It was well after 2 a.m. when Cole finished typing. He slept fitfully and woke unrested at about 8 o’clock. He shaved, showered, and had partially dressed when the phone rang. He hopped toward the phone, trying to finish putting on his sock and fell headlong onto the floor. Jumping up, he grabbed the phone.
“Hello, hello?” All he heard was a dial tone.
Cole finished dressing and went into the kitchen. The half-empty carton of hot and sour soup still sat on the table. He picked it up and, without a moment’s hesitation, drank some of the cold liquid and got a mouthful of vegetables. As he chewed and slurped more of the soup, he made coffee. The soup was just as good cold as it had been hot and left Cole wishing he had more. The soup made him realize how hungry he was, so he dug around in the freezer, found a frozen burrito and popped it in the microwave.
With the microwave humming and the coffeemaker gurgling, Cole made his way to the front porch to get the morning paper. “112 Die in GG Park Bombing” screamed from the front page. The president’s plan to reform the Federal Land program and the governor’s veto of the new liquor sin tax took up most of the space below the fold. Cole scanned the story of the park bombing. Eighteen injured, still in serious and critical condition in area hospitals. There was a carefully worded statement from the police chief about remaining calm and how there was no proof yet that this was the work of Jason Reed, although all signs pointed that way. The chief pledged beefed-up security around the city and promised that the “coward who did this evil deed would not go unpunished.”
The mayor called for a Day of Mourning to take place on Sunday. Cole thought of Reed’s threat and wondered if there would be a San Francisco on Sunday. The mayor, too, called for calm. He asked the citizens of San Francisco to show strength and resolve in this time of crisis and assured them that the animal who did this would be brought to justice.
A small paragraph at the end of the story quoted the head of Greenpeace announcing a candlelight vigil at the site of the bombing. His remarks were short and to the point: “In a world gone mad with hatred, we who by name work toward peace—not just ecological but peace between all people—offer a $1 million dollar reward for the capture of those responsible for the senseless killing of our brothers and sisters.” The faithful, Cole thought.
Most people would read the story, sip their Starbucks, and go to work without giving it another thought. Whackos killing whackos, it had nothing to do with them—yet. Had Reed seen the paper?
Cole’s thoughts went back to his conversation with Ben and how foolish he felt asking his son-in-law to call in sick. It didn’t matter whether Reed was telling the truth or not; Cole had taken care of his family. For a moment, he felt a tinge of guilt, but it passed, and he was sure he’d done the right thing. The ding of the timer on the microwave interrupted his thoughts. He unwrapped the burrito and poured himself a cup of coffee. Just as he set the plate on the table, there was a knock at the door. He took a sip of coffee and went to answer it.
Carter Washington and a pale, dark-haired woman with alarming blue eyes stood at the door. They each held a small brown paper bag and a leather briefcase. Washington held a cobalt blue mug that had “San Francisco” emblazoned in gold above a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge that curved at an exaggerated angle.
“Breakfast?” Washington smiled.
“You have real faith,” Cole said, flicking the empty mug with his middle finger.
“Cole Sage, meet Special Agent Sarah Spiegelman.”
“Agent Spiegelman, welcome.” Cole waved her in with a broad sweeping motion. As she passed, Cole caught the faint wisp of lilac perfume.
Sarah Spiegelman was dressed in a well-tailored blue suit. Her white blouse seemed to glow against her navy jacket. At her neck was a white bow. Her A-line skirt hit the center of her knees; her stockings were a near-black navy blue.
“Please call me ‘Sarah.’” She smiled.
Cole led the way to the kitchen and offered them seats at the kitchen table. He went to the cupboard and selected an elegant china cup and saucer. The set was an English Rose pattern that had pale pink roses bordering the top and bottom edges of the cup and the outer and inner ring of the saucer.
“For the lady,” Cole said, placing the cup and saucer in front of Sarah.
“It’s lovely,” Sarah said, picking up the cup and turning it slowly.
“It was my mother’s, her favorite. Funny, it’s the only thing I kept of hers when she died. I’m glad you like it. I can’t promise the same for my coffee. Or are you a tea person?”
“I do prefer tea, if it’s no bother.”
