“I don’t know who did it, Bolton,” Jefferson said. “But until I do, everyone is a suspect—and I’d consider the guy who threatens to bump off Richter the number-one suspect.” Bolton looked as if he was going to say something, but thought better of it and remained silent. “Now I’m going to repeat my order just one more time: anyone who harms any other person in this facility will deal with me. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” Jefferson affixed an angry glare on every face around him, then shouted, “I said, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the others responded loudly.
“Until we receive orders to the contrary,” Jefferson went on, “we will continue to study our tactics, develop and refine our TO&E, and maintain our training schedule. Everyone trains, or they will get to experience the feel of my boot on their ass—and that includes you, Bolton. You will all cooperate fully with the investigators…” He turned to Kristen’s crew and added, “and that includes you too…”
“Like hell it does, Sergeant Major,” Kristen said. “We have our orders, same as you, and our orders say we don’t speak with anyone unless we have an attorney present. Just tell us where our quarters are—that’s where you’ll find us.”
“Miss Skyy…”
“And don’t give me that ‘boot up my ass’ crap, Sergeant Major,” Rich the cameraman interjected. “I was a Marine—I can dish it out better than I can take it.”
Jefferson knew there was no use arguing with them—he had absolutely no authority over them at all. “Very well. I’ll see to quarters for you. You will be restricted there at all times except as required by the debriefing teams. I’ll post a guard if necessary.” Kristen, Rich, and Bonnie could do nothing else but shoot Jefferson evil glares and walk away. Jefferson checked his watch. “Pass the word along to everyone else: our training schedule resumes after lunch. In the meantime, I want an update on our training and readiness, and I will brief the staff on what we learned in Brazil. That is all. Dismissed.” Soon just Jefferson, Richter, and Vega remained on the parking ramp outside the hangars.
“Sergeant Major, we need to talk about what’s happened,” Jason said. “We need to file a report with the intelligence agencies, the FBI, and probably Interpol or somebody…”
“You have your orders, Major.”
“Excuse me, sir, but with all due respect, can you get off your macho command-sergeant-major high horse for a moment here?” Jason asked.
“Don’t push me now, Major…!”
“Sergeant Major…Ray, have you forgotten already?” Jason asked, almost pleading with him to listen. “We know who planned the bombing at Kingman City! We know there’s a terror cell in Brazil that has somehow managed to get their hands on a nuclear device and set it off inside the United States!”
“I’m sure that’s what we’re going to be questioned about over the next several days and weeks, Major.”
“ ‘The next several weeks’? Do you think we can afford to waste that much time, sir?” Jason asked. That gave Jefferson some pause. “Think about it, Ray: we had two witnesses in our hands that made Zakharov as the planner of both attacks. We had them—and the National Security Adviser to the President of the United States just drove away, leaving us in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico for God knows how long. He’s got all the evidence we brought back from Brazil, too—the Amarals and Kristen’s videotape. All that’s left is us four, and no one’s going to believe us because we’re the ones who took the CID unit to Brazil. It’s a setup, sir.”
“Major, Mr. Chamberlain’s actions have more to do with your decisions than with what we found or suspect we found in Brazil,” Jefferson said. “Just stay in your quarters like I ordered. I’ll keep on top of things.” He held out his hand. “And give me that remote control thing for the CID units.” Jason reluctantly handed over the wrist remote control device for the CID unit. “Try doing it my way for a change, Richter.”
CHAPTER SIX
San Jose, California
Two days later
He had never seen security such as this. Upon checking in for his American Airlines flight from Mexico City to San Jose, airplane salesman and businessman Tom Estrada had to run his finger across a biometric scanner not once, not twice, but six times before he was allowed to board his flight, and his carry-on luggage was checked twice by hand. Security was everywhere—heavily armed, visible, and purposely intrusive. During the flight, no one was allowed to leave their seats without notifying a flight attendant first; no one could stand near the lavatories or galleys; and no one could get out of their seats within an hour prior to landing. Fortunately Estrada was a resident alien of the United States, because all non-resident aliens without visas had to surrender their passports toU.S. Customs upon arrival. Around the airport, security was tighter than he’d ever seen—they even had Avenger mobile antiaircraft vehicles and National Guard canine units patrolling the airport perimeter.
After retrieving his car from the parking garage, Estrada took the U.S. 101 North expressway to San Mateo and parked near the Third Avenue Sports Bar and Grill, a small but friendly neighborhood pub that had a surprisingly well-stocked wine list and free wireless Internet access. After ordering a glass of Silver Oak Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon and a small order of beef enchiladas and chatting with Grace, his waitress, who was also the daughter of his landlord, for several minutes, he opened up his Motion Computing Tablet PC and got online.
He checked e-mail first as always, and was worried to find a series of e-mails from a specific sender, one with only a scrambled alphanumeric name and domain. The messages from this sender were small digital photos. Estrada had wired his apartment in San Mateo with a security appliance that would take a digital photo of a room in which the appliance detected motion and automatically upload the photos to Estrada’s e-mail box. Several of the photos were of Grace herself—he had hired her to clean the place when he was gone and to turn lights on and off randomly to make the place look lived-in—and she and her family were absolutely trustworthy. But some of the photos were of unidentified men wearing suits and ties, searching the place—just hours ago!
“Hey, Grace, thanks for keeping an eye on my place for me,” Estrada said the next time Grace came over to check on him. He handed her an envelope with two hundred dollars in cash in it.
“Thanks, Tom,” the attractive young woman said. She hefted the envelope. “How much is in here? Feels like a little more than usual. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
“There’s a little extra in there for you. You’re on your way to college next week, right? Barnard?”
“Yep. But you didn’t have to do that, Tom. I was happy to help out. You’re kind of a neat-freak anyway— taking care of your place is a piece of cake.”
“Any problems while I was gone?”
“Nope.” She started to walk away. “Did you get the message your friend left on the door?”
Estrada’s ears buzzed with concern. “I haven’t been by the apartment yet.”
“A guy who said he used to work with you came by looking for you,” Grace said. “Left a note and his business card on the door.”
Estrada thought of the digital photos he’d just downloaded. “Small guy, bald, dresses nice but wears dark running shoes?”
“That’s him. Glad you know him. I was worried.”
“Worried? Why?”
“Well, he said he knew you, described you pretty well, and thought you lived in the area, but he didn’t know exactly where. I thought at first he was canvassing the area, you know, like the cops do on TV.”
Estrada fought to look completely unconcerned. The reason for that was simple, Estrada thought: his postal mail was delivered to the same Arroyo Court address as the other three families that lived there. That meant that whoever it was who had his address was looking for him. “Well, actually, I didn’t tell the guy my address when I met up with him a while back—I’m not sure I want to work with this guy again,” Estrada lied, “but I did describe our neighborhood, so I’m sure he tracked me down.”
“I pointed out your place to him. Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Don’t worry about it, Grace,” Estrada said.
“If he comes around again, what should I do? Should I give him your cell phone number?”
Estrada shrugged nonchalantly, but inside his mind was racing a million kilometers per hour. “He should have it,” he said casually, “but sure, if he wants it, go ahead and give it to him.” It didn’t matter—it would be shut down soon anyway. “Another glass of the Silver Oak Cab and I’ll be ready for the check, Grace.”
