It took two tries to get the key in the lock. As the sound of the powerful Crown Victoria engine faded, Cole didn’t turn to see Carter Washington driving away. He turned back, crossed the porch, and sat on the top step. Everything on his street looked the same, but it felt different. Washington had brought him home because, as he said, “When the shock wears off, you’ll want to be alone.” It was a kind gesture that Cole appreciated, but he really didn’t want to be alone.
Once the blockade had been removed, the media swarmed the front of the San Francisco Shopping Centre, but by then, Cole was long gone. Cole and Washington had sat quietly in the Starbucks down the street and watched as the satellite dishes turned toward the sky and the cables were strung up and down the sidewalk. CNN, FOX, and the other TV networks tried to piece the story together. They interviewed anyone who walked by, grabbing and snatching any piece of information they could, most of which was hearsay and observations of people who had watched from blocks away.
The shoppers and tourists in the building when Reed jammed the elevator were nowhere to be found. The FBI was interviewing many, but most were on about their business or at Fisherman’s Wharf continuing with their visit to the city. Those who had been injured had been whisked to undisclosed hospitals by the police, and all but the old woman who had been thrown down the escalator and kicked by Reed had been examined and set on their way. Mary Alice Johnston of Elk River, Minnesota, had three broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. She was staying overnight for observation purposes, all the while demanding that Nordstrom’s replace her bloodied and torn white pantsuit.
The body of Jason Reed had been bagged, tagged, and carried to the coroner’s white van. The suitcase with the bomb had been swept away by FBI technicians, and any sign of trouble had been swept away with it. Within minutes, the barbed fork had been removed from the escalator, and the shiny brass spiral was back in operation. Except for a couple of small dents on the grate along the floor, there was nothing to notice. Disaster had been the lifting of a finger away. The release of a $1.89 Radio Shack switch, and the peaceful setting Cole now saw before him could have been completely different. The beauty and excitement of San Francisco would have changed forever, and the third atomic bomb in history would have been used on innocent people.
Cole took a deep breath of the crisp afternoon air. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. He looked down at his hands and rubbed his palms together. There was a stain. Not a visible stain, but it was there all the same: the unchangeable, indelible stain of the last 180 minutes, and nobody except Cole could see the blood on his hands.
All the macho talk, fantasies of shootouts, sword fights, and Double-O status were replaying in Cole’s mind. The danger, excitement, and bloodless deaths of TV cowboys, secret agents, and cop dramas seemed as childish as the sentimental nostalgia they had carried over all the years. The memories of summer afternoons playing cops and robbers or Errol Flynn on the deck of a pirate ship now seemed overshadowed by a dark foreboding.
Cole had seen death. In Cambodia, he had seen skulls stacked in pyramids. In Afghanistan, he had seen heads on the end of spears as the warlords whipped their soldiers into a frenzy. In Chicago, he had seen teen street gangs murder each other wholesale and been sickened and disheartened at the sight. As the dying bled out into the sand of the Middle East and on the sidewalks of the mean streets of America, Cole had seen the frailty of life. He had heard the last words of the dying crying out—to Allah, Jesus, their wives, mothers—in indecipherable gurgling. Death was a horror. In all that he had seen, Cole Sage had been the detached observer. He was the newspaperman off to the side of the fight, always after the smoke had cleared. Today, he had felt the warmth of Jason Reed, smelled his breath, and heard his voice—then in an instant, by his own hand, had stopped it all. Cole had taken a life. A life that could not be retrieved, replayed, or revived. Jason Reed ceased to exist, and Cole was to blame.
A brisk wind swirled about the porch, sending a shiver up Cole’s back. He went in the house and looked around. It seemed dark and cool as though he had left a window open. His café mocha and newspaper were still on the kitchen table. He went into the bedroom and pulled a sweater from the closet. As his head popped out of the neck of the sweater, Cole caught a glimpse of the phone next to the bed. He dialed Erin’s number and waited for her voice. He felt a sense of relief knowing he had family. He needed Erin; he needed just to hear her voice.
“Hi! You’ve reached Ben and Erin.” Cole pursed his lips in disappointment.
