New Orleans: 6 June 5:55 P.M. Central time
A light drizzle was falling when the Gulfstream touched down at the Lakefront Airport. The day was overcast and sultry, the light flat and dull with the promise of more rain.
“What time is it?” October asked as they taxied toward the terminal.
Jax glanced at his watch. “Almost six. The reception starts in five minutes, but T. J. Beckham’s not supposed to put in an appearance until seven.”
“This last trip is gonna cost you extra, podna,” said Bubba, bringing the plane to a halt. “I had a job down in Guadalajara I’m missing. We’re talking five thousand an hour.”
“Bubba,” said Jax, unlatching the door. “We’re trying to save the world here and you’re talking about profit margins and overheads?”
“Hey, I’m a patriot. But I’m also a businessman. You see Halliburton and Keefe donating their services to the war effort? No.”
“Oh? So you’re going over to the dark side now, are you?”
“What are you talking about, dark side? Hold on there.” Bubba unbuckled his seat belt and whipped off his earphones. “I’m coming with you.”
Jax swung around to look back at him. “You’re what?”
“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m just protecting my investment. You get yourself killed, I’m never going to collect.”
The Monte Carlo was still parked where Jax had left it. He’d expected it to have attracted the attention of the local constabulary, since the back window was shot out and it had a few other stray bullet holes. But he guessed that was asking too much of the NOPD’s post-Katrina force.
“I’ll drive,” said Bubba, lifting the keys from Jax’s hand. “The last time I rode with you, you almost got me killed.”
Jax laughed. “No I didn’t.”
“You did.” Bubba eased his enormous frame behind the Monte Carlo’s wheel. “So. How do I get there?”
“Turn left here, then head for the interstate,” said October. She glanced back at Jax, who’d taken the rear seat. “I read someplace that they now regularly jam cell phones in an area where the president or the vice president is making an appearance.”
“They do,” said Jax.
“So how are they going to detonate this bomb?”
“They probably have an infrared sensor set up. Something that can receive a coded message from a transmitter rigged to a timer. You can jam an electronic frequency, but you can’t jam light.”
“Or they could be using a suicide bomber,” said Bubba.
“I can’t see some mercenary for GTS volunteering to blow himself up for the good of the company.”
“No,” said Bubba. “But what about the ragheads in those visa applications Matt sent you? Where you think they fit in all this?”
October twisted sideways in the seat to face him. “Tell me, Bubba: do you call Jews ‘kikes’?”
He glanced over at her warily. “No. What you think I am? A neo-Nazi or something?”
“Do you call blacks ‘niggers’?”
“No. My mama raised me better’n that.”
“Then why did you just call those men ragheads?”
“Because they attacked us on 9/11. They—”
“No, they didn’t. Nineteen young men did, and they’re dead. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be held responsible for every sin committed by every American living or dead.”
“Jax?” said Bubba, meeting Jax’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Help me out here, podna.”
Jax grinned. “Sorry, Bubba, but you stepped in that one.”
“He does have a point, though,” said October. “GTS could have set up the assassination, then tricked one of those students into believing he was a martyr to a higher cause. I have a friend named Gunner who swears something like that happened on 9/11.”
“The problem with that theory,” said Jax, “is that no suicide bomber would ever get past the security at the door.”
“So why did Paul Fitzgerald have that list of Middle Eastern men on his computer?”
“They’re patsies. The ones who have been set up to take the fall.”
“But why do they need patsies? You remember what Samira Gazsi said. The Armageddon Plan calls for an attack on Iran even if they’re not linked to the next terrorist attack.”
Jax shook his head. “That might have worked a few years ago. But things have changed. Iraq changed them. The American people have been lied to too many times and they’re starting to get wary. It’s easy to stir them up by talking about fighting to defend freedom and democracy, but they’re not stupid. They see the national debt shooting into the stratosphere. They see young men and women coming home in body bags and wheelchairs from a useless war that has nothing to do with freedom or democracy, and everything to do with politics and oil and big profits for the defense industry. They’re not going to go tripping down that primrose path so easily a second time. They’re going to want to see proof.”
“So the young Iranians have been set up to be the new version of yellow cake and WMD,” said October.
“Exactly. Even if there’s no link between the Iranian students and the Iranian government, people in this country will be too scared to be thinking straight. I suspect the Administration would find it easy to make the case for another war.”
Bubba swept onto the interstate. “I don’t want to rain on y’all’s parade, but how you planning on getting into this reception? It’s not a public event. I heard on the radio comin’ in here that they’ve got the streets blocked off out front. There’s some group of protesters that are pissed off because they’re making them hold their rally a good block away.”
“Gunner,” said October, sitting forward.
Jax looked over at her. “What?”
“Gunner Eriksson. He’s a friend of mine. No one holds a protest rally in New Orleans without Gunner’s PA system.” She turned toward him. “Let me use your phone.”
Jax handed it over. She started to flip it open, then paused. “What if they’ve tapped Gunner’s line?”
Jax met her worried gaze. “At this point, that’s a risk you’re just going to have to take.”