Betrayal

It was a rare summer morning, one without a trace of fog. Christine pulled the mainsheet just a bit tighter as her boat broke free of the marina. The boat heeled over in the brisk summer breeze and sprang to life, accelerating over the smooth, sheltered waters along San Francisco’s waterfront.

McCaig looked slightly alarmed as the boat leaned over. “This is normal, right? This tipping business?”

“Oh, we’re just getting started. There’s a lot more wind under the bridge, and waves too. This flat stuff won’t last.”

“And you’re pretty good at this?”

“I don’t sail in races, Mr. McCaig. I win them.”

He looked her up and down. “Alright then.”

“So why are we here? You asked me to take you out on my sailboat as part of your investigation. It’s an odd request.”

“Odd? Why?”

“Don’t play dumb, Mr. McCaig. I’m a reporter, and I don’t normally cooperate this directly with law enforcement. But today I’ll be a victim cooperating with the FBI. So why are we here?”

“I’d like you to walk me through it, so to speak,” he replied. “I want to be where it happened, on the same boat. There’s probably nothing out there, just water. But this is how I work. I have to live a case, retrace what happened, get inside the bad guy’s head. It’s hard to explain. It’s just what I do.”

“And that works for you?”

“Sometimes. Either way, I can’t lose today.”

“Can’t lose? Lose what?” she asked.

“The day. Worst that can happen is I get my first ride on a sailboat on a beautiful day.” He turned back to watch the shore as they glided past piers, buildings, and tourists.

A brisk gust made the boat accelerate and heel over even more. Spray began to fly from the bow, and their foamy wake widened. McCaig stretched one leg across the cockpit to brace himself against the leeward seat.

Christine was impressed. Most landlubbers gripped anything they could the first time they felt a boat heel over, afraid of being tipped into the briny deep. McCaig’s shoulders were relaxed. His arm was draped casually around the winch. She could see his muscles moving under his shirt in rhythm with boat’s motions. He was quite fit.

It was the first time she’d seen him without his FBI “uniform.” He’d traded the gray suit and dark tie for a close-fitting long-sleeved gray T-shirt and black denim jeans. He’d also brought a heavy sweater and waterproof jacket, but she’d told him they wouldn’t need those for a while.

As they continued north, the massive Bay Bridge loomed overhead. Cars and trucks rumbled across its decks, their roar briefly overwhelming the sound of the wind and sea. Then it was behind them and the rumbling receded.

The wind stayed brisk and steady as they sailed north past pier after pier—the remnants of San Francisco’s heyday as a shipping and fishing center. Most of the piers had been converted into warehouses, parking garages, or, in the case of the famous Pier 39, into a tourist mecca of shops and restaurants. The era of ships, cargo, and longshoremen was a distant memory along San Francisco’s waterfront.

They sailed in a companionable silence. Christine loved this part of the trip. They were sailors on the ocean, but the city waterfront was so close that huge skyscrapers towered above them. The sounds of truck and bus engines, taxi horns, a police whistle, tourists talking, and children shouting drifted across the water, yet they were completely separate from the city. They were gliding in their own world of water, wind, and spray.

As the coastline turned west, Christine held her course north. The shore grew distant, and there it was: the two towers of the fallen Golden Gate Bridge stood like desolate sentinels guarding a gaping emptiness. The huge cables that had once arced gracefully across the Golden Gate now drooped forlornly into the sea.

The channel between the towers was crowded with a flotilla of barges, tugboats, police boats, a Coast Guard cutter, a huge marine crane, and various industrial-looking floating barges. On shore, the roads to the bridge were marked by flashing red, yellow, and blue lights atop various police cars, fire trucks, construction equipment, and ambulances.

“Damn,” said McCaig, breaking the silence.

Christine said nothing for a moment. She felt a lump in her throat and didn’t want to reveal her emotions to this man yet. She was a reporter, used to keeping her emotions in check. And yet, this one was getting to her. The icon of her home, California. It was . . . she shook it off.