“Me, too!” Jenny squealed. “Leave a message!” Cole broke into a wide smile as her giggle closed the message.
“It’s me. Just wanted to say ‘hi.’” Cole set down the receiver.
The receiver had hardly settled when the phone rang.
“Cole?”
He hadn’t had time to even say hello before the voice on the other end of the line spoke.
“Yes?”
“It’s Kelly, Ben’s mom. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Cole was surprised by the concern in her voice, a voice he hadn’t recognized at all.
“You’re all over CNN. I was concerned.”
“It’s been a wild morning.” He wasn’t sure how to continue.
“Do you need to talk or would you rather—” Kelly wasn’t sure where she was going either.
“I would rather not...” Cole wasn’t sure how to express his need to talk. If he said he didn’t want to be alone, that might come off as an invitation or like he was fishing for one. Her concern, her warmth, just the sound of her voice, amplified the cavernous hollow Cole felt inside. He still mourned the loss of Ellie. He had found Sarah Spiegelman, and she was exactly what he would have chosen. She was beautiful, witty, romantic, and a seemingly perfect match but in a moment, she was gone.
He didn’t want another romance; he certainly didn’t need any entanglements. He just needed someone to talk to. But that wasn’t it either; he wanted to be talked to. He wanted to listen. This woman who he didn’t know at all was concerned about him. He wanted to communicate with someone. Listen and respond, talk and get a response. He just didn’t want her to hang up.
“That’s fine. I just wanted to see if you were okay. I tried calling Erin first, but she’s not home. Ben hadn’t heard the news.”
“Kelly?”
“Yes.”
“I could really use a bit of conversation.”
“Have you seen the news? You can’t really tell what is fact and what is fluff, you know what I mean? Do you want to talk about what happened, or should we change the subject?” He now recalled their conversation earlier in the week. This woman could talk.
Cole was a talker himself. It had made the newspaper game a lot easier for him. His ability to engage total strangers and extract their life story was a gift that he not only was aware of but had honed to a fine art. There was something about Kelly Mitchell that put him off his game, though. When she had called with the dinner invitation, he felt as though he was running to keep up with her. She always seemed to be thinking two sentences ahead in the conversation, like in a chess game. Cole smiled and took a deep breath.
“I understand you live on a boat,” he began.
“Well, not exactly. It’s a house, really. They built the house on pontoons.”
“But you’re afloat?”
“Yes, but I can’t sail off into the sunset. The pontoons are actually Styrofoam. Huge pieces encased in cement. Then the foundation is built on that. Just like a land house except it floats. You’ve got to come see it. There are about 400 of us. All kinds of interesting people around me—artists, poets, even a couple of musicians.”
“Sounds like a floating commune.” The thought of communes and the ‘60s wasn’t an image Cole wanted in his mind right now.
“Sometimes it feels like that. It’s nice, though, because we all look out for each other. Some of the guys are handy, and they’re always willing to fix things. That’s the one drawback to living on the water. It eventually destroys everything. You would be amazed how much a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies is worth when a sheet of decking needs replacing. I prefer chocolate chip myself, but the granola boys are more conscientious, I even make them cookies with honey instead of sugar. The big phonies. They eat organic food then drink like fish at sundown. What about you? Are you a raisin or chip man?”
“Definitely a chocolate chip man, but truth be told, I’m partial to brownies.”
“Walnuts or chocolate chips?”
“Now you’re talkin’ real brownies! Mine are usually from a Duncan Hines box.” Cole paused. “Funny, you know most bakeries don’t make brownies anymore. When they do, they’re these monster things that look like smashed cake.”
There was a silence on the line. Cole felt uncomfortable at first but then he felt a calm connection in the silence. Even though they were a bridge apart, he felt he was just sitting with an old friend. He heard her clear her throat and swallow. On the other end of the phone, Kelly smiled and drew circles on the top of her kitchen table. She finally broke the silence.
“So, how did you get a name like ‘Cole’? You’re the only Cole I’ve ever met.”