“None at all.” Cole turned to the cupboards. He hesitated, suddenly unable to remember what he was going to the cupboard for.
“I got the pastry!” Washington said as he tore open the bags. “Got a plate, or shall we eat these ‘au naturale’?”
“Let’s leave our clothes on,” Sarah quipped brightly.
Cole turned a little too quickly to see if the straight-laced agent had actually made a risqué joke. As their eyes met, he saw that her china white cheeks had turned a deep red. Cole smiled and remembered he was searching for the tea.
“Aha, here it is.” Cole held the box out for his guest to see.
“Twining’s Earl Grey. Very nice.”
Cole took the teakettle from its spot under the bottom cupboard, rinsed and then partially filled it.
“Sage! What in the world?” Washington said, lifting the plate with the burrito.
It was Cole’s turn to blush. “Leftovers. Guess I don’t need it now.” Cole poured Washington a cup of coffee to take the attention away from the soggy little burrito.
Cole couldn’t understand why he was feeling so undone. He felt like he was in hyper-drive. He went to the refrigerator and took out a small carton of half-and-half. “Cream?”
“Nope, I like mine like I like—”
“Okay, okay, heard that one before,” Sarah chided. “I would like some, please.”
“Sugar?”
“What?” Washington smiled broadly.
“What is with him?” Cole asked
“Natural early riser,” Sarah said with a half sneer.
“So, aren’t you happy to see us?”
“Nope,” Cole said without expression as he put the half-and-half and a sugar bowl on the table. There were three large cinnamon rolls sitting on bakery tissues atop the torn brown bags. One was covered in chocolate glaze.
“Chocolate one’s for you. So you can get your fix early.”
“Looks great.”
“So, you want to know why we’re here, other than the obvious?” Washington asked.
“Not really. I am looking forward to the cinnamon roll, though.” Cole turned so Washington couldn’t see him grinning. Why was everything so funny? With as little sleep as he got, Cole should be as grouchy as a bear.
Cole heard the clicking of Washington’s briefcase locks. When he turned, he saw him removing a folder with a photo clipped to it. Washington closed the briefcase and put it on the floor next to his chair.
“We got a break. Guy at San Quentin got a little worried about his being upwind from San Francisco and went to the warden after seeing our man Reed’s letter in the paper. And here he is, Richard Edward Shipman the Third, no less.” Washington handed Cole the file.
“He looks like a Disney caricature of a bookworm. What’d he do?”
“Check it out. He’s ready to sing like a canary for some reduced time. Since your little chat last night, I figured you should be there to listen to what he says. See if what he says matches up.”
“Murder, murder for hire, arson, bank robbery, sale of a controlled substance, interstate transport of hazardous materials, weapons violations and identity theft. Anything else?” Cole looked at Washington and then Sarah.
Sarah recited, “He has been underground since the early ‘70s. He first came to the Bureau’s attention when he signed up during the last days of the Weather Underground. Dropped out of MIT to join a Maoist group that loved to rob banks. They weren’t revolutionary enough, so he moved on to at least a dozen different groups before his first arrest for illegal arms possession. Got off. It couldn’t be proved the weapons were his—”in a commune we all share,” you know. Mr. Shipman has an IQ of 225-plus and because of his meticulous recordkeeping and volumes of journals, he’s now locked up for a long, long time.” Sarah stopped and looked toward the whistling teakettle.
“How much time can he get shaved off his sentence?” Cole asked, picking up the kettle.
“We can be very generous. I’m thinking at least 100 years,” Washington offered.
“How many is he serving?” Cole asked, pouring hot water into Sarah’s cup and onto the waiting tea bag.
“Three 99-year sentences, back to back. Less time served, of course.”
Cole put the kettle back on the stove. “Is it possible he knows Reed?”
“They certainly ran in the same circles. My main concern is Reed’s claim of having a nuclear device,” Sarah said solemnly.
“Why’s that?” Cole asked.
Washington spoke up. “The money. Sarah’s part of a Russian Mafia task force. Tell ‘im, Sarah.”
“Research not in the field,” she began. “Our best data suggests that an entry level backpack nuke can be had for around $300.”
“Million,” Washington added.
