Abuse of Power (34 page)

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 & 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 often filled every single chair. Lights shone down from a maze of metal rafters overhead, reminding Jack of an alien craft hovering above the earth.

When they entered, Jack and Sara were guided by an usher toward a section near the arena floor. On the floor itself, men in blazers and women in conservative suits led dogs on leashes around a cordoned-off area, as the judges carefully eyeballed them, and the audience applauded. This was an all-breed conformation show, and there were a variety of purebreds in competition, including poodles, Irish wolfhounds, Boykin spaniels, German wirehaired pointers, Great Danes, mastiffs, Rottweilers—from large to small, fluffy to nearly hairless, all magnificent in their own way, the best of the best on display. An Irish wolfhound caught Jack’s attention—a breed he had always admired for its beauty and fearlessness. They were known to hunt wolves in packs. There were also Turkish sheepdogs, their gigantic, spiked iron antiwolf collars displayed beside them as they got to their feet. These Anatolian shepherd dogs hid among the sheep, giving an attacking wolf a huge surprise when they bit into their iron collars.

Jack had long been a dog lover, and seeing a gray poodle parade proudly across the floor made him instantly miss Eddie. But he knew the little guy was in good hands with Tony, and he’d be home soon enough to greet him.

He hoped, he prayed, it wasn’t to say good-bye. That was the thought that had haunted him from the moment they landed—that this city he loved, his
home,
would be harmed, possibly destroyed, by some lunatic with no regard for anything but his own, sick zealotry.

The usher led them to a pair of seats that were just a few yards from the arena floor. As they approached, Senator Harold Wickham rose from his chair and held out a hand. The men shook warmly. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Wickham’s bodyguard—an athletic, powerfully built guy in a dark suit—watching them closely.

“Good to see you, Jack,” Wickham said. “Even if it’s under such pressing circumstances.”

Jack was immediately comfortable in his presence. “Good to see you, too, Senator.”

Wickham was trim and well built, with thinning silvery hair that framed an angular, green-eyed face. He wore an expensive charcoal-gray suit, and carried himself with what could only be called Republican charm—warm, fatherly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes. The gentle Texas accent completed the picture.

Wickham’s gaze shifted to Sara in the way that most men seemed to look at her when she entered a room—with sudden great interest.

“I take it you’re Ms. Ghadah?”

Sara shook his hand and smiled. “Sara.”

“Well, Sara, it’s a great, great pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry you’ve found yourself caught up in this mess.”

“Completely by choice,” she said. She added quietly, “I want to stop these madmen as badly as you do.”

Wickham smiled. “That’s good to hear.” He gestured. “Have a seat. Both of you.”

Jack glanced at Wickham’s bodyguard, who didn’t seem to approve of either of them. In a way it was fitting. Jack just found out what it was like to be a Muslim under suspicion. Jack noted, curiously, that the bodyguard had what looked like a laser pointer clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket and wondered what it was for. Did he use it as some kind of defensive weapon? Jack certainly couldn’t imagine the guy giving PowerPoint presentations.

All of this vacated Jack’s mind as he and Sara sank into the two chairs next to Wickham. The senator was quiet for a moment, staring out at the show in progress, applauding as others applauded.

Then he said, “Such noble creatures, don’t you think?”

Jack nodded. “Definitely.”

“Look at that Newfoundland, for example. That thick black coat. The way he sits so straight and tall, waiting for his master’s command.”

“He’s beautiful,” Sara said.

“Did you know that a Newfoundland once saved Napoleon Bonaparte from drowning when he fell off a ship? Napoleon didn’t know how to swim, but Newfoundlands are notorious for their affinity with water. After the rescue, Napoleon himself is supposed to have said, ‘Here, gentlemen, a dog teaches us a lesson in humanity.’” Wickham chuckled. “Indeed.

“Loyalty,” Wickham went on, “that’s what it’s all about. You know the story about Greyfriars Bobby, don’t you, Jack?”

Jack nodded, but the senator pointed to a waiting group of Skye terriers and continued. “Greyfriars became famous in nineteenth-century Edinburgh after reportedly spending fourteen years guarding over the grave of his owner, John Gray. A year after this loyal little dog died himself, in 1873, a statue and fountain were built in the Scottish capital to remember him.”

“I know the story well,” Jack said with a nod. “From the 1961 Disney film about that angel with fur called
Greyfriars Bobby.
”

Wickham smiled warmly. “Saw it as a boy. Made me what I am today. I don’t just mean the dog lover. I mean the concept of loyalty, dedication, no matter the inconvenience or cost. Without it, you’re nothing.”

Jack was enjoying the conversation, but had more pressing matters on his mind. “Senator, we need to talk about the Hand of Allah.”

Wickham quickly glanced around as if hoping no one had heard, a tiny bit of paranoia that seemed out of character. Then he leaned toward them, keeping his voice low. “Not to worry, son. Thanks to you and Ms. Ghadah here, we’ve got it all under control.”

“You found the guy from Allied?”

“We did indeed. It took some careful maneuvering with people I knew I could trust, but right now he’s in the middle of a sit-down with a contact of mine from Homeland Security.”

