“Why?”
“There was a threat.”
“From whom?”
“Didn’t say. Unspecified. But credible, that’s what they said. Credible.”
“Al-Qaeda?”
“Like I say, unspecified.”
“And you were able to evacuate everyone in time?”
“Yessir, we were. Salina PD, working with my folks, did an outstanding job. I’ve got the Salina police chief arriving here in about twenty minutes, and a couple of his officers. They were the last ones patrolling inside the town before she blew. They’d be happy to answer-”
The elevator doors slid open, and Stoke and Fancha moved quickly to the rear. Stoke remembered that it opened at the back when it reached the roof. When it did, he and Fancha stepped out into the brilliant Miami sunshine and looked up at the moored airship, her gleaming hull strung with red, white, and blue bunting. Stoke didn’t say anything, but he thought the stars and stripes sort of clashed with the big red Russian stars painted on the ship’s tail sections.
There were velvet ropes on either side of the red carpet leading to the moving stairs at the stern of the ship, lots of cameras pointing and clicking as he and Fancha walked by. Not clicking at him, at Fancha.
TEN MINUTES LATER, a white-coated steward was showing them their stateroom on the promenade deck, portside. It was a beautiful room, paneled in walnut, with a king-size bed and a sofa, table, and chairs sitting under three big opening portholes flooded with light and blue sky. On the coffee table was a huge arrangement of white flowers with a little envelope on a plastic pitchfork. Also a silver bucket with a bottle of Roederer Cristal champagne on ice. Hollywood, Stoke thought. Had to be, right?
He handed the steward a twenty and asked where the TV was. The young fellow picked up a remote from the bedside table and hit a button, and an oil painting over the dresser slid up into the ceiling revealing a flat-screen Toshiba.
The steward bowed, said something in Russian, and left. Fancha, who seemed happy enough with their room and her flowers, began unpacking, and Stoke sat on the edge of the bed, figuring out the remote. Finally, he got Fox News, live from Salina, breaking news. News was always breaking, Stoke thought. Problem was, there was nobody left on the planet smart enough to fix it.
The state trooper had turned it over to the police chief, who seemed to be wrapping up his remarks. Stoke was sorry he’d missed the chief’s remarks. This was a big story, and he was about to be completely out of the loop for the next four days. He wanted to know what the hell was going on.
The chief was saying, “Thank you, and now I’d like to turn it over to two of my finest young officers. These two young fellas standing behind me were the last two on patrol inside the city. They’d be happy to take your questions. This is Officer Andy Sisko, and Patrolman Gene Southey. Officers?”
Stoke saw two uniformed patrolmen, clean-cut Midwest guys, step up to the podium, both looking a little nervous about all the cameras, being on national television.
“Officer Sisko, you were the last man to leave Salina?” a reporter called out.
“Yessir, I was. Me and Officer Southey were assigned to the last sweep.”
“You’re certain the town was completely evacuated? There were no remaining civilians?”
“Well, that’s right. Our fellow officers and the staties did a fine job. They made sure they got everybody out. Everybody.”
“Dogs and cats?”
“Very difficult. Most people took their pets, if they could find them. They left in pretty much of a hurry. So I’m sure some stray animals got left.”
“Officer Southey, even when a hurricane is bearing down on a town, we saw this in Key West last year, you still get a large number of people refusing to leave their homes. You didn’t see any of that in Salina?”
“No, sir, we did not. Folks here were real cooperative. Everybody just loaded up and vamoosed. We did run across one fella, though. He was still out there on the street, but we got him out in time, too.”
“Someone who’d refused to leave his home?”
“No, sir, he was making deliveries.”
“Deliveries? To a deserted town? What was he delivering?”
“Doughnuts. Bakery goods. He had a truck full.”
Stoke leaned forward on the edge of the bed, turning up the volume with the remote.
“You mean you had someone delivering doughnuts in an empty town? Under an emergency evacuation order?”
“Yessir. He’d slept through all the warnings is what he told us. Didn’t know anything at all about any warnings, any evacuation. Just going about his business.”
“Do you have his name?”
“Sure do. His name was Happy. Happy the Baker. Nice fella. Gave us breakfast on his truck right about here where I’m standing now. My partner and I had coffee and doughnuts with him right before she blew.”
Stoke’s jaw dropped, and, eyes riveted to the screen, he said to Fancha, “Happy the Baker, baby. That big guy who delivered the cake at the birthday blast here in Miami.”
But Fancha was already in the head with the door closed, changing her outfit. Didn’t hear him.
Stoke’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Hello?” he said, flicking it open.
It was Harry Brock. Calling from Moscow, where it had to be the middle of the night.
“Stokely, you watching this? Television? CNN?”
“Yeah, Harry, I’m watching. Happy the Baker.”
“Damn right, our old pal Happy the Baker from the birthday party in the Grove. Jesus Henry Christ. Happy the freaking bomb baker. He blew up that town, Stoke. That’s all there is to it. Why else would he be there?”
“Why the hell does he blow up a whole town?”
“Good question. How soon can you get out there?”
“To Salina?”
“Of course, Salina. You’re the only one on the planet who knows this guy on sight. Knows what he looks like, talks like. I need you out there now, Stoke. Is there a problem?”
“I’m onboard the
“Stoke, listen carefully. Ever since the party, I’ve been looking hard at your boy Happy. He is a Russian- American. A made
“I’m on my way.”
“Get this guy, Stoke. He’s critical. One more thing. Before he blew up the town, he murdered the mayor and her family in their beds. Husband. Two little kids. Left a cell phone with a phony Arabic message on one of the corpses. That information has not been released to local law enforcement.”
“Christ,” Stoke said.
“You’re going?”
“I’m gone.”
The phone went dead in his hand just as Fancha opened the door to the head. She’d changed into a beautiful turquoise skirt and blouse. She’d never looked prettier. That smile, the one he loved, the one that meant she was happy. She spun around, and her skirt flared out like a ballerina’s.
“Hey, baby, why isn’t that champagne opened yet? This girl is thirsty.”
“Oh, yeah. I should have opened that. Sorry.”