“Sorry. A suitcase nuke capable of the kind of damage Reed has threatened is at least $700 million. Where does a radical underground guy like Reed get that kind of money?” Sarah sipped her tea.
“Goods for services?” Cole said, taking a seat.
“Exactly. We know from Western European intelligence reports, that the principal suspects in most of the smuggling cases are ‘renegade,’ according to renegade military officers and civilian nuclear technicians from Russia, Ukraine, and Romania. Most of these characters have been welcomed into the fold by the Russian Mafia. We think there’s a link between the man we’ve been calling ‘Comrade X’ and the sale and distribution of nukes and other weapons that have disappeared since the breakup of the Soviet Union. If Reed is our man, he could easily have moved enough munitions to take a nuke on commission. Or, he could just as easily have made it a condition of the sale. If Reed is our guy, he’s the Donald Trump of terrorists. Connecting all these dots could be a huge break for us. If Shipman talks, we could get an accurate description of Reed, and if we can snag him, we could cripple large parts of the underground trafficking in weapons and explosives.”
“Okay, the ‘100 years off three life sentences’ is funny, but what’s really in it for Shipman?” Cole asked, tearing off a piece of cinnamon roll.
“The warden said that Shipman is freaked out about the possibility of Reed letting off a nuke in San Francisco, so he came to the warden to verify that Reed really did have one. The warden called us, pretty rattled himself.
“So, we got an hour to get up there. We have a team already on their way to get recording equipment ready and secure an interview room,” Washington said as he ran his long, thin index finger around the lip of his mug.
“What’s your gut feeling on this?” Cole asked Sarah.
“I’ve had my nose in the paperwork of this for five years. I really want to believe Reed’s our guy.”
“But—?”
“It’s too easy. This Shipman thing, I don’t know.” She sighed, stirring a half-teaspoon of sugar into her cup.
At the curb in front of Cole’s house was a dark blue Crown Victoria, a man in aviator sunglasses behind the wheel. Without a word, Washington jumped in the front seat. In an uncomfortable moment that seemed to last forever, Cole and Sarah stood on the sidewalk looking at the car. At the same instant, they both reached for the door handle. Sarah’s hand landed on Cole’s and rested for just a moment. He opened the door and sheepishly smiled.
“Share a cab, miss?”
“Thanks,” Sarah said as she slid into the back seat.
As Cole jumped in beside her, his eyes met Washington’s, who had turned in his seat and was looking over the top of his sunglasses. Cole hoped Sarah didn’t see the way Washington’s eyes laughed and the grin that showed nearly every tooth in his head.
“Let’s go to prison!” Washington said, turning back around and fastening his seatbelt.
No one spoke until they were at the toll booth at the Golden Gate Bridge.
“I’ve never been on the bridge before.” Sarah broke the silence. “It’s not the color I expected.”
“I ride my bike across two or three times a week,” Cole offered.
“It’s hard to imagine. One of the most famous places on earth and you’re right here, and riding a bicycle.” Sarah gave a delighted little giggle. “It must be wonderful!”
Cole was pleased with her response. “So, where is home Sarah?”
“Georgetown for now. My uncle had a townhouse that his firm owned. When he died two years ago, my aunt said I could use it as long as I wanted. They had no children, and she always spoiled me. Still does, I guess.”
“I understand a pushy guy like Carter becoming an FBI agent, but you don’t quite fit my image of a G-man, uh, person.”
“I grew up in Baltimore. My father’s a rabbi. When I was 12, our synagogue was vandalized and torched. Skinheads, neo-Nazis or whatever you want to call them, trying to make the news. I’ll never forget when the FBI came. My father took me to meet with them and show them the damage. When they were all finished, a tall man in a dark suit and sunglasses came to where I was sitting, mussed my hair, squatted down, and lifted his sunglasses. He looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘Don’t worry, little miss. The FBI always catches the bad guys.’ I never saw him again. But they caught the punks who burned our synagogue, and made them examples under the new Federal Hate Crime laws. First case. The FBI caught the bad guys. After college, the thought of actually practicing law didn’t appeal much to me. I always dreamed of being an FBI agent. So, I was accepted to the Academy, and here I am! More than you needed to know, right? I kind of ramble.”
“No, not at all,” Cole said. He could have listened to her talk all day.
