Backfire (19 page)

San Francisco

Monday night

Xu stood beneath the striped awning of Morrie’s Deli on Seventh Street, looking through the rain at the Hall of Justice across the street, and waited. It really didn’t make any difference that he was there because there wasn’t anything more he could do. But even if he couldn’t control what would happen, he wanted to be close.

He hated feeling impotent. He’d had no choice but to put his trust in people he hardly knew to carry out his plans, too often a recipe for disaster. His Chinese trainers had dinned into his head over the years never to give anyone else a task that was critical to a mission. And nothing could be more critical to him than Cindy and Clive Cahill dying tonight.

It was at moments like this that he wondered what his life would be like if he had stayed Joe Keats, the name he’d picked for himself when he was eighteen and tired of having Xian Xu mangled and then mocked as a girl’s name by the uneducated idiots in Lampo, Indiana. No one ever mispronounced Joe Keats. Except for some of the braying asses he’d trained with in Beijing, who thought it shameful that he, with a Chinese father, had taken on an American name.

He drew a calming breath. He had done what he could, and if his plans went south, he was ready to run, from the FBI, even from Chinese intelligence, if he had to. He would survive.

Joyce Yang, the girl who’d turned him to the dark side, she’d say and laugh her husky laugh that made him mad with lust, and why not, he’d been only twenty years old. He’d loved her with everything in him, at least in those long-ago days before she’d betrayed him with a mid-rung operative, Li Han, in Chinese intelligence, and Xu had cut her throat and buried her deep near her precious hometown of Beijing, where he knew the choking sand from the Gobi Desert would score her grave until her bones were uncovered in the years to come, a fitting place for her, he’d thought at the time. As for Li Han, a man who looked like he was supposed to—Chinese through and through—Xu had left him with a slit throat in an alley in one of the many nasty parts of Beijing where murder was as common as girls selling themselves for a bowl of rice. Would their kids have looked Caucasian like him or like their mother, a full-blooded Chinese?

He looked at his watch. Nine-twenty on this dark rainy night in San Francisco. Soon he’d be drinking scotch at the Fairmont Hotel, watching the football wrap-up of the Monday-night game on the big flat-screen TV in the sports bar.

He whistled, realized he didn’t have enough spit in his mouth. For twelve years he’d survived—indeed, he’d thrived—working undercover in the American section of Chinese intelligence. They had taken to calling him
mingzing
—the star—because of what he’d accomplished for them. He’d learned to be ruthless in the way they respected, and yet he was charming enough to talk people out of their paychecks. Maybe his black hair was a bit too glossy and coarse, but no one would question that he looked entirely American, just like his mother, Ann Xu, who’d been an American history teacher at Lampo High School. The principal, fat Mr. Buck, hadn’t made fun of him like his peers had, since Xu was the school system’s expert in cyber-security. Buck even managed to get him a computer science scholarship to Berkeley. Xu wondered sometimes what Mr. Buck was doing these days. He smiled now. No way Mr. Buck, the bulwark of American conceit and smugness, could know his prized student had killed three students on his watch. Even then, Xu had been good at making people simply disappear.

Joyce poked into his memory again, those beautiful almond eyes of hers, whispering her flawless English in his ear how it would astound her trainers that he could so easily pass for a Caucasian. Like him, she’d been born in the U.S., not twenty miles from Berkeley. Ah, those days at Berkeley, hoisting up the Chinese flag, screaming with other protesters about the brilliance and honor of the Chinese people and the profligacy and corruption of Americans. He’d learned over the years, though, that it was the Chinese who had the market cornered in corruption. He wasn’t like the Chinese, he wasn’t corrupt, he carried his assignments out promptly and professionally—but now he was watching in disbelief as his life spiraled into the crapper in the span of five short days.

He’d failed in his mission—his
anli
—his superiors had told him, because he’d chosen defective tools, yet they’d happily approved Xu’s plans when he’d assured them Cindy Cahill could focus her attention on Mark Lindy and he’d be stuttering to do whatever she wished. And he’d been right, Lindy couldn’t resist her, just as his handlers couldn’t resist trying to get their hands on the latest generation of the Stuxnet worm Lindy was working on. Even the original Israeli worm had infected sixty percent of Iranian computers and slowed down their production of nuclear fuel for years. Having the access codes to Lindy’s work was as important to their industrial security as having the hydrogen bomb.

But his superiors had ended up being right about those two losers, Cindy and Clive Cahill. To cover themselves, they said they’d known Lindy would be too smart and too cagey to fall for a Mata Hari, that he’d be as careful with his passwords as the devil with a bowl of ice cubes.

