She had finished nailing plywood over the broken window opening and was putting the hammer away when the telephone in the restaurant rang. She raced for it and grabbed the thing off its cradle.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said breezily. “Just got into port. My cell phone isn’t working.”
“Where have you been?”
“Fishing. With Zhang. Why?”
“Have you talked to anyone, watched any television?”
“No.”
“The Tidewater area is in meltdown. The roads are packed with people fleeing the area. The rumor on the television and Internet is that the Chinese have a bomb planted at the Norfolk naval base and are going to explode it. All hell has broken loose.”
Silence. Then Choy’s voice. “When we get the boat put away, I’ll come over. You’re going to stay at the restaurant, right?”
“Yes.”
“See you in a while,” he said distractedly, and broke the connection.
Sally stared at the phone for a moment, then put it in her pocket. That tone in his voice … that had been ominous.
Oh, she thought, I am just being foolish. Choy Lee is a good man. He wouldn’t be a part of mass murder! My God, a vicious rumor, and you are suspecting everyone. Sally, get a grip!
She went back to the bar and made herself a gin and tonic with a slice of lime. Her father came in from the kitchen. “Go home,” she told him. “Mom probably needs you with her.”
“We’re closed,” he said. He kissed her and walked to the front door, turned the sign so it read CLOSED, and manipulated the lock so that it latched the door behind him.
Sally sipped her drink. After a bit, she turned off the television and sat in silence staring at the interior of the little business that had supported her family, and her, for over twenty years. This little piece of America.
The telephone call with Sally had given Choy Lee an epiphany. Suddenly the last six months of watching the fleet, Zhang and his boat — it all came into blindingly clear focus. A bomb! To destroy the United States Navy’s ships! To destroy the heart of the American fleet!
He couldn’t imagine how the news got out, nor did he care. It fit! He had no doubt whatsoever.
Zhang was still standing in the boat with the fuel-hose nozzle in his hand, filling the Whaler’s tanks. Choy didn’t wait to try out his poker face on Zhang. He walked across the parking lot, got into his SUV, started it and drove away.
If exploding a bomb at the naval base was indeed Zhang’s mission — and Choy Lee believed it was to a certainty — then Zhang would kill him soon, if he didn’t trigger the bomb. When he heard about the news stories, it would be one or the other, as soon as possible. And Choy didn’t even have a gun.
He headed for the Chans’ restaurant through almost empty streets. Everyone was trying to get out of town, Sally had said. Choy had never seen the streets so empty. He made good time, merely slowed at stop signs, and zipped along.
A bomb! That was it!
Yet, perhaps, when Zhang heard the news, he would merely trigger the bomb. Then Choy and Sally would be instantly dead. Along with a couple million other people.
For the first time in his life, Choy Lee felt on the edge of death. The eternal darkness was right there before him. And he hadn’t even told Sally Chan he loved her.
The attendant at the marina did indeed try to tell Zhang Ping about the panic. Zhang didn’t understand enough English to make sense of it. He merely smiled and looked around for Choy, who wasn’t in sight. Perhaps he went to the restroom. The attendant looked at Zhang strangely, then shrugged and moved off down the pier.
Zhang maneuvered the boat into its slip. Double-checked that the master switch was off, unhooked the iPad, made sure the bumper pads were in place and the boat was properly tied in its berth, then put covers on everything.
Only when he was finished and walking to the parking lot with the iPad in his hand did he wonder what had happened to Choy. He turned on the iPad … and discovered he had no Internet service. He stood there, trying to make sense of it. The iPad got its Internet signal from cellular telephone towers. He wondered if the interruption in service was temporary, or if the authorities had turned them off. Perhaps it was just the iPad. He retrieved his cell phone from a trouser pocket and turned it on. No service.
In the parking lot he discovered that Choy’s SUV was gone.
Zhang had a decision to make, and he made it quickly. He glanced about, looking at parked cars and pickup trucks and SUVs. No one in sight. A car was driving into the lot. The driver got out, then opened the rear door and picked up what looked like a brown paper bag full of beer or groceries. The guy was going out on a boat this evening.
Zhang came up behind him and, as he turned, grabbed his head and twisted viciously, breaking the man’s neck. The bag fell and split, and six-packs of beer tumbled out. Zhang fished in the man’s right-hand trouser pocket, found the car keys and shoved the body onto the backseat. The six-packs he picked up and tossed in.
A quick scan around to see if anyone had been watching. No one in sight.
Zhang got into the car, inserted the key into the ignition and drove away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Everything in war is very simple. But the simplest thing is difficult.
I was sitting in Sarah Houston’s office reading the news from Norfolk on my laptop while she manipulated her desktop computer, working on God knows what. The news was beyond bad; it was a major shitstorm. The story about a Chinese bomb had been twisted almost beyond recognition, but the kernel of truth was there. I confess, I wasn’t surprised. A secret this big was too hot to hold; a leak was inevitable.
I wondered if Jake Grafton had leaked it. He was capable of it, certainly — he was a damned sneaky bastard — if he thought it would help us find the bomb before it popped, but I couldn’t see how it would. I thought the opposite was probably true.
There was a little television on a table by the wall. I turned it on to one of the news channels. The politicians were running around with their hair on fire. Massive traffic jams on all the highways out of the Norfolk/Virginia Beach area. People were driving the wrong way on the highways, making cops dive for the ditches. Riots in Norfolk and Newport News. After three minutes, I strangled the beast. Blessed silence. Only the clicking of Sarah’s computer keys. She could silence them, of course, but she hadn’t. Maybe the noise helped her focus.
After a bit she stopped to make a note on a pad on her desk, tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. I looked at it. “Cuthbert Gordon, 7354 Vista Del Mar.” The city, state and zip code were on it. In case you have forgotten, ol’ Bertie was my mom’s new love interest.
“Thanks,” I said, and tucked the note into my wallet, then put my wallet into my hip pocket, right next to my heart. Sarah got busy again on her keyboard.
I sat there relaxed, with one leg crossed, thinking about Anna Modin’s ashes dribbling into the breeze.
My cell phone rang. It was in my shirt pocket. I pulled it out, didn’t recognize the number, but answered it anyway. Maybe someone wanted my opinion on the exciting taste of McDonald’s latest burger.
Grafton’s voice. “Tommy, I want you to come to Norfolk. I need you.”
“Take a while to drive down there, what with the traffic jams and all.” I thought maybe a week would do it.
“A helicopter will pick you up at the Langley helo pad in half an hour. Be on it.”