“Problem is, I’m too good at my job—research, analysis, and all—that they won’t give me a field assignment. I love what I do, but I never get out like this!”
“So, how is it you’re out here, then? The bombings hardly connect to the Russian Mob, do they?”
“I was fast asleep when I got the call about Shipman. He’s been on my list for years. An hour later, I was on a plane. Washington picked me up at the airport.”
Cole wanted to keep her talking. The sound of her voice touched something deep inside him, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. They spent several minutes in uncomfortable silence. The sound of Washington’s heavy breathing brought a smile to Sarah’s lips.
“He puts up a good front, but he must be exhausted,” Sarah said softly.
“Have you known him long?” Cole whispered.
“Since the academy. We were classmates.”
“Nice guy.”
“Very. He said he’s been working with you since last week.”
“Picked me up in D.C., then we went to Chicago, and now here.” Cole paused. “Sarah, do your people really think Reed has a bomb?”
“Best guess?” Sarah took a deep breath. “Yes.”
As they sped along Highway 1 in silence, Cole remembered as a teenager watching the news with his father every night before dinner. He saw riots, marches, sit-ins, and the images of a country coming apart. He saw a war in a far-off black-and-white country, soldiers bandaged and bleeding, carried to helicopters, and monks setting themselves on fire for an appetizer. The table talk would be of meatloaf, vegetables, and Vietnam, hamburger, noodles, and Ho Chi Minh. At its worst, Cole’s father feared for the survival of the nation. Cole feared the draft and dying in a black-and-white rice paddy.
In the years since, the radicals and revolutionaries of Cole’s youth grew old and faded away. America grew fat, lazy, and stupid. Then Timothy McVey woke us up. All the Y2K frenzy was for naught, and the Camouflage Militia in the Idaho hills turned out to be nothing to worry about either. September 11th showed the real threat to be radical Islamic fundamentalists with a hatred for America, Jews, Christians, and the Western world in general. Then came Reed. Just like the jets slamming into the World Trade Center, we never saw him coming.
“Mr. Sage,” Sarah said, touching his arm. “My father always taught us that worry won’t make the sun set sooner or the milk uncurdle.”
“Who said I’m worried?” Cole didn’t look at her.
“Washington is snoring, and you’re working your jaw muscles like you’re trying to get pumped up for a Mr. Universe competition. We’re all in this together, and we will win. Trust me. The FBI always catches the bad guys.” She smiled as though she really believed what she was saying.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was—” Cole broke off. “Cole, please, call me ‘Cole.’”
“So, Cole, what do you like to do when you’re not trying to save the world’s most popular tourist spot and riding your bike across the Golden Gate Bridge? And, please, no work stories.” Sarah rolled her eyes, letting him know she thought work was not the making of the man.
“I’m a movie junkie. Can’t ever get enough. I have a granddaughter I love to take for the day and spoil.”
“A granddaughter! How is that possible? How old are you?” Sarah was surprised at herself for her blunt response and raised her hand. “Sorry, over the top.”
“No, no it’s fine. Forty-six on my birthday. My daughter Erin is 24, almost 25. Jenny is four. I don’t know how old Ben is, almost 30, I think.”
“Who’s Ben?”
“Son-in-law.”
“Jewish?”
“Presbyterian.”
“And your wife? Might as well get it all.” Sarah smiled coyly.
“Well, now there’s a story.” Cole wondered how he could tell Sarah about Ellie and Erin. He had never told anyone but close friends before.
Over the next 10 minutes, Cole recounted how he had gotten reunited with Ellie and learned that Erin was his daughter. He shared the story with ease and didn’t mind some of the odd questions Sarah asked. He really liked this woman. He loved the way she smiled and frowned at the same time. He loved her directness and honest reactions. He saw in her the strength of the women from the Old Testament, and he hoped that Queen Esther or Ruth had looked like her.
“You made that up,” Sarah said when Cole finished.
“I did not!” Cole said, a bit taken back.
“Just kidding! A joke.” Sarah laughed and Washington sat up with a jolt.
“Are we there?” Washington said with panic in his voice.
“There? We’re on our way back. We didn’t want to wake you.” Cole laughed.
“Funny. I must have dozed off.”