Xu remembered as clearly as if it had happened today when he’d gotten a call from Cindy more than eight months ago, hysterical, screaming—Lindy was dead, that it wasn’t her fault he’d been called in by some sort of incident response team and they’d questioned him about accessing private networks that Lindy knew he hadn’t accessed, and he’d accused her of calling up the Stuxnet program on his computer. She’d called in Clive, and he’d held Lindy down while Cindy had poured the poison down his throat. Idiots, both of them, asking to be caught, and they had, of course.

All his superiors in Beijing had wanted was to have him steal the information and leave the country, with no one the wiser, if possible. They blamed him that a high-ranking American cyber-intelligence officer had died. They made it clear they wanted no more killings, and so he’d made a deal with the Cahills, hired Milo to keep them quiet, gotten O’Rourke in line, and waited.

Until everything went to hell. O’Rourke had panicked, ready to spill his guts to that damned judge when he’d suspended the trial. He’d fixed that problem, but he still couldn’t be sure how much Judge Hunt knew, or suspected.

From the moment he’d slit O’Rourke’s throat, he’d been on his own. From that point on, the Chinese would be more likely to have him killed to prevent his arrest than to help him. Perhaps if he succeeded tonight, the Chinese would see he’d acted in their best interest as well as his own.

It will be all right, Xu, you’ll see, it doesn’t matter that those silly kids are making fun of you, my darling, that just makes them stupid.
And his mother had rocked him when he was small, and he’d believed her, but he’d started to feel a simmering rage, a rage that seemed to encase him like a tunnel, and he knew he wanted to kill them all for mocking him. When Xu was fourteen, one of the bullies with a brand-new driver’s license had died in an auto accident, or so it was ruled. He remembered his mother had looked at him as if she knew what he’d done, but she’d said nothing. But he remembered now, she was watchful, always watchful after that. He’d been more careful with the other two bullies.

Xu shook his head, wondering why he’d think of his mother now, wondering, too, if she would rock him now, tell him he was smart, that he’d figure his way through this fiasco, and everything would be all right. Had she known then he would kill again? And again?

As for his father, he was grateful to the loser for two things—he’d forced him to learn Mandarin and had sent him to Beijing to visit his grandfather before the old man dropped over dead during Xu’s last visit when he was seventeen.

He looked down at his watch again, saw a streak of blood on his left wrist. How could he have missed it? He scrubbed his skin until the dried blood flaked off. Was it Milo’s blood, or the woman’s? What was her name? Pixie, that was it, like some lame rip-off of Tinker Bell.

No matter. Soon Billy Cochran would be dispatching Clive Cahill to hell. He knew Cochran as an angry man who’d killed before, a three-time felon set to transfer out to San Quentin in the morning. Cochran had very little to lose, and was enough of a veteran inmate to know how to kill Clive without being caught. Cochran had been eager enough to accept the offer Xu had made when he’d visited him—he was leaving an aging grandmother who needed money badly. Cochran was vicious enough and would feel no remorse, but there was always the question of whether he could pull it off. He’d been caught three times, after all. Xu wished he could do it himself, but it wasn’t possible.

Nine-twenty-nine—one minute until Cochran killed Clive. Xu himself had set the time. That was when the TVs were turned off and the prisoners were herded to the showers before they returned to their cells for the night.

Nine-thirty exactly. Cochran should be smoothly slipping his shiv into Clive’s back to penetrate his heart, and he’d fall dead without a sound, leaving trails of his blood to mix with the water going down the shower drain. Cochran would be gone in the morning, and there was no missing that fool. Xu looked through the big window into Morrie’s Deli and thought about a corned beef on rye. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day, but not yet, not just yet.

Cindy’s death might be more problematic, and a pity, really. He thought of the last time he’d had sex with Cindy, what a delight she was as she slid her fingers beneath her thong and shimmied it down her legs. Yes, a pity. Once, a long time ago, he’d thought they might work together again.

The best he could find was a scared little Asian woman, maybe five feet tall, and one hundred pounds. She’d spoken to Cindy to gain her trust; he’d made sure of that. He’d found Lin Mei himself, out on bail, and he’d found she had a little boy. She didn’t have Cindy’s physical strength, and that might be a problem if Cindy spotted the blade at the last second. Still, he had more faith in Lin Mei than in Cochran. She was an immigrant, and he’d been right to think she’d believe him absolutely when he looked her directly in the eyes and told her in fluent Mandarin her son would die if she failed in her task.

It was nine-thirty-five now, and it was over, one way or the other. He looked into the rain-soaked night and imagined fireworks, bursting balls of sparkling red shooting out of the top of the Hall of Justice.

He prayed the whole nightmare was over.

He pulled his collar up on his Burberry rain jacket and walked down Seventh Street toward the Bayshore Freeway, where his Audi was parked in a safe underground garage.