“Who is he?”

“A young Saudi kid who went to work for Allied about a year ago. We’re still checking whether or not he’s legal, but I’m guessing he isn’t. Which means our illustrious friend Mr. Soren may be in a bit of trouble—although I doubt he’d see much more than a fine. It isn’t likely he knew what was going on under his nose. Not many would.”

“What about the shipping container? Did you find it?”

Wickham nodded. “We did. But it was clean. So either the device has already been taken or it never existed at all.”

The “already been taken” part caused Jack some distress. “Has the President been apprised?”

“Yes, but he’s playing it cautiously. He doesn’t want to jump until we have concrete evidence. That USB key will help. Do you have it on you?”

Sara took it from her pocket and handed it across to him.

Wickham turned it in his fingers. “Amazing how much the world has changed, isn’t it? In my day it would have been a simple slip of paper left at a designated drop zone. Now we can transfer all the world’s secrets with the touch of a key. Something that WikiLeaks bastard learned to our great detriment.”

“What about Hassan Haddad?” Jack asked. “Have you located him?”

“We have evidence he came into the city a couple days ago on a diplomatic visa, but we haven’t been able to find him so far.”

That was a second bit of bad news.

“Senator,” Jack said, “with Haddad on the loose and an empty container, shouldn’t they be thinking of canceling the gala tomorrow night?”

Wickham scoffed. “Not a chance.”

“But—”

“I know what you’re gonna say, Jack, but I don’t think you understand the magnitude of the situation. The Legion of Honor is having a black-tie gala to celebrate the art of Islam.”

“How touching,” Jack said.

“You see the problem,” Wickham said. “It’s open only to high-end museum patrons and the whole damn point of the exercise is to demonstrate solidarity and acceptance among people of all cultures, to put all this anti-Muslim sentiment behind us. If we jump the gun and accuse the Hand of Allah of a terrorist plot that doesn’t exist, we’ll have more PR damage than we’ll know what to do with.”

“And if it does exist, we may have more real damage than we know what to do with, including a dead President.”

“Not gonna happen,” Wickham said. “That place will be sealed up tight. No way anyone who even smells of trouble will make it through those doors without being fully scanned. Even the big museum patrons and politicians.”

Jack still didn’t like it. His gut told him they were thinking too small, too locally. And there was still the unexplained reference to the “twins.” “What about the British government? Any progress on that front?”

Wickham balked. “Come on, Jack, this is a very delicate matter. We have to move slowly and with deliberation before we can determine who’s friend or foe over there. Trust me, we’ll be looking into this Zuabi character and any ties he might have to MI6 or the Home Office. It’ll all come out in the wash.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I think our first concern,” Wickham said, “is finding Hassan Haddad. Even if the legion is secure, I’m not particularly comfortable with him running around in the wild.”

“I agree with that. So what’s the plan?”

“My man in Homeland Security is trying to get something out of Allied about this character, but he’s playing by the rules so who knows how much luck he’s having? In the meantime, I’ve put together a small team to look at this thing. People who can be trusted. We’ve taken over the bed-and-breakfast at a little island lighthouse station for the night to work out a strategy. Sent the caretakers on a short vacation so we can talk freely.” He looked at Jack and Sara. “I’d like you two to join us. I’m sure the others would love your input. Especially you, Sara, since you seem to know the most about who and what we’re up against.”

Jack and Sara exchanged a glance, then Sara said, “Absolutely. Count us in.”

Senator Wickham smiled that charming Texas smile of his, then took a fond, parting look at the arena and got to his feet. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Why don’t we head on out there now?”

32

The East Brother light station was practically unknown outside of the Richmond–San Rafael area. Established in 1874, it was located just off Point San Pablo in the northern part of the bay, perched atop one of the tiny islands called the Brothers. Ships making their way to Sacramento, through the strait between the San Francisco and San Pablo bays, had to negotiate numerous small islands and indented coastline that were treacherous at night or in fog. The lighthouse was the solution. East Brother Island was dominated by a large two-story beige Victorian-style bed-and-breakfast, fronted by the rectangular tower of the lighthouse itself. Despite being only a quarter mile from the shore, the island was isolated and quiet, except for the occasional bray of a foghorn.

It was the perfect place to get work done without interruption.

When Jack spent time in his apartment off the Embarcadero, he often looked toward the Richmond Bridge from his bay window, thinking about the night he’d spent at the light station with Rachel. He had fallen in love with the place back then—at least
that
love was real—but all these years later he had yet to repeat the experience.

Wickham’s driver took them down a desolate, rutted access road that threatened to destroy the limousine’s suspension. After about twenty thumping minutes they reached an old, dilapidated pier.

The light station stood just across the water, the windows of the house lit up, the lighthouse beacon shining like a large star in the night sky. It was a foggy night, but the light broke through the fog in dispersed rays.

There was a twenty-eight-foot open Chris-Craft waiting for them, its pilot nodding to them politely as Jack, Sara, Wickham, and his bodyguard stepped aboard. The sun was down and the air had grown chilly, the sea breeze whipping at their clothes and hair as they found seats and sat down.