“I guess! We’ve discovered a new level of REM—Racing Eye Movement!” Sarah poked Washington in the shoulder over the top of the seat. “It’s okay, Carter, you needed it.”
“Up on the left.” The driver spoke for the first time.
The driver showed ID at the guard shack at San Quentin’s main gate and was directed to a parking lot next to Gate G. He said they would be met there and to please wait on the sidewalk.
“Solid California granite,” Cole said, pointing to the grey fortress in front of them.
They were met by a tall, thin uniformed guard and a stout man in a pale grey suit. The guard wore mirrored sunglasses and stood ramrod straight. The man in the grey suit had his top button undone and wore a tie that was far too short to cover his belly.
“I’m Bill Conte, Assistant Warden. Welcome to San Quentin.”
Washington stepped forward and shook Conte’s hand. “Special Agent Carter Washington. This is Special Agent Spiegelman, and this is Cole Sage of the Chronicle who has agreed to assist our investigation.”
“I know Mr. Sage’s work.” Turning to Cole, he said, “I read all your columns.”
“Thank you,” Cole said as he shook Conte’s hand.
“Welcome to San Quentin, ma’am.” Conte gave Sarah a quick nod of the head.
They entered Gate G and went through a massive metal door that a guard unlocked. Two more guards sat behind a mesh barrier.
“Please pass your weapons through,” one of the guards said, pushing out a heavy metal drawer.
Washington placed his 9mm automatic in the drawer. Cole watched as Sarah reached inside her jacket and withdrew a large caliber revolver. The drawer slammed closed again with a conclusive thud.
“They’ll be waiting for you here,” the other guard said.
“This way, please.” Conte pointed with his hand palm up to a reinforced door of half-inch wire mesh.
They passed through the door and started down a long hall. The walls were an institutional green, and the tile was a speckled grey. Cole hadn’t realized it, but he had somehow gotten in front of Sarah.
“What’s your favorite movie?” Sarah whispered over Cole’s shoulder.
“The Godfather,” Cole whispered back.
“Mine, too.”
Cole grinned from ear to ear. He wanted to turn around but felt it would spoil the moment. He walked on. They worked their way through a maze of hallways. Cole was reminded of the stories of bunkers in World War II that wound their way underground and into the sides of mountains. As they walked along, they could have been 50 feet underground as far as Cole could tell. They finally turned, and before them was a spacious, modern hub of offices and secretarial desks. The group was escorted into a conference room and seated at a long wooden table.
A very severe looking man of about 30 entered the room. He was in a white button-down oxford cloth shirt and a perfectly knotted red-and-black diamond-checked silk tie. His trousers were stiff and pressed with razor-sharp creases. He was closely shaven, but it was obvious from the dark cast of his cheeks and jaw line that he had a heavy beard.
“I’m David Abrahamoff. Sacramento sent me over to observe the interview. I want you to know I appreciate the urgency and gravity of the situation. My role here is to protect the Department of Corrections and the State of California from any possible problems arising from your zeal to get your job done. I have no doubt that you’ll conduct yourselves in a manner that will be in strict observance of Bureau regulations. If I can assist in any way, I am more than willing to lend any legal knowledge. Who’s actually doing the interview?”
“I am. Special Agent Carter Washington,” Washington said, reaching out to shake Abrahamoff’s hand. “This is Special Agent Speigelman, and this is Cole Sage, on loan to the Bureau by way of the San Francisco Chronicle.”
“How do you do?” Abrahamoff nodded without smiling at Cole and made no recognition of Sarah at all.
“We have the use of Interview Room 2. Your crew is up and ready and every word will be recorded in duplicate to ensure both our protection and the rights of Mr. Shipman.”
“Why the kid gloves?” Sarah asked.
“Shipman is from very old money that’s connected at the highest levels of government, even though he’s a violent felon with a deep-seated hatred of that very government and is sworn to its destruction. His family still says he was framed. One slip-up on our part and they would, through every means available, fight to get a new trial and eventually his freedom. We don’t want that. Ms. Speigelman, what is your role here today?”
“Observer.” Sarah’s short reply was not the explanation Abrahamoff was looking for.
“I see. Mr. Sage, I’m told you are involved in the investigation.”