“My mother’s family was from Oklahoma. Years ago, so the family legend goes, my great-grandparents were out of money, food, and about to lose their farm. Crops failed, and a tornado had blown away the barn and most of the animals. It seems this group of riders came through and asked for food and shelter. It was the dark of the moon, and they couldn’t see that the farm was a wreck. My great-grandfather told them their situation, and the leader of the bunch asked if he could have something to drink. Once inside, the guy realized just what bad shape they were in. My grandfather was about nine at the time, skin and bones; he asked the man if they had anything the family could eat.
The stranger said they were out of food, too, but had something in his saddlebag that might help them get food in the morning. He took my grandfather outside and gave him a bag of quarters.
‘Take this, young fella, and don’t spend it all in one place. Tell your folks to go easy on these, and they should last a good long while.’ With that, the stranger mounted his horse and began to ride away.
‘What’s your name?’ my grandfather called from behind him.
‘Younger! Cole Younger!’ the man shouted back. So, to securely anchor me to my family mythology, my parents named me ‘Cole.’”
“I love it.” Kelly chuckled.
“Thing is, when this incident supposedly occurred, Cole Younger was serving a life sentence in a Minnesota prison. What makes the whole thing really suspect is that the Younger Gang was never known to operate in the Indian Territories. It’s a good story, though.”
“It’s a great story. Way better than mine.”
“‘Kelly’ isn’t an odd name.”
“No, but the way I got it is. My mother saw High Noon on her first date with my dad and thought that Grace Kelly was the most beautiful, gracious woman she had ever seen. She said, ‘If I ever have a daughter, I’m going to name her after Grace Kelly.’ When Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier, my fate was sealed.”
“So, you’re Grace Kelly Mitchell.”
“I wish! My father had an old maid aunt named Grace who was a real witch and always kept the family in turmoil, so Mom named me ‘Kelly.’ I don’t usually tell people the story. I like them to think my mom was just ahead of her time.”
Both laughed but were interrupted by the sound of the call-waiting signal on Cole’s line.
“Hold on a second,” Cole said, disappointed by the interruption. “Hello?”
“Cole, Carter. We’re scheduling a press conference at 3 o’clock.”
“Hold on. I have someone on the other line.” He pressed the hook briefly. “Kelly? It’s the FBI, something about a press conference. I hate to cut you off—”
“No problem. Feds have the right of way. Go for a walk, Cole, it’s a great stress release. I really enjoyed chatting. Bye.”
Cole didn’t want their talk to end; it had taken him away from bombs, bombers, the FBI and his having killed Reed. He pressed the hook again. “Carter? I’m back.”
“Three o’clock on the steps of the Federal Building. You don’t have to speak unless you wish. We just want a solid front to present to the world. Now listen, Cole, this is the line we’re taking: The suitcase was full of C-4 explosives stolen from the armory at Fort Benning. Jason Reed was wanted by the FBI for violation of arms and explosives theft and transport. There is to be no mention—now or ever—about the threat of nuclear explosives, his link to international terrorism, or anything beyond the published manifesto. Jason Reed was a wacko loner who decided he was the savior of the world, and acts of violence and threats got his manifesto published in the Chronicle. When he was ignored by the world, he decided he was going to blow up San Francisco.” Carter Washington dropped his FBI voice. “Before you say anything, this is a national security issue, and my informing you puts you in the loop. Any violation would bring serious consequences. Clear? I know it goes against every grain of your newspaper hide, but that’s how it’s come down from on high.”
“What if I don’t go?”
“I’ll understand, but I would be very disappointed personally. I would count it a favor if you showed up.” Carter’s voice carried a note of concern.
“All right, just checking.”
“What about the bomb? What do we know? Anything?”
“Not much yet. I have been promised word before 3. I do have this: Reed’s fingerprints have been linked to 31 federal crimes and at least a dozen unsolved murders in five states—and they’re just getting started. He was a bad boy, this one.”
“What about me, Carter?” Cole tried to sound calmer than he was.
“How do you mean?”
“The guy’s dead. I killed him. What happens?” Cole was surprised at his panicked tone. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.
“Short of a medal, you get a hero’s treatment. Self-defense, citizen warrior, protector of the city, vermin exterminator—whatever you want to call it, you did a great service to the city and to the nation. This thing could have made September 11th look like a blip on the radar. You saved thousands of lives, my friend. You should feel no guilt at your actions. You did what we all hope we can do when the time comes: think on your feet and take decisive action.”