“So this is your show, TJ,” she said. “Where to? What are we doing?”

He turned back in her direction. She was surprised to see emotion in his face too and wondered how often he revealed anything beyond the seriousness he maintained so carefully. Probably not often. It didn’t last long though—his face quickly returned to its FBI persona.

“Can we sail out to the scene of the crime? Where Zarrabian fell and you picked him up?”

“I doubt we can get to that very spot.” She gestured toward the flotilla of ships, barges, and police boats. “I checked the Coast Guard's Notices to Mariners this morning, and the south and center of the channel is restricted. All traffic has to use the north side of the channel. Small craft—that’s us—have to yield to ships even if we’d normally have right-of-way. Special rules, since the channel is so restricted.”

“Yeah, makes sense. Well, do what you can.”

By the time they had tacked past the fallen bridge and out of the bay, Christine’s respect for McCaig was growing. Just a word here and there—the right way to coil a line, how to work the winches and cleats, when to release and when to crank, and when to stay out of the way—and he was a competent crewman. She never had to explain twice.

The water went from flat to rough as they left the bay’s confines. They’d both put on sweaters and waterproofs as soon as the wind had picked up. The boat leapt over each wave and plunged into the next trough, spray flying from the bow.

Most first-time sailors had a white-knuckled grip on the handrails in conditions like these, but McCaig was relaxed, moving with the boat like he’d been sailing all his life. He even let out a couple whoops of glee as particularly big waves crashed over the foredeck and stung their cheeks with salty spray.

A mile past the fallen bridge, she finally eased off the sheets and fell away from the wind, turning back east toward the bay.

“This is more or less where it started,” she said. “I was racing and made a rash choice of sails right about here.”

“You mean that big, colored sail that was floating in the water near your boat?”

“Right. It’s called a spinnaker. It was a close race, and Kerry—he’s a sailing buddy and my nemesis—he had me blanketed.”

“What’s that mean?”

“See how we’re going downwind right now? The wind’s behind us?”

“Yeah?”

“Imagine you’re in a race, and you’re behind me. What would you do?”

“I suppose I’d try to get right upwind of you. Block some of your wind.”

“Exactly. That’s what he was doing, and we could've easily ended up in a tactics match, zigging and zagging around, him trying to steal my wind and me trying to get out from under his wind shadow. I might have fended him off in the end, but with all that maneuvering, someone else could have just sailed on by us in a straight line and stolen the race from both of us.”

“So you decided to put up Big Bertha.”

“Big Bertha? Nobody’s ever called my spinnaker that before! But yeah, that’s what I did. It’s really tricky single-handed, and doubly so in a brisk wind. Pretty foolish, really.”

“Foolishness and courage are hard to tell apart until later.”

She laughed at that. “Sure. If you win, you’re brave. If you crash and burn, you’re a fool.”

“Exactly. So now you’ve got the big sail up, the . . .”

“Spinnaker.”

“Right.”

“Well, it turned out to be foolish. My sheet parted.”

“The sheet? You mean the sail ripped?”

“No, the sheet. You landlubbers call it a rope. The sheet is the rope that trims the leeward side of the sail. Not only did the sheet part, but when I tried to lower the spinnaker, I discovered I’d tangled up the halyard—that’s the rope that pulls the sail up to the top of the mast—and couldn’t get the sail down.”

They were getting closer to the flotilla of barges and boats anchored in the channel. A line of warning buoys a few hundred yards ahead marked the restricted area. She pushed the tiller to leeward and brought the boat around almost into the wind, luffing the sails to spill most of the wind. The boat slowed and nearly stopped.

“So there I was with a huge, flapping sail that I couldn’t lower. I turned to luff, like I am right now, so I was barely moving. The rest of the racing fleet zipped by me. Really pissed me off. And then a war broke out overhead and a body fell out of the sky.”

