Interstate 80. San Francisco.
The radio woke Gena up.
"...bracing for protests tonight," the announcer was saying. "Local peace groups have threatened to disrupt the conference, which is sponsored by the Northern California Defense Contractor's Assocation. A representative for the..."
Chertok turned it off.
"You slept," he said. "Good."
Gena sat up, disoriented, the night still vivid in her memory. It was late afternoon. Overcast. Lev and Radek were slouched in the back seat. They'd been on the road all day, stopping once to switch cars in Reno, lay over in a motel room, wash up and change into fresh clothes. No chance to make contact. They were driving through heavy traffic now. The Bay Bridge. San Francisco. She could see Alcatraz, Angel Island, Tiburon and the San Rafael Bridge miles to the north. Dark clouds piled over the Pacific.
"How do you feel?" Chertok asked. He was a handsome thug: forty-three, neatly trimmed black hair streaked with silver, dark eyes, square jaw, pale scar across his left cheek. Shrapnel wound. Second Chechan War. She had memorized his file months ago. She could remember it line by line—all fifty pages. As much as the Deputy Director had let her read. "It won't be long now," Chertok said, reaching over to touch her hair. "One more job and we're finished."
"I'm all right," she said, rubbing her eyes. "Groggy."
He was wearing a black wristband on his left wrist. It looked like a medical identification bracelet. Something new. She had never seen it before.
"It's a simple job," he went on. Suddenly, they were into her briefing. "I need you to wire a hotel room for medium-range reception. Complete audio coverage. Bathroom. Kitchenette. Main room. Balcony. Video coverage of the bed, main room and entrance. Very easy. You'll go in with Radek and Lev. They'll take you to the room and keep watch while you're inside. You should be in and out in thirty minutes."
"Tonight?"
He glanced at his watch. "We'll be there in ten minutes."
"What about the occupant?" Gena didn't bother to ask who the target was. Even if Chertok knew, he wouldn't tell her, but the chances were that he didn't know himself. His operations were strictly compartmented. Standard tradecraft. No one knew anything more than they needed to know—when they needed to know. Chertok always played it very close. He was an old hand. Former Agency himself. A rogue, or so they said. Emerson had sent her in to get the name of his employer, but she wasn't any closer now than when she first started six months ago. No one knew who was pulling Chertok's strings, but he wasn't working for himself. That much was clear. Someone was paying him and he didn't come cheap.
"No problem," he said. "They'll be busy elsewhere."
"What kind of range are we talking about?"
"Two hundred yards. Three hundred tops. The balcony has a clear line of sight with minimal interference. Tenth floor. The monitoring station will be in the parking garage next door. You'll see the garage from the balcony."
Mobile van, Gena guessed. Strictly routine. She had wired a dozen targets for Chertok since her recruitment. In her tool bag, she had a complete set of miniaturized wireless audio bugs, video cams and super-thin video transmitters which could easily be placed under a balcony railing. The transmitters were designed to boost the signals from the low-power devices inside the room and re-transmit them to a surveillance post nearby.
"Sounds OK." She tried to keep her voice steady. "What's the exposure?"
"For you, very little." He shrugged. "The rest of it has serious flap potential, but it has nothing to do with us. We'll be in Miami this time tomorrow."
"Business?"
"Vacation."
"About fucking time."
They were across the Bridge now and he took the first exit, heading down the ramp into the Financial District. The sun was going down over the Bay and the first rush of the evening commute crowded the streets. Fifteen minutes later, they drove past the Waverly Hotel a few blocks from the terminal at the dead end of Market Street. The high-rise luxury hotel towered over the buildings around them, a black cylinder of burnished steel and tinted glass—fifty stories she had read in a travel magazine, the only seven-star hotel in the world, or so its management claimed. Rising from a terraced plaza, an oasis of fountains, palm trees and abstract sculpture gardens, the hotel's windows glinted in the orange sunlight breaking through the clouds over the city. Gulls clouded the ledges, the trees in the plaza, the roof of the skywalk leading to the parking garage next door. Cracking her window, she could smell brine on the wind blowing through the District. They turned on Market, heading towards the Bay. A trolley clanged. Horns blared. A channel marker chimed on the water.
"That's it," Chertok said, pointing up at the Waverly.