“I’ve spoken to Jason Reed, the suspected bomber, twice.” At Cole’s answer, Washington’s eyes darted in his direction. “I’m here to see if any of Shipman’s statements jibe with what Reed said.”
The door opened, and a uniformed guard smiled broadly and said, “He’s here.”
“Good luck, Mr. Washington. I hope you get everything you need.”
“Thank you. Let’s get this over with.” Washington went to the door and waited as Sarah then Cole left the room. “Twice, huh?” he whispered as Cole moved past. Cole just smiled.
Cole and Sarah were ushered by a man wearing an FBI identification tag through a door between the rooms marked “1” and “2”. The room beyond was completely dark except for the glow of red and green lights on the cameras and other equipment. The cameras were mounted on extension-arm tripods facing a two-way mirror mounted above a two-foot-wide work surface. Four low-back office chairs were pushed up under the work area. Pads, pencils, and bottled water were in front of each.
“Agent Speigelman, please have a seat here.” A voice came from the darkness. A small beam of light touched the surface of the work area below the window. “Mr. Sage, next to her, please.”
As Sarah lowered herself into the chair, the room was suddenly washed in a bath of light. Carter Washington walked past the two-way mirror and smiled. In front of them, separated only by the mirror, stood Richard Edward Shipman III in an orange jumpsuit. A guard was directing him to a table in the center of the room. His feet and hands were manacled, and there was a chain connecting them. When Shipman was seated, a guard placed a baton under his chin and another guard padlocked the chains on his feet to a large steel ring in the floor. Only then did they unlock the chain connecting his feet and hands.
Shipman was a small, thin man with a large head and receding hairline. In what was an obvious effort to relieve the cramped muscles in his back, Shipman rocked and arched, pulling back his shoulders and sticking out his chest. He leaned his head hard from side to side, like a fighter loosening up. Then he sat bolt upright and stared straight ahead into the mirror. Without blinking, he began a snakelike darting movement with his tongue.
Washington sat down to the left of Shipman, and Abrahamoff to the right.
“Roll tape,” said a voice behind Cole.
“Let the record show that Special Agent Carter T. Washington of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and David D. Abrahamoff, Attorney for the Department of Corrections of the State of California are interviewing Richard Edward Shipman III at his request,” Carter said, not looking at Shipman.
“Mr. Shipman, are you here of your own free will and have you waived your right to legal representation?” Abrahamoff twisted a pen as he spoke.
“Yes.”
“You contacted the warden yesterday and told him an interesting little story. You want to tell us?” Carter pinched his lips together and continued. “Do you really think some nut has got an atomic bomb in a suitcase?”
“The warden said you might get time shaved off my sentence if I gave you information.” Shipman flicked his tongue.
“Is that what this is about, Shipman, some bullshit stunt to get time shaved? The warden said you feared for your life. What, you forget that?”
“I just want to know, if this works out, what’s it worth to you?”
“One word from me, and your cell will be moved to a room with a nice northerly exposure and an open window, just in case.” Carter smiled, showing lots of teeth.
“You’re a lawyer; can he do that?” Shipman looked at Abrahamoff and darted his tongue in and out. “Can he?”
“I represent the state, Mr. Shipman, so my opinion is really not of much import to you. I will say this: Your tone and willingness to cooperate will carry a lot of weight with Mr. Washington, I’m sure.”
Shipman rubbed small circles on the tabletop with his index fingers. He twisted his neck again, causing it to pop. He darted his tongue in and out several times before he spoke. “Mr. Washington, would you please consider requesting a reduction of my sentence if the information I provide is of value to the apprehension of the man threatening San Francisco with a nuclear device?”
“I would certainly consider it. Understand, though, I am only an FBI agent, not a judge.”
“I understand. Thank you, sir.” Shipman bobbed his head as he spoke.
“Shipman, don’t kiss my ass so hard. Might leave marks. Now, what do you know? Start at the beginning.” Carter folded his long arms across his chest as he finished.
“I have been an active member of numerous revolutionary groups since 1972. In that time, I have seen, but not participated in, numerous bombings, bank robberies, and cases of arson that involved high explosives and materials not available at your local Ace hardware store,” Shipman began.