“You make it sound like I took out the trash or shot a mad dog, Carter, this was a human being, and I killed him. It’s not that easy, is it?” Cole hoped for a shred of something that Carter could offer that would relieve his guilt.
“In the end, it comes down to you or him. I, for one, am happy that you’re talking to me on the phone, you’ll go to work tomorrow, you’ll play with your little granddaughter, and hopefully be around for a long, long time. Nobody likes killing, but sometimes it’s for the good of the community, society, or just self-preservation.”
“Have you ever....” Cole paused.
“Twice.” Carter took a deep, audible breath. “Once to protect my partner. The other was, well, a raid that went terribly wrong. Three agents had been killed, and I was next. I fired and the bullet went right through the perp and into an agent. Phillip Edward Pennimen, 37 years old, five-year veteran of the Bureau, wife, three kids, loved hiking in the Vermont woods. Friendly fire, they called it. The perp lived. It’s hard. It happens. You get over it. It takes time, Cole. If you need help, you know, professional? Call me; we’ll take care of everything.”
“Thank you, Carter. Three o’clock, huh?”
“Park in the underground lot. Your name’s on the list.”
“All right, I’ll be there.” Cole knew he needed to be there, and there was the sound of determination, not frailty, in his voice.
“And Cole?”
“Yeah?”
“I have 20-year veterans who couldn’t have done what you did. You ever want to give up that typewriter for a real job, you let me know.”
“You’ll be the first, Washington, you’ll be the first.”
“See you at 3.” Carter Washington hung up.
Cole ran his hands over his face. With his eyes closed, he saw Sarah Spiegelman’s face, but the voice he heard was Kelly Mitchell’s.
* * *
At 2:45, Cole pulled into the underground parking garage between Larkin and Polk. As he made his way toward the United Nations Plaza, a huge mural of the word TRUTH was all he could see. It was emblazoned across the wall of the Odd Fellows Building. He had spent his life fighting for truth, justice, and the American way—just like Superman. With each step he took in the bright afternoon sun, he realized he was about to participate in a lie. Not just a polite little white lie to save someone’s feelings but a big fat ugly cover-your-ass government lie. Was this really the American way? Couldn’t we take the truth anymore? He walked on.
Carter Washington was standing in a group of men in dark suits, white shirts, dark ties, and aviator sunglasses at the top of the steps in front of the Federal Building. Washington was the only one not wearing sunglasses, and he was the only one who was black. His face showed recognition as he spotted Cole making his way up the steps. With a sideways jerk of his head, he signaled Cole off to the left of the group.
“Thanks for coming. I got some news. The explosives techs just called. It seems Mr. Reed was the victim of a swindle,” Carter said with a wide grin.
“How’s that?” Cole did not return the smile.
“His two cylinders of plutonium necessary to create an atomic reaction? Seems they were just industrial-grade steel to which somebody had given a coating of radioactive material. Unless you used them as a pillow for years on end, they were pretty much harmless. So, we were actually in no threat of a nuclear explosion.”
“What about the C-4?”
“That was real enough. It would have made a real big crater off the Shopping Centre and probably taken out the BART station. We’ll never know how many lives you saved.” Carter reached out and slapped Cole on the shoulder.
“So, no nuke. No nuke, no lie.”
“Lie?”
“Cover-up, deceit, whatever you want to call it. No nuke, no problem, right?”
“I suppose you could look at it that way. You’ve been around long enough to know how things work.”
“I was just never on the inside looking out before. I usually do the uncovering, not the covering-up.”
Carter Washington studied Cole for a long while before he spoke again. “That thing you said to me, after it was all over, you remember? You said, ‘It seems this is how far I would go to protect those I love.’”
“Whatever it took.” Cole couldn’t believe he was answering the same question he had put to Ben just days before.
“That must mean your country, too.”
“I guess so.”
