War of Eagles

briefcase or backpack, which seemed unusual. He noticed, too, that both beer bottles had napkins around them. They were wrapped entirely around the glass, as though both men did not want to leave fingerprints.

Lo Tek wondered if that meant anything, or if his naturally suspicious nature were getting the best of him.

That was the last thought the slave trader had before his eardrums exploded, followed by the rest of the room.

A bomb had been left in a briefcase under the table and was triggered remotely. It consisted of six sticks of TNT bound with electrical tape and capped with a detonator. The sticks were packed in a bed of sugar.

From Durban.

The explosion fused the sugar into tiny shards, blowing them around the room like fireflies. The small table was shredded as the explosion slammed through the room. The force of the blast did not just pulverize objects and people, it knocked them about like a force five hurricane. Blood and alcohol were dashed against the walls, first by the TNT and moments after that by the exploding CO₂ canisters behind the bar. There were a few screams from below as the dance floor of the nightclub was shoved down into the exclusive rooms on the thirty- ninth floor. Moments later there were cries from the streets as the big picture windows flew outward. Particles of glass rained down thickly, like hail, clattering off rooftops, cars, and the street. Twisted barstools, along with broken bottles and glasses, were hurled toward the exterior wall. Most of the window frames were bent and dislocated, hanging at odd angles over the street. Some were still dropping larger pieces of glass to the pavement as dark gray smoke churned through them. The winds carried it over the harbor, an added pall on the already steamy night. People who were caught in the lethal rain were knocked to the pavement, some writhing with minor wounds and others utterly still, impaled by the larger pieces of debris.

The maelstrom lasted for less than five seconds. Sirens broke the muffled silence that followed, wailing nearer from all directions as scraps of paper and clouds of powdered pasteboard and brick continued to drift earthward. Some of the debris ended up in the harbor.

Including, fittingly, the paper boat Lo Tek had made.

It sank quickly.

TWELVE

Washington, D.C. Monday, 1:01 P.M.

After Paul Hood was shown to his office, a young female intern who did not look much older than his daughter came in and cheerfully showed him how to work his computer. The lady — Mindy, from Texas money, he knew from her accent and her Armani suit — dutifully looked away after telling him how to program his personal password.

“A master program maintains a record of all your Web stops, Mr. Hood,” the slender young woman informed him. “The president has asked us all to be circumspect about where we go.”

Hood could actually hear the Southern-born president using a word like that, imbuing it with the proper balance of danger and piety. The young intern sounded very mature indeed, carrying forth that word from the commander in chief. At Op-Center, Hood used to tell people the same thing. It took him two words, though: “No porn.”

Mindy showed Hood how to work the telephone and gave him a swipe card for the men’s room. She was very professional about that, too. After the young woman left, Hood sat alone, with the door shut. Chief of Staff Sanders said she would come by at three. She wanted to review her thoughts with Hood on how the new office might work. She assured him, however, that the decision would be his, and he would have full autonomy on the final setup.

As long as you agree, Hood thought. Otherwise, the new special envoy would be removed, and someone else would get the job. That was how things worked in the nation’s capital.

It was difficult to process everything that had just happened. Hood looked around and smiled mirthlessly. About the only thing today had in common with yesterday was that Hood still did not have a window.

Just an exit, if he needed it.

Hood felt alone, despite the people he knew were just a few feet away. He was at the seat of power, yet he felt strangely powerless. It would be odd not to receive hourly intelligence reports from the research rooms upstairs. It was frustrating not to have anyone of a Bob Herbert or Darrell McCaskey caliber to consult.

That is not entirely true, he reminded himself. Hood owed Bob Herbert a phone call.

It took a moment for Hood to remember how to work the telephone. He had to press nine, enter his department code, then punch in the number he wanted. At Op-Center it was the other way around.

“Paul, what the hell is going on?” Herbert asked after Hood had said hello.

“More changes,” Hood replied.

“That’s obvious. The phone ID says you’re calling from the White House.”

“I’m the new special envoy to the president,” Hood replied.

“Special envoy to where?” Herbert asked.

“Everywhere. I am still an international crisis manager,” Hood replied.

“Did you know that this was coming? Any of it, including the changing of the guard over here?”

“No,” Hood said.

“Neither did I. And we’re intelligence professionals.”

“An attack always comes from somewhere you’re not expecting it,” Hood pointed out.

“Is that what this was?” Herbert asked.

“What do you mean?”

“An attack?” Herbert said. “Hell, I thought we were all on the same side.”

The remark caught Hood like a palm-heel strike to the side of the head. Herbert had a point. Hood was obviously not pleased with how this had gone down, and he was not sure why. Not everyone got “fired” to the White House. He should be flattered, not angry. Maybe it was the idea that he was now working for someone. He had never done that in his career, not as the mayor of Los Angeles, as a financial adviser, or as the head of Op- Center. Though the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee watched what the NCMC was doing and how the money was spent, Hood was the superior officer. He did not report to one. The question he had to answer, truthfully, was whether he considered the president an enemy.

No. Lorraine Sanders, maybe, he decided. She struck him as being extremely territorial.

“How is everyone taking the change?” Hood asked.

“I don’t know,” Herbert admitted. “Numb, I guess. We had a staff meeting this morning, and everyone was pretty quiet. But I haven’t really talked to anyone. I’ve been looking into this situation we have.”

“Can you talk about it?” Hood asked. He wanted to put on his professional hat as soon as possible. Dwelling on personal issues was not going to get him anything but deeper into them.

“Sure,” Herbert replied. “You’ve still got your security clearance, right?”

“Yeah,” Hood said. Herbert was not joking. That bothered Hood, but like everything else, he was not sure why. Herbert was just doing his job, following a protocol that Hood had helped to establish.

“Someone out there is capping Chinese interests abroad,” Herbert told him. “There have been three incidents in one day. General Carrie wanted to know if they are connected or if we need to be concerned about that.”

“Do you?” Hood asked.

“It’s too early to say,” Herbert replied. “Charleston police report finding the remains of Chinese stowaways in the harbor. An hour ago there was an explosion at a nightclub in Taipei. Special guests received special treatment there—”

“From mainland Chinese girls,” Hood said.

“You see where this is going,” Herbert replied. “We do not believe that someone is attacking men and women who leave China. We suspect the target is the enabler, whoever is helping them to get out and making money from their sale in Taipei or the United States. Darrell just got off the horn with a friend in the Taipei Municipal Police Department. The Section Four Bomb Squad, attached to the Xihu Police Substation, was at the site within minutes.