McCaig looked around at ocean, waves, and wind. “The waves are pretty rough out here. Must have been quite a trick to pick him up out of the water. What did you call it? A man-overboard triangle?”

“It was even choppier that day. You want see how it’s done?” Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed her newly replaced man-overboard flag and heaved it into the water. “Man overboard!” she yelled, then pulled the tiller over. The boat turned downwind and began to accelerate. “You never get any warning. Just like this.”

She repeated the maneuver she’d executed to rescue Zarrabian: downwind, turn, port tack, come about to starboard, then headed up into the wind just as the man-overboard flag came abeam.

“Grab it! It’s brand new. I just had to replace that sucker!”

McCaig leaned over and retrieved the bobbing flag. “Nicely done,” he said. “You make it look easy.”

“Trust me, it took me hundreds of tries. My Pop was a harsh taskmaster when it came to safety. He told me the man-overboard flag was going to come out of my allowance if I didn’t get it back. I never knew when Pop was going to throw that sucker overboard. A calm day, a raging near-gale . . . he even did it once in the marina where there was no room to maneuver. I got it every time, but sometimes it took a few go-arounds.”

She stowed the flag-buoy back in its holder along the backstay, then let the boat fall off to catch the brisk wind again. Christine eased the mainsheet, and noticed that McCaig eased the jib sheets to match without her saying a word. The boat surged forward on the new course and started catching the waves.

“So. What now?” she asked. “You got what you needed out here?”

“Maybe. I never know. It’s one of those subconscious things. I go to the crime scene and soak it in, read reports, arrest records—whatever I can find about the perp, victims and crime. Then I let it simmer on the back burner of my brain.”

“And that works?”

“Sometimes.”

They sailed for a while in silence. The wind eased off to a fresh breeze. Christine leaned back, one hand on the tiller lightly guiding the boat’s course. The beautiful cliffs of the Marin Headlands slid by on the north side, a stark contrast to the forlorn bridge towers and the flotilla of barges, tugs, cranes, and police boats in the center of the channel.

They reached the calmer waters of the inner bay and turned south.

“I have a feeling this isn’t going to do much for your career,” Christine said.

“My career? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m a reporter, remember? We do human-interest stories.”

“Don’t do that one. It’s boring.”

“Why do I get the feeling they’ve put you in another no-win situation?”

“Happy endings don’t interest me. I catch bad guys. That’s all.”

“And you take the fall when things go wrong. You’re the perfect agent for that.”

“You seem to think this is going to go badly.”

“Your suspect already escaped, and you’re having trouble catching him.”

“Yeah? Seems to me when things go wrong, one fall guy’s as good as the next.”

“Like Cordo?”

“I just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. I did my job, saved most of those kids and women. That’s all I care about. And that’s what I’m going to do on this case.”

“That’s why you’re the guy to take a fall. You are a profoundly unpolitical man.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It is if you’re Special Agent TJ McCaig. You’re so gung-ho on solving crimes that you’re blind to the political forces swirling around you. Someone says, ‘There’s a crime in that swamp!’ so you dive into the swamp, and by God, you solve the crime. But when you’re done, you’re covered in all the stinking muck you raked up, and you wonder why nobody wants to sit by you.”

“You think being political is something to brag about?”

“Pretending you don’t care about office politics is stupid.”

He smiled. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”

A sound brought Zarrabian out of a light sleep. He shook his head to clear it. The cabin was dark; only a single shaft of moonlight lit a dim patch of floor under the front window. What had awakened him? He replayed the sound in his mind—it was the distant sound of a branch snapping.

He quietly rolled off the cot and onto the floor. In these mountains, a deer, coyote, or even a cougar might be nearby. But he had an uneasy feeling.

His hand found the duffel bag under the cot. He slowly unzipped it and felt inside for the gun, silencer, and video camera. He screwed the silencer onto the gun’s barrel and then thrust it into his belt.

