely meal from one of London’s best restaurants. The ultralong-range jet took them directly to a private terminal adjacent to San Francisco International. They arrived in the late afternoon and found a limousine waiting for them at the bottom of the steps, a chauffeur standing with the rear passenger door open.
“Welcome back, Mr. Hatfield. Senator Wickham is looking forward to seeing you.”
Jack looked at Sara then glanced into the rear of the limo. “He’s not here?”
“He had another engagement,” the driver said. “You’ll be meeting him there.”
“Where?”
The driver smiled. “At the dog show.”
Jack had been to the Cow Palace many times in his life. Built on sixty acres of land in 1941 as a livestock pavilion, it was a San Francisco institution-although the only piece of it that actually stood on city land was a corner of the parking lot. The bulk of the property was in Daly City.
A large, indoor arena, the palace had been host over the years to the San Francisco Warriors, the San Jose Sharks, numerous rock concerts, wrestling events, two Republican national conventions, and a number of livestock exhibitions, including the Horse amp; Stock Show and the Grand National Rodeo.
Jack vividly remembered one trip here as a boy, when the palace was hosting an antiques exhibition. His father had known that a number of watch and clock collectors would be participating, and had brought Jack to show him some of their priceless wonders. They saw glass cases lined with watches from Rolex, Tudor, Lord Elgin, and Girard-Perrigaux, exhibit booths displaying grandfather clocks, Victorians, porcelains, cuckoo clocks, steeple clocks, and a variety of others, the rhythm of their ticking giving great comfort to young Jack.
It was a day he’d never forget.
The Cow Palace was an unimposing gray building from the outside, but once you set foot through the doors and moved past the concourse into the main arena, you were amazed by its size. A large oval, surrounded by high walls with satin curtains and gold and yellow seats, it boasted a capacity of up to sixteen thousand patrons, and