“Hold it a minute. Okay, I get it. You’re here because you are an innocent victim of a fascist police state judicial system that is bought and sold by the power elite and dedicated to the persecution of those who would give their life for a socialist people cooperative state. Did I leave anything out? If not, no more ‘I’m innocent’ bullshit. It will cut the time by half, okay?” Washington gave a long bored sigh.
“The guy you want is Curtis Winger. He buys, sells, and steals weapons, ammunitions, explosives—you name it—and then trains people committed to a New World Power Balance to use the stuff.”
“Strike one. We’re looking for Jason Reed.” Carter shook his head.
“I know him as Curtis Reed. Same guy. We trained New People’s Army personnel in the Philippines on the use of surface-to-air missiles.” Shipman’s tongue flashed in and out as he paused between words.
“How do you know it’s him?”
“Easy. Only three groups have nukes. Russians, they’re selling; Arabs, they’re buying; and Curtis, he’s about using them. He told me in the Philippines if he ever got one, he wouldn’t be afraid to use it. I figure he has negotiated enough sales that the Russians bonused him a suitcase.” Shipman accentuated each sentence with a flick of his tongue.
“Suitcase?” Carter asked to make sure there was no misunderstanding.
“Yeah, suitcase nuke. He’s got to have one by now. He sure as hell could never buy one. Curtis isn’t about money. He told me he had half a million in a footlocker in LA, been there four or five years, and that was about five years ago. You know what he charged the NPA? A plane ticket! You believe it? A plane ticket to Frankfurt. I got 100,000 Euro in Krugerrands.”
“A truly committed radical you are,” Carter said sarcastically.
“Whatever. He’s your guy.” Shipman flicked his tongue repeatedly.
“I want a complete description. Height, weight, coloring, scars, tattoos—anything you can think of.”
“Five-four or five, little, 130 pounds maybe, wiry muscular, strong as hell, hairy arms, red hair, freckles, lots of freckles. He’s a killer. I’ve seen him kill men who looked twice as big as him with his bare hands. Strong, amazingly strong. When he had long hair, he looked like Willie Nelson, the singer. Used to really piss him off if anybody said so.” Shipman laughed and darted his tongue. “You’ll never find him though. He’s, like, invisible.”
“How do you mean?” Carter asked softly, not wanting to break the flow.
“We were in London, and he would walk into a tour group, walk for blocks, nobody would even look at him. It was like he wasn’t there. He had me try it. Ten feet, somebody spoke to me. Weird shit this guy does. Spooky. Maybe it’s the peyote. Strong medicine, and Curtis or—what’d you say his real name was?”
“Jason Reed.”
“Yeah, Reed. Always takes peyote before a big decision. Off by himself. Says he has visions. Powerful shit, that peyote. I tried it once, no more, no sir, not for me. He’s very internal. You know, keeps it all inside, a good man, strong warrior of changing the world. I would work with him anytime. But you will never find him. He’s been underground forever. Doesn’t exist, no paper, that’s why he’s sought after. But it also means you can’t cross him. He can make people disappear. Suddenly, they’re having their balls crushed by the CIA. People have tried to sell him out. Can’t be found. Like I said, invisible.”
“So, why are you so willing to give him up?”
“Crazy asshole will light the fuse. That radioactive cloud will head straight here on the south wind. I’m not willing to die for his egotism. I’ll be out of here within a year. Don’t want to die of leukemia or liver cancer, either. This is not the way to go about change. Violence must be target-directed. Killing civilians is not endearing to any cause.”
“Carter, ask him if he knows anyone in the Russian Mob.” Sarah’s voice was loud and crisp in Carter’s earpiece.
“So, tell me about the Russian mob.”
“Why?”
“Because you want to be helpful.” Carter gave Shipman a forced smile.
“I’m no Russian.”
“Names, all I want are some names. They’ll never know where the names came from.”
“Are you keeping track of my tone and willingness to cooperate?” Shipman asked.
“Noted. Names.”
“I worked with someone from the Ukraine. Arms guy. He could get you a tank! Sergei something. Wait. Nakarifeiv, Sergei Nakarifeiv. Lives in Prague.”
“Okay, who else?”
“How safe are we in here?” Shipman pointed at the two-way mirror.
“Nobody there but Feds.”