As he cranked the engine he realized he’d forgotten the corned beef on rye. It was a cop deli, too, probably delicious.

Harry Christoff’s house

Maple Street

San Francisco

Monday night

Harry pulled his Shelby into the driveway, cut the engine, and turned to face Eve. She had asked him about every detail of the crime scene in Bel Marin Keys. They had fallen back on talking about the brutal murders as dispassionately and professionally as they could, but it was difficult.

Eve said, “At least Savich should have a real shot with the Cahills tomorrow morning. We’ve got them isolated in the marshal holding cells, out of contact. They shouldn’t find out about Milo’s murder until Savich springs it on them. There’s a good chance one of them will talk, since Xu killed their lawyer this time, their only contact with Xu and the person they’ve been pinning their hopes on to get them out. What’s left for them to try?”

Eve opened both her car door and her umbrella, and ducked under it. She stepped onto the driveway and took her first good look at Harry’s house. Even in the dark with the rain pouring down, she could see enough to be surprised at how big it was, probably worth a bundle even in this depressed market. She liked the shake roof and the big windows that gave it a colonial sort of feel even without the columns. She ran through the rain from Harry’s Shelby to the front door. A bright porch light was a welcoming beacon. There were even ferns hanging from under the porch ceiling, still looking perky, though it was nearly Thanksgiving. She imagined the tree-filled yard would be spectacular in the spring and summer.

“I like your house; it’s the showcase of the neighborhood, isn’t it? You’ll have to tell me how you snagged it.”

He gave her only a curt nod. It was odd, Eve thought, but Harry had seemed a bit unwilling to bring her here, but, as she reminded him, he’d been to her condo, and now it was time for her to see his digs.

His wife’s digs, he’d said, not looking at her.

Since she’d left the Suburban at the marshals’ pool at the Federal Building, he’d offered to take her home. She knew he hadn’t realized he would be making a stop first.

“Everything is beautiful. You have a gardener, don’t you?”

He nodded. “His name is Mr. Sanchez. He’s been with me six years, comes once a week. His son helps him now.” He paused for a moment as he stuck his key in the front door, looked over his shoulder at her. “I just realized I don’t know his first name. He’s always been Mr. Sanchez to me. His son goes by Junior Sanchez.” He smiled. “Not Sanchez Junior.”

He pushed open the door, turned off the alarm, and stepped back for her. “Come on in.”

Eve shook out her umbrella and slipped it inside a copper umbrella pot. She stood in a small square entryway with a mirror on the wall above a curvy modern table for mail and flowers, but the beautiful Italian cachepot was empty. The gardeners didn’t work inside. He pointed her to the living room, where a big easy chair, an ottoman, and a big-screen TV were displayed front and center, and a pile of newspapers had been tossed in a haphazard stack on the floor beside the chair. Sure, there was a sofa, chairs, and a coffee table, all with an Italian country flavor, but it was obvious he never sat there. Other than the pile of newspapers, nothing else was out of place. No beer cans, no running shoes. Two
Sports Illustrated
magazines sat on the coffee table. She gave him points when she saw that neither one was the swimsuit issue.

Still, everything was so “guy,” she had to smile. She looked at the walls, saw they were covered with framed travel posters—of Lake Como, the Alps, Parliament on the Thames—all in full color, inviting you to step right in. She waved toward the posters. “Do you like to travel, Harry?”

“Yes.”

She turned to him. “Only a simple yes? No explanation, like whether you’ve been to all these places and which one is your very favorite in the whole world?”

“That would be Lake Como, I guess. The hiking is great around there. I like Inverness for hiking, too.”

She said, “I’ve never been to Inverness.”

“It’s stark, usually cloudy, often raining, and almost, well, painfully real. Would you like some coffee?”

She checked her watch. “I’d be a moron to drink coffee this late. You have nonfat milk? Splenda?”

He had both.

Eve watched him grind coffee beans, then measure the ground coffee into the filter and dump water in from the sink tap.

Harry said, “Funny what Savich said about Billy Hammond, his friend at the CIA in Langley. He wouldn’t verify anything at all about the information Xu obtained or was after, even though he’s known Savich for a hundred years, give or take. That kind of secrecy, it’s enough to make you gag in your soup.”

“At least he apologized,” Eve said. “It must be incredibly sensitive stuff if they’re putting tape over his mouth. I’ll bet they already know exactly what was accessed, since it would be recorded on their servers. They just don’t want anyone else to know, though, even us.”

“According to Savich,” Harry said, “they weren’t much interested in interviewing the Cahills. They probably know the Cahills didn’t know about the information Xu accessed, or how valuable it is. But maybe they know enough to help us find Xu.”

