"You can be a real smart-ass, Larry," Taft said, then changed the subject. "Do you want to stop and eat?"
Martinez nodded, then rolled his window down to spit.
"I sure would like to know the whole story behind that physicist Choi," Taft said as he set the cruise control and leaned back. "The rumor I heard today is that the Chinese have a million-dollar bounty on his head."
"The Chinese are becoming a giant problem for our side," Martinez noted. Taft began to scan the billboards for a restaurant. "So?" he said to his partner as he pulled into a diner. "So, are you privy to what the theory's all about?"
"I know it's called the Unified Field Theory," Martinez said. "And for something that's been around for decades, it's suddenly very important."
"That's it?"
"That and some people think it could be used to make one hell of a weapon."
"Well," Taft said, "that makes me feel a little better."
"Food would make me feel a lot better," Martinez said as he climbed from the car and began walking toward the door of the diner.
On the top floor of the National Intelligence Agency, General Earl Benson sat in his silent office. The walls, windows, ceiling, and floors were covered with layers of metal, Kevlar cloth, and crushed iron ore to deflect all attempts at monitoring. Computercontrolled heating and air-conditioning kept the office at a constant temperature. His first few years in this office Benson wanted nothing more than to escape. During his twenty-six years in the army, where he rose in rank to a three-star general before retiring, Benson had always enjoyed commanding his men in the field. He still missed the feeling of being outside.
For someone used to the outdoors, his office felt like a tomb, sterile and unfeeling. At every opportunity he walked the halls of the NLA, checking on his men. In violation of protocol, he also took every opportunity to leave his office door open. Over the last several years, Benson had grown more accustomed to the quiet, and to a sense of containment, but he still didn't like it. He welcomed every interruption. Benson's secretary, Mrs. Mindio, buzzed his phone and waited for the general to answer. He picked up almost immediately.
"Benson."
"This is Colonel Thompson at the National Security Agency. Your agency filled out a priority scan on a man named Hu Jimn?"
It was standard NIA policy. To keep abreast of mission developments after the fact, all the names of the principles his agents had contact with — or "actors," as the agency referred to them — were delivered by courier to the NSA. If, within the specified period of time, the person was mentioned in any electronic medium, the computers at the NSA would flag it and spit it out.
"That's correct," Benson said.
"The National Crime Information Computer just ran a check on him for the Newark police," said Thompson.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Even the description you gave us matches the profile the police filed." Thanks for the tip. Are you still monitoring electronic transmissions from the Chinese embassies?" Benson asked.
"We are, but we have nothing to report yet," Thompson said, and then signed off. Benson raced from behind his desk and opened his office door. Mrs. Mindio, Benson's assistant for the last ten years, sat knitting a pair of baby booties. "Who's on point?" Mrs. Mindio scanned the list by her telephone. "Rienhart and Gold were just called to investigate a bomb threat at JFK's grave," she said calmly, referring again to the sheet.
"That makes the point team…Taft and Martinez."
"I sent them down to do a construction inspection on a new intelligence facility south of here," Benson said. "They should be done by now. Please beep them and have them call me back on a secure phone."
"Yes, General," Mrs. Mindio said as she began dialing. Taft was eating a Reuben sandwich and sipping an iced tea inside a diner that looked like it hadn't been remodeled since it was built thirty years ago. He stuffed a blob of stray sauerkraut back inside the bread with the tip of his finger. "That's some wild stuff about Einstein. So our side thinks the Chinese are making progress on this Unified Field Theory."
"I guess Choi wrote the definitive paper about it. He was in the process of being hired by a United States Government think tank when he was snatched. The idea is…" Martinez began.
"Hold that thought. My beeper just went off," Taft interrupted as his watch began vibrating.
He found the diner's pay phone and dialed the number to the NIA.
"The general requests you to call him immediately from a secure phone," Mrs. Mindio said.
"Right away," Taft said as he gestured to Martinez to have the food wrapped to go. Outside, Taft unlocked the NIA sedan, pushed the button to open the trunk, then walked back and removed a briefcase. He opened the case and switched on the phone. It took several seconds to hook to a satellite with a scrambled signal. Taft waited as the red light switched to green, signaling the phone was ready to use. Climbing into the drivers seat, he dialed Benson's office number. Martinez walked from the restaurant, carrying a sack with their lunch, just as the call went through.
"This is Agent Taft."
"Is Martinez with you?" Benson asked.
"He's right here," Taft said as Martinez slipped into the passenger seat.
"Find out if he remembers a man named Hu Jimn from the report he wrote on the China project," Benson ordered.
Taft repeated the information and Martinez nodded yes.
"He says he does, General," Taft said.
"Good. I want you two to drive to Quantico and board a Marine helicopter to Newark, New Jersey. Keep this phone with you and I'll call you when you land."
"What's this about?" Taft asked.
"Just tell Martinez that the Newark police have Hu Jimn. He's been shot," Benson said and the phone went dead.
"We're going to Quantico to catch a flight to Newark," Taft said as he started the sedan and slammed it into gear. Punching the throttle, Taft squirted out into traffic and began driving to Quantico. "Who's Hu Jimn?"
"That's the guy that chased you through China. He's with the SPD, China's secret police."
"Well, then, I guess we just received some good news."
"What was it?" Martinez asked.
"He's been shot."
CHAPTER 13
Flying over Piscataway, New Jersey, the Sikorsky VH-60A from Quantico was just over an hour into the seventy-five-minute flight. The myriad highways on the ground below looked like strands of licorice being overrun with ants. To the west, several stratocumulus clouds floated past, their fluffy bulk casting a shadow on the towns below. Martinez glanced out the window and tugged at the seat harness. Taft sat comfortably in his passenger seat, scanning a map of New Jersey in the atlas he had removed from the trunk of the NIA sedan.
"No use looking at the map," Martinez said. "We don't know where they've taken the body."
"Just getting a feel for the terrain," Taft said as he closed the atlas. Glancing out the window, he could see the water of Newark Bay as the helicopter slowed and turned for approach at the Newark Police Aviation Facility. The flashing lights on the landing pad drew near as the helicopter descended. Taft barely felt the helicopter touch down.
"Smooth landing, Captain," Taft yelled to the front as he rose to a crouch and waited for the door to lower.
"You ever fly one of these, Special Agent Taft?" the pilot asked.
"I wish we had these. The helicopters I was assigned to were an older vintage."
"These Sikorskys practically land themselves," the pilot said modestly.
"I've never flown any type of helicopter that didn't require constant attention," Taft said as the electric motor started the door moving.
When the side door reached the ground, Martinez and Taft climbed out and walked under the main rotor. The Sikorsky immediately lifted off to return to Quantico. To the side of the landing pad a thin, hatchet-faced man stood calmly smoking a cigarette. He waved to Taft and Martinez. They walked across the landing pad to where the man stood.