“I downloaded some apps to your phone because the preinstalled ones sucked. Maps, GPS, video chat-the BART app too, while I was at it.”
“Bart?”
“Bay Area Rapid Transit.”
“You think I’m gonna catch a lot of buses while I’m in town?”
Cameron reddened. “It’s more than buses. The app keeps track of trains, cable cars, ferries…although I guess not so much that last one lately.”
“Water traffic’s still shut down, huh?”
“Yeah. Sounds like the search has been slow-going. They’ve been bringing food and water out to the smaller vessels to tide them over until they can be cleared. Anyway, I figured the app might come in handy for a guy who doesn’t know the town. Chance favors the prepared mind, as my mom would say.”
“Thanks,” he said.
The aircraft taxied to a stop. Silence descended upon the cabin as the engines wound down. Then the cockpit door opened, and the pilot stepped out. “Welcome to sunny Palo Alto,” he said, his tone teetering between bored and irritated. “Enjoy your stay.”
The air was cool, the airport quiet. Small private aircraft were parked in rows, two- and four-seaters mostly, single-engine prop planes belonging to rich hobbyists. Most of the airport’s outbuildings were shuttered and dark. Palo Alto was situated on the southwestern tip of San Francisco Bay, where the water peters off to wetlands. The airport was bordered by a salt marsh to the north and east, and a municipal golf course to the south and west. Through the morning haze, Hendricks could just make out the gentle rise of the mountains across the bay.
A man in an orange vest and coveralls pointed them toward a nondescript gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded the airport. From this side, at least, it was unlocked.
When they reached the parking lot, Hendricks frowned. It contained maybe a dozen cars.
“What’s wrong?” Cameron asked.
“We need a ride.”
“And?”
“This is a short-term lot. If any of these went missing, they’d be reported by day’s end. Besides, without proper tools, boosting one could take a while, and we’re liable to be seen.”
“I’m guessing Uber’s not an option.”
Hendricks shook his head. “In my line of work, it doesn’t pay to leave a trail.”
Cameron poked at her phone a moment. Then her face brightened. “I have an idea.”
She led him southwest on Embarcadero Road, four lanes bracketed by sidewalks and lined with trees. To their right, as they walked, was the golf course. To their left, an office park. The golf course was empty. Most of the businesses were closed.
After a quarter mile or so, they reached a shuttered auto-rental agency. Cameron circled it, glancing at her phone from time to time. Then she sat down in the shadow of a live oak and took her laptop from its bag.
Hendricks eyed the building with suspicion. Surveillance cameras monitored the parking lot. Sensors protected the windows and doors. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, kid, but I can tell you that it’s not a good idea.”
“Shh.”
“Rental places track their inventory pretty closely-”
“I said be quiet.”
“-and this place is wired for security, which means-”
“For Christ’s sake,” Cameron snapped, “would you shut up and let me work?”
Hendricks fell silent.
Three minutes later, the overhead door on the far side of the building rattled open.
“Cameron,” he said warily, “what did you do?”
“You said we needed a ride no one would miss. This place is closed until Monday, and their after-hours return slot drops the keys into the garage. If we swipe a car before it’s checked back in, they’ll just assume it hasn’t been returned yet.”
“What about the security system?”
“Please. I shut it off before I triggered the door. If they were serious about security, they would have locked down their wireless network. They’re practically begging to be hacked.”
“And the cameras?”
“Currently experiencing technical difficulties. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole day’s feed was compromised.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Hendricks said, smiling.
“Isn’t it?” Cameron replied. “Now, how about we go pick out some wheels?”
20.
CHET YANCEY SLURPED terrible coffee from a Styrofoam cup and watched the rescue efforts from a scenic overlook while he waited for the new guy to arrive.
Though the fireboats had quelled the blazes in the wee hours of the night, the sky was still dulled by smoke. The road along the water’s edge was crowded with rescue workers and equipment. The bay was choked with police boats and Coast Guard cutters. A pair of tugboats maneuvered a massive crane barge into place beside the Golden Gate Bridge, their engines laboring.
Most of the survivors had been successfully evacuated, but seventy-five or so were still up there, trapped or pinned down by rubble. Throughout the night, the bridge’s vertical suspender ropes had snapped at random, steel cable nearly three inches thick breaking loose and slicing through cars and asphalt like razor wire through flesh. The remaining support ropes squealed under the added strain. Rescue workers hoped to use the crane to clear the roadway and support the bridge’s weight until the remaining survivors could be reached.
The hills flanking the walking trail were dotted with yellow flags, indicating debris, and red flags, marking spots where biological evidence-a polite euphemism for bodies and body parts-had lain. The debris sat where it landed. The biologicals were moved once they were flagged and photographed, to avoid predation.
Upslope, at the Golden Gate Bridge Pavilion-which served as the command center for the rescue effort-FEMA and local fire-and-rescue crews argued with state and federal crime-scene investigators over priorities. SFPD and U.S. Park Police quibbled pointlessly over jurisdiction. Homeland Security and the FBI’s National Security Branch butted heads and measured dicks. The bickering-and the lousy coffee he’d grabbed-gave Yancey flashbacks to his public-sector days.
Yancey’d spent two decades in the FBI’s employ, even heading up the Albuquerque field office for a time, but he’d gotten out years ago. Now he worked for Bellum Industries as manager of West Coast operations, a title intended to obfuscate rather than describe.
Bellum was a private security contractor, a major player in the Middle East, with nearly sixty thousand private military contractors in the region. Bellum’s duties included securing borders, bases, embassies-even entire cities-at the U.S. government’s behest. Protecting the interests of well-heeled multinational corporations-their oil fields, shipping routes, employee housing-and any private citizens who could afford to pay. Supplying the CIA with manpower-called consultants, officially, although in reality they were off-the-books hit squads.
Bellum’s domestic interests included training members of the U.S. military and law enforcement at their compound north of San Francisco, the translation and analysis of electronic intelligence at their headquarters in DC, and protecting foreign diplomats on U.S. soil. Bellum also, via its subsidiary companies, provided more prosaic security measures, such as CCTV monitoring and personnel, to everything from amusement parks to schools.
As Yancey stared out over the bay, his thoughts returned unbidden to the phone call he’d gotten yesterday.
“Hiya, Chet. It’s been a while.”
The number had been blocked, but he recognized the voice immediately. It was the Council’s mouthpiece, Lombino.
“Why the fuck are you calling me? I paid my debt, and haven’t so much as lost a nickel on a friendly game of cards in seven years.”
“Good for you, pal, only here’s the thing: your payment bounced.”
“The hell it did,” Yancey whispered. “I put Segreti in the ground, just like you asked.”
“Yeah? Then how’d he just end up on my TV?”
“What do you mean, your TV?” Yancey hadn’t seen a television in days. He’d been tied up dealing with a crisis at work-unsuccessfully, as it turned out.