"You're Mayor Hood."
"Yes," he smiled up, and nodded.
"Cool," said the young man. "I had Boris Karloff's daughter here yesterday." He set the glass on a wobbly metal table. "Pretty unbelievable about New York, isn't it? It's the kind of thing you don't want to think about, yet you can't not think about."
"True," said Hood.
The waiter leaned closer as he poured the sparkling water. "You'll appreciate this. Or maybe you won't. I heard Manager Mosura tell the house detective that our insurance company wants us to offer daily evacuation drills, like they do on luxury liners. Just so people can't sue the chain if we get blown up."
"Protect your guests and your assets," Hood said.
"Exactamundo," said the waiter.
Hood signed the bill and thanked the waiter as his phone chirped. He answered quickly.
"How are you, Mike?" he asked. He picked up the phone and began walking toward a shady corner, where there were no other guests.
"Same as everyone," Rodgers said. "Sick and mad."
"What can you tell me?" Hood asked.
"I'm heading to the office after meeting with the boss," he said. "A lot's happened. For one thing, the perpetrator called. Gave up. We've got him."
"Just like that?" Hood asked.
"There were some strings attached," Rodgers said. "We have to stay out of some business he says is going down overseas. Old Red zone. Otherwise, we get more of the same."
"Is this big business?" Hood asked.
"We're not sure. Army business, it appears.
"From the new President?" Hood asked.
"We don't think so," Rodgers said. "It appears to be a reaction to him and not necessarily his doing."
"I see," said Hood.
"In fact, we think the okay for all this came from that TV studio we've been tuned in to. Got a pretty solid paper trail. The boss has authorized us to have a look see, pending all the paperwork. I've put Lowell on it."
Hood stopped walking under a palm tree. The President had authorized a Striker excursion into St. Petersburg, and Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey II was going to seek approval from the Congressional Oversight Intelligence Committee. That was heavy-duty.
Hood looked at his watch. "Mike, I'm going to try and catch a red-eye back there."
"Don't," said Rodgers. "We've got some time on this. When things start to hop, I can chopper you up to Sacramento and you can hitch a ride from March."
Hood looked back at the kids. They were all supposed to take the Magna Studio tour in the morning. And Rodgers had a point. It would be a half-hour hop up to the Air Force base, then less than a five-hour ride back to D.C. But he had taken an oath to do a job, and it was a job— more accurately, a burden, a responsibility, which he didn't want to put on anyone else's shoulders.
His heart was beating fast. Hood knew what it wanted to do. It was already getting the blood to his legs so he could make the plane.
"Let me talk to Sharon," he said to Rodgers.
She's going to kill you," Rodgers said. "Take a deep breath and a jog around the parking lot. We can handle this."
"Thanks," Hood said, "but I'll let you know what I'm doing. I appreciate the update. I'll talk to you later."
"Sure," Rodgers said glumly.
Hood clicked off and folded up the phone. He swatted it gently in his open palm.
Sharon would kill him, and the kids would be crushed. Alexander had been looking forward to doing the virtual reality Teknophage attraction with him.
Jesus, why can't anything ever be simple? he asked himself as he walked toward the pool. "Because then there would be no dynamics between people," he said under his breath, "and life would be boring."
Though he had to admit that a little boredom would be good right now. It was what he'd come back to Los Angeles in the hopes of finding.
"Dad, you comin' in?" his daughter, Harleigh, yelled as he approached.
"No, cheesehead," said Alexander. "Can't you see he's got his phone?"
"I can't see that far without my glasses, dorko," she replied.
Sharon had stopped squirt-gunning their son and was swimming in place. From her expression, he could tell that she knew what was coming.
"Gather round," Sharon said as her husband squatted by the side of the pool. "I think Dad's got something to tell us."
Hood said simply, "I have to go back. What happened today— we have to respond."
"They need Dad to kick ass," Alexander said.
"Hush," Hood said. "Remember, loose lips—"
"Sink ships," said the ten-year-old. "Ex-squeeze me," he said as he went under.
His twelve-year-old sister went to hold him there, but Alexander darted away.
Sharon just glared at her husband. "This response," she asked quietly. "It can't possibly be made without you?"
"It can."
"Then let it."
"I can't," Hood said. He looked down, then off to the side. Anywhere but in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll call you later."
Hood got up and called out to the kids, who interrupted their chase long enough to wave. "Get me a T-shirt at Teknophage," he said.
"We will!" Alexander said.
He turned to walk away.
"Paul?" Sharon said.
He stopped and looked back.
"I know this is difficult," she said, "and I'm not making it any easier. But we need you too. Especially Alexander. He's going to be, 'Oh, Dad would have loved this' and 'Dad would have loved that' all day tomorrow. Sometime real soon, you're going to have to start 'responding' to not being around enough."
"You don't think this kills me?" Hood asked.
"Not enough," Sharon said as she pushed off the side. "Not as much as being away from your electric trains in D.C. Think about it, Paul."
He would, he promised himself.
In the meantime, he had a plane to catch.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lieutenant Colonel W. Charles Squires stood on the dark airstrip at Quantico. He was dressed in civilian clothes and a leather jacket, his laptop computer standing on the tarmac between his legs as he hustled the six other members of the Striker team into the two Bell JetRangers that would shuttle them to Andrews Air Force Base. There, they would transfer to Striker's private C-141B StarLifter for the eleven-hour flight to Helsinki.
The night was crisp and invigorating, though, as always, it was the work itself that exhilarated him the most. When he was a kid growing up in Jamaica, he had never experienced anything more exciting than running onto the soccer field before a game, especially when the odds were against his team; that was how he felt each time Striker kicked into action. It was because of Squires's passion for soccer that Hood allowed him to name the team after the position he had played.
Squires had been sleeping in his small home on the base when Rodgers called, giving him his orders for the trip to Finland. Rodgers apologized that they were only able to get congressional approval for a seven-person team, rather than the usual twelve. Congress had to mess with everything they were given, and this time it was the roster that was pared. The thinking was, if caught, they could always explain to the Russians that they hadn't sent over a full force. In the world of international politics, distinctions like that apparently meant something. Fortunately, after the last mission, Squires had adapted Strikers' playbook to work with almost any number of team members.
Squires didn't kiss his wife goodbye: farewells were easier if she stayed asleep through them. Instead, he took the secure phone into the bathroom and talked to Rodgers while he dressed. The tentative plan was for them to pose as tourists once they arrived. Once the team was airborne, Rodgers would be in contact with Squires with additions or embellishments to the plan. As it stood, three operatives would go into St. Petersburg, four would wait in Helsinki as backup.