“You see, whether or not there was a nuke is not the question—or at least shouldn’t be. The real question is, when it was necessary, you did what was needed. We of the Bureau are sworn to protect the laws and people of the United States. It’s not glamorous or pleasant most of the time. But we do it. Do the people always know we’ve done it? No. You see our willingness to not tell everything about this incident today as a cover-up or a lie. We see it as simply another example of protecting our country and its citizens not knowing just how much danger there was.” Carter smiled at Cole. “Cole, you did a courageous thing today. You saw your responsibility and you did it. I’m sorry you see it as less than the heroic thing it was.”
“Agent Washington! It’s time to get started!” A man from the bank of microphones called to Washington.
“That’s us. Say as much or as little as you want. Give me the high sign if you want to stop.”
Cole reached out his hand to Carter Washington. “Thank you, Carter. This has been, I don’t know, more than I think I could have handled without...” Cole paused.
“Let’s get this over with.” Washington pointed at the podium.
Dozens of microphones clustered in front of it. What seemed like an equal number of newspeople crowded the podium and down the steps. Police kept hundreds of curious onlookers behind a line of blue at the bottom of the steps. The suits merged, and a separation by rank divided the group without a word being spoken. A thickly built man with a head of grey hair approached the podium. He stood like a rock and waited for the crowd to silence itself. He reached up, took off his sunglasses, slipped them into his olive green suit, and nodded to someone in the waiting crowd.
“Good afternoon. I am Elliott Myer of the General’s Office, San Francisco. Today we were faced with an attempt to terrorize the people of San Francisco and the United States. Due to the diligent work of the FBI, San Francisco Police, and the heroic selflessness of a private citizen, the incident was brought to an end without loss of life or property. I’d like to introduce Special Agent Carter Washington of the FBI who will make a brief statement, introduce Mr. Cole Sage, and then they’ll take your questions. Thank you for coming. Agent Washington?”
The crowd of reporters jockeyed for position, and the clacking of cameras broke the silence. As Carter Washington came to the podium, one reporter lost his footing and fell back, knocking another man to his knees on the steps. After a brief moment of jostling and regrouping, the group fell silent again.
“Thank you, Mr. Myer. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I want to make a brief statement and then introduce Mr. Sage. After his statement, we’ll take your questions.
“At approximately 10:15 this morning, a man now identified as one Jason Weston Reed chained himself to the escalator at the San Francisco Shopping Centre on Market Street. Mr. Reed then told security personnel that he had a bomb.
“Federal authorities, including the FBI, had been aware of Mr. Reed and were making every effort to apprehend him in connection to three bombings in the Chicago area. As you know, Mr. Reed contacted the San Francisco Chronicle and demanded the printing of what we referred to as the Reed Manifesto. Based upon his actions in Chicago and the threats made here in San Francisco, it was recommended that his writings be published. After the incident in Golden Gate Park, it was apparent Mr. Reed was serious in his threats.
“Since this morning, the full investigative resources of the FBI have been put to work researching the life and activities of Jason Reed. We have a printed statement you will be given with all the details we have so far. Obviously, this is only the beginning of what will be an ongoing investigation. Due to the sensitive nature of these investigations, I cannot comment on the specifics of each case. State and local authorities have been and will continue to be contacted regarding numerous unsolved cases we believe Mr. Reed was involved in, including but not limited to murder, assault, and arson.
“Today’s incident ends Mr. Reed’s long career of radical anti-government, anti-military, and anti-American acts of violence, terror, and treason unparalleled in U.S. history.
“I want you to know, but for the courageous efforts of Mr. Sage, this press conference would have a far different message, and the outcome of today’s events would have had a tragic and devastating end. Mr. Sage will now give a brief statement, after which time we will answer your questions. As you can imagine, this has been a difficult day for him, and I ask you to show restraint and compassion. Mr. Sage?” Washington stepped back from the podium and motioned Cole forward.
Cole looked out at the sea of reporters, cameras, and microphones. Everything Washington had said was true. The fire of anger that had enflamed Cole had cooled. There was a feeling of resignation to protect the public. As a writer, he had always fought for the people’s right to know. He had always fought for the rights of the little guy, fought to expose greed and dishonesty of those betraying the public trust. Now he found himself in the position where he could protect the people from information that could bring harm. Like a father protecting his children, Cole realized his words could heal and help or they could hurt.