“That’s all we want from them, really,” Eve said.

Suddenly he was staring at her as they stood in his kitchen, listening to the coffee perk, shaking his head.

“What? Do I have rain still dripping off my nose?”

He said, “The first time I saw you I thought you looked like a homecoming queen from somewhere in the Midwest, someone who should be frosting cupcakes for her kid’s birthday party. I wondered, how can she possibly be a deputy U.S. marshal?” He shook his head again. “You’re so damned pretty.” Then he waved his hands, as if he were trying to wave away his words.

Since it was obvious to her that Harry wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Eve waved her own hands at his kitchen cabinets. “You said you liked my kitchen. I had it remodeled last year, you know. I found a really good contractor who came in on budget and on time. You want her name?”

“Nah, everything works fine. Once in a while the sink clogs, but that’s no big deal.”

She grinned. “You’re right. Nothing wrong with cooking in the 1940s. Now that I think about it, if you wait another couple of years, all your kitchen appliances will be back in style as retro, except maybe for those green-tinted cabinets.”

He handed her a mug of coffee, gave her nonfat milk from the refrigerator, and dug out a couple of packets of Splenda from his stuff drawer. As she stirred her coffee, she said, “What you said, Harry—do you know my brothers are always saying the same thing? They still call me Miss Suzie-Q.

“When I told my dad I wanted to be a U.S. marshal like he is, though, he looked at me up and down and said, ‘That would make me very proud, Eve. It’s a great career choice for you. You’ll be one of the best.’” She paused for a moment, looked down into her coffee mug. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said, straight up. I’ve never forgotten.” She cleared her throat and drank some coffee. “This is very good, Harry. Do you cook?”

“When the need arises. What did your mom say?”

Eve took another sip of her coffee, enjoyed the zing of caffeine, though she knew she’d be cursing herself at two a.m. “When my dad told her what I wanted to do, she laughed. And laughed. She was happy. I saw her kiss my dad and shake her head and say something about the apple not falling far from the tree.

“I look just like my mom, you know. It’s funny what you said, Harry, because my mom was a college cheerleader. And I can still see her cutting our birthday cakes at our big kid parties, hear her singing at the top of her lungs, leading all the kids in a sing-along. I might add that everyone adored her. She was so beautiful, so bouncy and fun. She still is.”

Harry said, “So you fell pretty close to both trees. And your dad’s the U.S. marshal in Chicago?”

“Yep. Like I told you, he’s an anomaly. He’s served under two different presidents now, unlike most of the ninety-four marshals countrywide. Tell me about your folks, Harry.”

He shrugged. “They live in London—well, they do for most of the year. They love to travel, always have, and they took me with them. I guess they gave me the travel bug.”

She could only gape at him. Parents lived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for heaven’s sake, or Minneola, Florida, not London, England. “Why do they live in London?”

He looked like he wanted to tell her to leave it alone, but he said finally, “My dad’s a financier. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but that’s what he says he is.”

“What does he finance?”

“Well, he runs Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

She let out a whistle. “They’re so big even I’ve heard of them. They’re worldwide. And they survived the bankers’ rape of the world with fairly clean hands, from all I’ve read. Your dad’s CEO?”

“Well, not really. He’s the chairman of the board. Actually, he pretty much is Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

“But your name’s Christoff.”

“Willet and Haversham are his first and middle names, the middle name from his own father, and Bayle is his best friend. They picked the name because Dad liked the sound of it, all snooty and English, like one of their ancient law firms.”

“So your dad is Willet Haversham Christoff? And what’s your full name?”

“I’ll tell you on my deathbed.”

“That bad? Does your name sound like an English duke? All right, I’ll wait. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I’m an only child.”

“All right, I’ll keep pulling hen’s teeth. Your mom?”

“Sylvia is my mom. She’s a fashion consultant.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugged. “She’d take one look at you and want to haul you off to be photographed for
Vogue.
And she’d be right. The camera would love you, she’d say. You’ve got great bones.”

“How would you know that?”

“She took me with her on photo shoots, showed me all the subtle clues in a person’s face, actually. I’ve found it all very useful to a cop.”

“With that background, why’d you want to be a cop?”

Harry said, without hesitation, “My uncle Roy, my mom’s brother, is FBI. When I was six years old he told me I had the heart of a cop. He was right.”

Harry’s cell rang. “Yeah?”

His face remained impassive, but his eyes hardened. “We’ll be there in twelve minutes.”

“What?”

“You put the Cahills in a holding cell in the Federal Building, right? Someone evidently cleared the Cahills to go back to the San Francisco jail. Cheney called, found out they were transferred at eight-forty-five tonight.”

“No, that’s not possible. I mean—what happened?”