Burt had all the rest figured out, too — how it’d look like some wetbacks or foreign agents had done it (this was part of the plan that Burt had kind of kept under wraps), and the war to reclaim America’s borders, and its proud white heritage, would be well under way.
Sadowski couldn’t resist popping open the lockers and looking over his equipment one more time. Army fatigues (he considered this work to be a continuing part of his national service), flashlight, canteen (filled with Gatorade to keep his electrolytes high), a forty-caliber Browning Hi-Power pistol (its grip made from the wood of the last surviving Liberty Tree), and most important of all, his fireproof asbestos sheath; this was what the smoke jumpers up north used, just in case they found themselves caught in the middle of a fire. Burt had shown them what to do. As fast as you could, you made a depression in the ground, then lay down in it with the sheath zipped up (from the inside) from your feet to your head. If the fire lingered, you’d probably cook to death—“like an ear of corn in aluminum foil,” Burt had joked — but if you were lucky and it swept on past quickly enough, you’d make it out alive.
In a rucksack, under a wadded-up mosquito net, there were a half dozen incendiary bombs on timers, all of them housed in empty Kleenex boxes — the boutique style. It was amazing how cheaply Burt had been able to make them; all he’d needed was some battery-operated alarm clocks, a bag or two of fertilizer, some of those Fire Starter sticks for home barbecues. Sadowski wondered why there weren’t more arsonists; you could create some major havoc for not much money, and with very little chance of ever getting caught. Most of the evidence against you went up in the blaze. (Burt had bragged that he’d been arrested several times, but never convicted, for fire-related crimes.)
There was a portable TV in the corner, perched on top of a mini fridge, and Sadowski turned it on. Cold Case had been replaced by another of his favorite shows, American Justice. The host, Bill Kurtis, was someone Sadowski thought he could really get along with; he seemed like a regular guy. Sadowski took a cold beer out of the fridge and plopped himself down on the rickety desk chair. It was a rerun — about some woman in Texas who’d run over her cheating husband in a parking lot — but it was still good. And it took his mind off what he had to do — at precisely 1700 the next afternoon — in the swanky hills of Bel-Air.
And wasn’t his old army buddy — Captain Derek Greer — going to get a good swift kick in the ass out of that? Sadowski hoped — though it wasn’t likely on the Fourth of July — that he’d get to see him up there, at the Arab’s place. It would be so much sweeter if Greer actually knew who had fucked him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Even though it was the Fourth of July, it was business as usual around the Cox household, Beth reflected. Carter had run off to the Page Museum to catch up on some urgent paperwork — or so he claimed — and Beth had managed to prevail upon Robin to come to the house for just a few hours to watch Joey, so she, too, could go to work. With the museum closed for the day, and the staff all off at backyard barbecues and pool parties, Beth thought she’d never find a better time to run in, enter the last few paragraphs of the scribe’s secret letter into the computer database, get the translation… and find out, at last, how the drama had come to an end.
Traffic was heavy — it was another hot, dry day, and everybody in L.A. seemed to be heading for the beach — but fortunately Summit View wasn’t far from the Getty. And of course there were no cars, other than those belonging to a few of the usual security personnel, in the garage. Beth had an assigned spot, but it wasn’t as close to the elevators as some of the others, so she took one of those. The parking garage was at the foot of the hill, and the tram, which took visitors all the way up to the museum complex, had no one else on board. As the sleek, air-conditioned car made its way up the curving track, Beth looked out over the 405 freeway — the cars inching along, bumper to bumper — and toward the neighboring hills of Bel-Air. Way up at the top, though well hidden from view, was the al-Kalli estate… and on that estate was the book Beth considered one of the most remarkable in the world. A book that might now remain unknown, and unseen, forever.
The very thought still pained her.
Stepping out into the wide, travertine plaza, she saw only one other person, a security guard whom she knew. She waved to him and he waved back. Her own staff card allowed her to enter the building where her office was located. The carpeted halls, never noisy, were now completely silent; no phones were ringing, no copying machines were humming. It was all that she could have wished for.
Until she approached her own office. Lights were on, and spilling into the hall. And she could hear the clatter of computer keys, at a dizzying rate of speed. A rate that she knew only one person in the world would be capable of — her assistant.
When she stopped and looked inside, Elvis, his back to her, was staring at his computer monitor while his fingers flew across the keyboard and his head bopped to the jangling tune accompanying the program on his screen.
“Elvis,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
From the way he whirled around, it was clear that he was more than startled; he looked guilty. Beth’s eyes strayed to the computer — was he downloading porn? — but what she saw there looked a lot more like some super-high-tech version of “Dungeons and Dragons.” A wizard with a white beard was traveling up a winding road, toward a castle with several gates, while numbers flashed in the lower left corner of the screen and words scrolled across the top.
“Did I know you were coming in today?” he asked.
“No,” she said with a laugh, “because I didn’t know it myself.”
There was a creaking sound from the computer — one of the castle gates was lowering its drawbridge — and Elvis said, “Shit — can you give me a second?” He whipped around in his chair, glanced at the screen, tapped in a barrage of keystrokes, which were greeted with the sound of a heavy bell tolling ominously, and then the screen went blue.
“If you’re just playing some video game, why would you need to come here?”
“Because, well, it’s more complicated than that.” His skinny white arms poked out of his short-sleeved shirt. “It’s a network kind of thing — players from all over the planet — and the setup here is a lot faster and a lot more powerful than the crap I’ve got at home.”
“But didn’t it occur to you that it’s a beautiful day? The Fourth of July? You could be outside.” She realized that she had just channeled her mother.
And Elvis must have realized it, too. “Thanks, Mom,” he said with a smile. “But if you don’t mind my saying so, look who’s talking.”
Beth had the manila folder with the printout of the scribe’s letter in her hand, and clearly she wasn’t out on the beach, either.
“Welcome to Geek Central,” Elvis said. “I brought Doritos and Dr Pepper,” he added, gesturing at the junk food on his desk. “You want some?”
“No, thanks.” Shaking her head, Beth went around her assistant’s desk and on into her own office. “I’m going to log on myself.”
A few seconds later, she heard from Elvis’s desk the faint blast of a trumpet and the creaking of the drawbridge lowering again. “Could you turn that down?” she called out, and Elvis replied, “No problem — I’ll put it on the phones.”