The job of a terrorist is to take away the peace of mind of his enemy. Jason Reed thought that bombing the Shopping Centre would bring on a revolution. The result would have been damaging the peace of mind of the people of America. If Cole did anything to plant the smallest seed of fear, then Jason Reed had won.
Cole stepped to the podium. He took a deep breath and looked at the mural across the plaza—TRUTH. He would tell the truth, his truth.
“My name is Cole Sage. I’m a writer. As a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, it’s my job to look for the truth. Today, I discovered a new truth.” Cole paused
Carter Washington wondered if he had made a mistake putting Cole in front of the cameras. He shifted his weight uneasily but did not change expressions.
“Today, I was confronted with a very disturbed, angry, and confused person: Jason Reed. In his twisted vision of the world, he thought that destruction of San Francisco and the death of thousands would cause people to rise up in revolution.
“In my world, people like Reed are so few that they can create only minor disturbances. I like to believe even those with strong agendas—radical, political, or social—still hold human life sacred. As Jason Reed’s story unfolds, look at the life of this troubled man and pause to reflect what our daily actions can bring. Our families, our friends, and the people we come in contact with every day—we have an impact on their lives, and their lives can have a great impact on our world. Use your life as a positive in the life of someone like Jason Reed. There was a time when someone could have made a difference in his life.
“In Exodus 20:13, it says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Today, I did just that. That will be with me the rest of my time on this earth. It’s my hope that God will see my heart and forgive my taking a life. Please make this city and this planet a place that the Jason Reeds have no reason to hate. Jason Reed took my words—the words of a column I wrote almost 20 years ago—and turned them into a way to begin this nightmare.
“Please take my words today and make a connection. Promise with me to be a positive force in this world and to never create a Jason Reed again. Thank you.”
The questioning of Carter Washington went on for 10 or 15 minutes. Most questions centered on Jason Reed and his background, motivation, and access to high explosives. Numerous questions were answered with “No comment” or “We don’t have all the facts yet.” Cole was aware that he was in the position he had put people in for years: He watched peers and colleagues jockey for position and fall into a pre-established pecking order. The questions for Cole mostly centered around Reed’s contacts with him, Cole’s thoughts on Reed’s politics, observations on FBI and local law enforcement and how they dealt with homegrown terrorists. One reporter raised the connection between Cole and the Chicago bombings. Washington was quick to derail the line of questioning: “That’s an ongoing investigation, and no comments will be made at this time about Chicago and any of Jason Reed’s activities there.”
Carter Washington checked his watch and stepped beside Cole. “We have time for four or five more questions.”
“How was he actually killed, Mr. Sage?” a man in the second row shouted.
“We don’t need to get into that now. It will be in the official report; you’ll all get a copy. Next question,” Washington said without hesitation.
“What did he want to tell you, Mr. Sage? What was his main objective?”
“He said that there were thousands, maybe millions who wanted to bring down the governments of the world and were waiting for him, the savior of the world, to sacrifice himself to start the revolution. Then they would rise up, and the governments of the world would be destroyed.”
“Was Reed connected with any known terrorist groups?”
“Not that we know of at this time.”
“Mr. Sage! What was the last thing Reed said to you?”
“He told me I had one hour to get out of harm’s way and write the story of our meeting. He said I would become part of history.” Cole looked directly at the young man who had asked the question. “I don’t think that will happen.”
A tall, thin woman near the edge of the crowd cried out with a thin reedy voice, “Agent Washington! Does the FBI condone this type of vigilante murder?”
“Name and paper,” Washington said in a steely tone.
“Tina Birmin. Berkeley Daily Planet,” she shouted back.
“Ms. Birmin, Mr. Sage’s actions were neither murderous nor vigilante. In the face of great personal danger, Cole Sage went into the building to meet Jason Reed with the full knowledge of Reed’s vow to detonate the bomb. To protect innocent lives, Mr. Sage removed the threat of the bomb. There was no preplanning or time to map a strategy in dealing with this situation. Reed demanded to meet with Mr. Sage. Mr. Sage was told of Reed’s demands and stepped forward to assist and, at the time, entering that building had only one conclusion. Mr. Sage saw an opportunity and used lethal force to eliminate what was an eminent threat of tremendous destruction. In this case, we not only condone Mr. Sage’s actions but applaud them. Last question.”