“Ahem.” Abrahamoff cleared his throat.
“And a witness.”
“To what?” screamed Shipman. As he tried to stand, his tongue manically darted in and out.
“He’s FBI security, cleared all the way to the president. Now sit, more names.”
“That’s it. This gets out, I’m dead. You know what these Russian Mob guys do to snitches. No more, no more!” Shipman frantically pulled at his chains, and began rocking in his chair and groaning, all the while repeatedly darting his tongue in and out.
“Who’s the contact for Nakarifeiv?” Sarah asked through the earpiece.
“I need Nakarifeiv’s contact. If you want any help from me!” Carter tried to shout over Shipman’s howling.
“You killed me!” Shipman screamed and started to beat his forehead on the table.
Over and over, he pounded his head against the tabletop. Half standing and slamming it down like a karate demonstration in a high school gym, he appeared to be trying to break the table in half. Twisting and turning, Shipman moaned, continually flicking his tongue in his bazaar snake-like fashion. Time and again, his head made contact. Once he slammed down on the table’s edge, gashing a broad deep cut just below his thinning hairline. As Carter Washington watched in dismay, large plops of blood began streaming onto the Formica table. As Shipman’s head slammed down, a spray of crimson splashed across the table like someone stomping a ketchup packet and slashed a trail across Abrahamoff’s brilliant white shirt. The lawyer sat frozen, gazing down as blood hit the front of his clothing a second time.
“Maybe we should go.” Washington pulled on Abrahamoff’s arm as he passed him on his way toward the door. “Guard! Guard!” Washington yelled as he rapped on the door.
Abrahamoff stood motionless, looking down at the bloody stains across his abdomen. Carter reached over and took the handkerchief square from the attorney’s jacket pocket and gently wiped two spots of blood from Abrahamoff’s neck, just above his collar. He handed him the soiled handkerchief, and Abrahamoff dropped it to the floor like it was leprous.
“Stop the cameras, kill audio,” the voice behind Cole and Sarah said flatly.
Through the window, Cole watched the now-silent scene of two guards trying to subdue Shipman as he pounded and splashed his bloody head repeatedly against the table. In exasperation, one of the guards put his baton around Shipman’s neck with both hands and pulled him back, struggling to keep him from striking the table again. Finally, choking and gagging, Shipman went limp, unable to breath. With swift efficient movements, the other guard loosed the chains connecting him to the ring on the floor and replaced the chain connecting Shipman’s hands and feet. Grabbing him under each arm, as though they had done it a thousand times, the expressionless guards dragged the prisoner from the room, toes dragging the floor, blood running from his forehead.
“That was lovely,” Cole said.
“No comment.” Sarah stared ahead, unflinching.
“You certainly don’t question why these people are locked up.”
“Seems his family could have easily gotten a competency hearing and won it hands down,” Sarah said, turning to face Cole.
“Old money wants no crazies dangling from the family tree if they can help it.” Washington had entered the room and his voice boomed across it. “Let’s go.”
As they approached the final obstacle to their exit and freedom, they saw Abrahamoff retrieving several objects from the guards.
“You’ll not hear from me,” he said, without turning around.
“Thanks for your help today,” Washington replied.
Abrahamoff did not respond. He picked up his briefcase and left the building.
On the way back to San Francisco, Cole and Sarah talked and laughed as though they had known each other forever. Stories of Cole’s travels and work met with Sarah’s tales of FBI life and her year on a kibbutz in Israel made the time pass far too quickly to suit either.
Shortly before they arrived back at the hotel that housed the visiting legion of FBI agents and technicians, Cole reached out, touched Sarah’s sleeve, and leaned toward her. “Is it against regulations to have dinner with someone involved in an investigation?” Cole whispered.
“I hope not.” Sarah smiled.
“Meet you in the lobby at 7?”
“How about 6?”
“I’ll be here.”
The car pulled up to the curb in front of the Pickwick Hotel, and Sarah got out. Carter Washington turned and smiled at Cole.
“You’re an old smoothie, you are.”
“Come on, Carter, it’s just—” Cole didn’t finish. Carter Washington was out of the car and bounding across the sidewalk behind Sarah. Cole watched as they both disappeared inside the hotel.