The woman at the reception dais was young, beautiful, and not the least bit impressed by two old guys in their finest evening attire.
Jack hated tuxedos with a passion, especially the way this one tugged at his still tender shoulder-and Tony didn’t seem all that enamored with them either as he dug around in his inner jacket pocket and produced the oversized invitation Danny Pescatori had scored for him. It had taken them nearly twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, which started just outside the Roman triumphal arch entrance to the Legion of Honor and ran all the way down the long stone ramp toward the shimmering blue pool of the circular fountain that fronted the palace. It was dark out, and the ramp was lit on either side by small glowing globes placed low to the ground.
Whenever Jack visited the palace he felt as if he’d stepped into another part of history, back to a grander time, when our nation was still young and buildings like this were symbols of our greatness. A massive, magnificent neoclassical structure, it had been an Armistice Day gift from Alma de Bretteville Spreckels, who wanted to honor California’s fallen soldiers of World War I with a world-class museum. If it weren’t for the moon-dappled bay beyond, with views of the Marin headlands and the brightly lit Golden Gate Bridge, you might mistake it for one of the many ancient buildings of Rome or Athens.
The woman took the invitation from Tony. “Your names?”
“Anthony Antiniori and Jack Hatfield,” he said.
She passed the information along to an assistant who carefully ran a ruler down a reservations list and checked them off.
Now she was all smiles. “Welcome to the Legion of Honor, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening.”
Tony doffed an imaginary cap, then the two men moved into yet another line, queuing up for the body scanners just inside the entrance.
Jack knew that the Secret Service would have done a background check when Tony RSVPed, but it would have been a cursory one. Jack was banned from the U.K. but that wouldn’t show up on a level-one scan, designed to make sure that domestic felons and watch-list terrorists weren’t trying to get in. Given the many events a President attended, it was the quickest filter available to his security team. The thinking was that no one would have an invitation that the White House did not want here.
A large banner spanning the archway read CELEBRATE THE ART OF ISLAM! which Jack still thought a bit ironic, considering the circumstances. He didn’t think tonight’s celebration would be exactly what the museum curator had in mind. Another irony, thought Jack, was the French motto sculpted above the stone entrance, “Honneur et Patrie. ” “‘Honor and Nation,’” sneered Jack, “yeah, right.”
The security line, like the line to the dais, was full of San Francisco dignitaries, all dressed as if they were going to the Oscars. The capacity of the museum was fifteen hundred people, and there had to be close to that many tuxedos and black evening gowns in evidence, movers and shakers from all over California, from movie stars to politicians. This was one of the biggest tickets of the year. Of course, the room was also packed with the poseurs, those Pacific Heights inheritance cases whose inheritances had long been diminished or had disappeared entirely. Like most provincials they strutted and displayed their fake jewels most dramatically.
The mayor and his wife stood not three feet away, and Jack was pleased to see that even he hadn’t been spared the security check. Just beyond the line, Jack saw the new governor talking with his predecessor, both of them laughing over some unheard joke.
The crowd was too dense to know for sure, but Jack doubted that Senator Harold Wickham or Lawrence Soren or Swain or any of the other men he’d met on that island were present. He’d have caught a glimpse of one of them by now. He imagined they were all far away by now, in transit or already relaxing in their homes, waiting to read about the success of their treachery in tomorrow’s newspapers. That was further indication that whatever they were planning was still a go. Otherwise, those men would be here.
Cowards, every single one of them. Leaving the dirty work to the fanatics they’d snookered into believing it was the will of Allah.
As Tony and Jack waited their turn, a uniformed officer moved along the security line with a bomb-sniffing German shepherd on a leash.
Jack checked his watch, a spare Rolex he always kept in the drawer by his bed. It would never replace his father’s Hamilton, but it was accurate and that was good enough for now.
The time was nearing half past eight.
The President wasn’t due to make his remarks until nine P.M., and no sign of his motorcade had been in evidence. As usual, he’d make a last-minute entrance, give his speech, then let the Secret Service whisk him back to Air Force One for the flight back to D.C.
Assuming he was still alive.
As they moved to the front of the security line, Jack and Tony took their keys from their pockets and deposited them into a tray provided by a uniformed guard. Tony went through the scanner first and got through clean. But as Jack stepped through the beeper went wild and his heart kicked up a notch. The security guard stopped him, gesturing to the Rolex, and Jack quickly removed it, laying it in the tray. He went through the scanner again and managed not to set off any more alarms. He was glad, then, he was wearing a vest and jacket. His shirt was miserably damp with perspiration.
He moved with Tony to retrieve their belongings.
Hurdle one taken care of.
Just past the security station was the museum’s Court of Honor, a large, rectangular courtyard surrounded on all sides by lighted Ionic marble columns. A gigantic bronze cast of Rodin’s masterpiece The Thinker sat on a high pedestal near the front of the courtyard, and just beyond this, rising up from the floor, was a blue glass pyramidal skylight.
Placed in strategic viewing positions all about the courtyard were roped-off glass display cases, each featuring a work of Islamic art-a thirteenth-century Syrian glass beaker with an ornate design running through it, a piece of carved Egyptian ivory depicting men at war, a Kashan wall tile featuring a fire-breathing dragon, a Mughal dagger with a hilt made of gold, rubies, and emeralds…
People were everywhere, browsing the displays, laughing, talking, drinking white wine and champagne and sampling hors d’oeuvres offered on trays by waiters in crisp white jackets. A string quartet of lovely young women played a gentle classical tune-Beethoven, String Quartet No. 1 in F major, Opus 18. He and Tony moved together, working their way from display to display.
Exchanging glances, they each reached into their pockets and worked at unscrewing the miniature flashlights attached to their key chains. These were really nothing more than hollowed-out tubes. Inside each tube was an earbud transmitter-receiver that Mike Abernathy had scored through his black market contacts. They connected wirelessly to plastic microphones in their ties-the kinds that wouldn’t upset metal detectors-and were activated by a depression switch inside a cuff link. They were military grade and set to a seldom-used frequency that the Secret Service wasn’t likely to detect.
That was the theory anyway.
Each man glanced around for prying eyes, but the other patrons were too rapt in their own small talk to pay attention to them. Pretending to scratch his head, each man nonchalantly popped the device into his right ear. It was small enough that it sat snugly inside the ear canal and was nearly invisible to the naked eye.
When Jack had his in place he activated it and said softly, “Can you hear me?”
Maxine Cole’s voice immediately came alive in his ear. “I hear you, Jack.”
Max and Dave Karras were out in a far corner of the museum parking lot, sitting in a small Chevy van they’d rented for the occasion. Karras had brought along a laptop and was busy trying to hack into the museum’s network.
“We’re also reading you loud and clear,” another voice said.
It was Doc Matson, who was exiting a battered Jeep Roadster, along with Mike Abernathy and Jonah Goldman. They were parked in the roadside parking lot of the Cliff House restaurant down the hill, which overlooked the ruins of the Sutro bathhouse.
Doc had paid a visit to one of his urban explorer friends, who drew him a map to the approximate location of the one known entrance to the Lincoln Park bunkers, which was located just beyond the cliffside. Their plan was to scope the area out to try to determine if anyone had made entry.
“Excellent,” Jack said. “Tony, are you reading me?”
“I’m standing right next to you, genius.”