A reporter from CNN whom Cole had known in Chicago stepped closer to the podium. “Cole, will you write the story?”
“Nice to see you, Alan. The FBI has asked me to not divulge certain aspects of what happened this morning. I will respect that. In the future, I’ll write of this incident, but not in the way Jason Reed would have wanted.”
Carter Washington leaned forward and said, “Thank you, no more questions.” He grabbed Cole by the shoulder, turning him from the reporters and toward the front of the Federal Building.
The group of FBI agents, Justice Department personnel, and representatives of local law enforcement moved quickly into the lobby of the Federal Building. Washington turned to Cole and nodded his head. “Nice job.”
“So, now what?”
“I’m off to Washington. The night I picked you up at your hotel in D.C., I had just come from a meeting at the Director’s office. Yours truly has been kicked upstairs. I’ve been chosen to be No. 2 to the Executive Assistant Director for Counter-Terrorism and Counter-Intelligence. Is that a mouthful or what?”
“Will it all fit on a card?” Cole smiled.
“Hope so. This thing with Reed sort of sidetracked larger programs the Bureau is trying to get online. It’s a good news/bad news kind of position. Good news: If I succeed and the programs make the Director look good, I’ll have a place in the Hoover Building for the next 15 years or so until I retire. Bad news: If it doesn’t fly, you can send my Christmas card to Biloxi. For now, I have the momentum and attention of everyone in the Bureau to get the job done.”
“So, that’s why all the doors you knocked on flew open so quickly. If you’re this new big shot, why did you pick me up? Why didn’t they use a field agent or some flunky; how’d I rate?”
“Tell you the truth, I was going anyway. Sort of a perk of the job, and the president wanted to congratulate me—at least, that was the Director’s story. I think they just wanted to get some PR legs out of the photo op. You didn’t see that part of the evening.” Washington shrugged. “It was nice, a real honor. I didn’t mean to belittle it.”
“Carter, it has been a real eye-opener, this whole thing. I’ve met and worked with the Bureau over the years, but it was always at arm’s length. I have a new respect for what you guys do. I’ve always had an image of this cloak-and-dagger, G-Man snoop group. I was wrong, at least partially. I still think you guys were all wet on the John Lennon thing.” Cole grinned. “I met two very special people through this, though. If you’re in the city, you need to see the Giants play in the new stadium, and we never got to Tommy’s Joint for buffalo stew, either. Next time you see Sarah, please say ‘hello.’”
“Will do. You know something? Without sounding too sappy, you would have made one a hell of an FBI agent.”
Cole raised his eyebrows and grinned, then turned and started toward the side entrance.
“Better use the garage exit. Gets you past the mess out front. You know how newspaper people are.” Washington smiled and went to join the group of agents on the far side of the lobby.
“Until next time, then.” Cole waved and walked to the elevator.
Cole drove toward the Chronicle, but after a few blocks, turned, and headed for home. There would be time enough to tell and retell the story of “The Great San Francisco Shopping Center Bomber.” Right now, he needed home and some peace and quiet. He drove in silence; this was not the time for music, the latest news, or talk radio. As he drove, he hummed quietly and took in the sights around him. Most of the people he saw were blissfully ignorant of the morning’s events. Jason Reed had died unaware of the futility of his grand scheme. Just like the old song, “Time and tide will just keep rolling along,” Cole just hummed and rolled along home.
Once inside the big oak door, Cole walked to the couch and plopped into its cool leather embrace. He grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV. Hugh Romney was frozen on the screen. The Woodstock DVD had been on pause ever since Kelly Mitchell had called about the dinner invitation. Wavy Gravy, the hippie clown alter ego of Hugh Romney, was on the stage. Cole pushed play.
“Some hamburger guy had his stand burned down last night...” Cole laughed out loud and hit the power button. “Enough already.” Cole stood and walked to the phone. He pushed the recent calls button.
“Hello,” came a cheerful female voice.
“Would you mind if I came and saw your boat today? There’s still about three of hours of daylight left.” Cole waited, holding his breath.
“I think that would be wonderful!” Kelly Mitchell responded happily.