"You're kidding me, right?" Gena craned her neck to see the hotel over the trees as they drove by. "How do we get in?"
"Walk in like everyone else." He shrugged, tapping the wheel as they sat in traffic. "The lobby will be crowded. This is the height of their weekend rush. Check-in time. No problem. They get a lot of outside traffic for their restaurants and shops, especially on the weekends. No one will pay any attention. Just go with Radek and Lev. They know what to do."
Gena glanced over her shoulder. Lev was staring out the window in the back seat, his face bored. Radek met her eyes and showed her some teeth with a twist of his rubbery lips. Chertok's mutant brother had changed into a suit. Extra large. It made him look like a professional wrestler on his way to a business meeting.
"What about Security?" she asked, turning back and watching the crowds on the sidewalks.
"Don't worry about Security."
He didn't elaborate. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper now. Some kind of obstruction up ahead. One of the streets had been blocked off—the side street running between the hotel and the parking garage next door. There were squad cars everywhere. Police barricades. Hundreds of people were standing around in the hotel plaza, listening to a speaker with a megaphone. They were waving signs. A protest of some kind. Commuters mobbed the sidewalks, making their way to the BART station on the corner, the TransBay Terminal a few blocks away. A line of cops were watching the demonstration in front of the hotel. More cops hung around behind the barricades. Men in suits. Chertok took the next right and let them out when the traffic stalled at a red light.
"Give me a call when you're done," he told Lev, signing his words for Radek at the same time. "I'll meet you in the parking lot in front of the Ferry Building, but if the lot's full I'll have to circle the block and it could take a while in this traffic." Turning to Gena, he said: "Thirty minutes. In and out. Then we can leave for Miami."
Gena got out in the middle of the gridlock and walked over to the sidewalk, looking around. Something was wrong. Too many cops. Too much activity on the streets, even for San Francisco during rush hour. Lev and Radek joined her a few seconds later. No chance to slip away. Lev handed over her kit, a heavy carry-on suitcase with wheels and a collapsible handle. Radek was carrying the golf bag.
The golf bag with the cylinder.
They were taking it into the hotel.
It was too late to run. Radek took her arm and the three of them started down the sidewalk, working their way through the crowds of commuters. The bug job was a cover. Had to be. Whatever was in the canister—nerve gas, biological agent—they were going to release it inside the hotel and kill her in the process. She was sure of it. One false move and Radek would kill her on the street. She knew him. He would shoot her in the middle of that crowd if he had to, but he was more likely to use his hands. Something quiet. Drag her into an alley. Leave her by some dumpsters. How many people were in the hotel? Hundreds, at least. Thousands. The fear came back again, worse than before, uncoiling in her stomach like a greasy tapeworm and squirming up her throat. She had to do something. Maybe she could break free in the hotel. When they were surrounded by people and security guards.
They crossed Market and walked past the hotel plaza. There were cops everywhere, a couple of media vans, but Radek was crushing her arm now, keeping her close. One scream and he would crush her throat. Vanish in that crowd with Lev before anyone even noticed. The demonstrators were chanting slogans in the plaza, waving their signs. One of the signs showed President Buzard and Hitler side by side. Another read "Harriman Buzard AntiChrist!" A Communist in a red T-shirt with a yellow star led the chants over a bullhorn. They were denouncing the defense industry and Buzard's policies of "global tyranny." Protestors dressed as Hamas suicide bombers were shouting at the police while Black Bloc anarchists hiding their faces with bandanas ran through the mob, trying to break through the police line which had been set up to keep the protestors away from the lobby. A "Breasts Not Bombs" group waddled through the group, naked to the waist, and panhandlers worked the crowd for spare change. Commuters in business suits had gathered to watch the show, a typical San Francisco scene threatening to turn ugly. President Buzard was hated in San Francisco and the cops were on edge, but why were the protestors demonstrating against the President? Why here? In front of the Waverly?
Radek tugged at her arm. They turned down the driveway leading to the main lobby entrance. Gena spotted some feds under the carport. Men in dark suits and sunglasses with wires dangling from their ears. They were standing by the doors, watching the crowds, hands folded at their waists, talking over their headsets.
Secret Service.
Suddenly, it all made sense.