Earlier, he’d made sure the camera was set to its ultra night-vision mode. For just a few hundred dollars, any shopper could buy a video camera with night-vision capabilities that would have been the envy of the military a few short years ago. He put the viewfinder to his eye, and suddenly the cabin’s interior was visible as a stark green-and-white picture.

Zarrabian crawled to the rear window, lifted his head slowly, and scanned the woods with the video camera. A movement caught his attention. He zoomed in on it—it was a deer. It grazed here and there, moving slowly through the moon shadows cast by the trees. He watched for a minute, enjoying the peaceful serenity.

Suddenly the deer startled and stiffened. It looked back into the forest briefly, then bolted straight toward the cabin, bounding across the small clearing. At the last moment, it turned and skirted the side of the cabin. Zarrabian heard its hooves clatter across the gravel driveway, the sound fading as it crossed the clearing in front of the cabin and fled into the woods below.

McCaig stood at the edge of the redwood forest behind the smoldering remains of a cabin. A fireman circled the debris, occasionally stopping to douse a hot spot.

The heavy morning fog covered the mountains, its gray walls narrowing the world to just this small hole in the forest. McCaig wondered what the view might be like on a clear day. Probably spectacular.

The smoking remains of the cabin were punctuated at one end by a cast-iron stove, overturned and half-buried in ash. A few other recognizable items protruded here and there: a porcelain kitchen sink, some cast-iron pots and pans, a doorknob, and the steel frame of an old army cot.

One large, charred lump stuck out of the ashes near where the door had once been. It was a human body, mostly reduced to a skeleton.

Two fire trucks, a couple of FBI SUVs, several local sheriff’s cars, a state trooper, and a couple of unmarked cars were parked haphazardly in the clearing. McCaig wondered how on Earth the huge fire trucks had negotiated the tiny dirt road.

A text message sent from Christine Garrett’s cell phone had triggered a massive manhunt in the area the day before, but it had taken a several hours to connect this cabin fire to Zarrabian. The local volunteer firemen were startled when the last few bursts of water from their hoses revealed the unmistakable shape of a shotgun, a rifle, and several handguns, all partly concealed by a charred skeleton. Within minutes of their phone call, a swarm of FBI agents had descended on the smoldering cabin.

McCaig could see Bashir interviewing the medical examiner and the arson expert, using the hood of an SUV as an improvised desk. His fingers flew over the keyboard of his laptop as they talked. Typical of the kid, thought McCaig. Collect enough data and you’ll find the answer.

But McCaig knew the answer wasn’t in the data. It was here on the ground. He just hadn’t found it yet. Something didn’t feel right. This was too simple.

A large drop of water landed on the back of his neck, startling him. He looked up at the huge redwood tree that disappeared into the fog above him. As the tendrils of vapor swirled through the thick canopy of branches, some of the moisture condensed into tiny drops on the feathery needles of the trees. These ran together into bigger and bigger drops until they broke loose and rained down on the trees’ roots—or someone’s neck.

The fog that was responsible for the perpetual gloom of California’s northern coast was also the lifeblood of these magnificent trees. They got over half their water from the fog. Where had he learned that little factoid? He couldn’t remember.

He turned and walked into the forest, coffee cup in hand, following the faint road under the trees. After a few dozen steps, the canopy of redwood branches blocked most of the meager light that managed to penetrate the fog, turning the morning into twilight. A hundred yards in, the road turned, revealing the RV.

They'd been here for almost two hours before stumbling on the RV; the redwood forest made it completely invisible from above and from more than a few dozen yards away.

An FBI technician’s feet stuck out from under the chassis. He was probably looking for serial numbers, hidden compartments, and so forth. McCaig saw two other figures moving around inside. They’d be dusting for fingerprints and searching every nook and cranny for more evidence. He doubted they’d find much.

The RV’s owner had been almost speechless when McCaig called him to ask about it. The owner didn’t even know it had been stolen. The guy only used it every month or two. The rest of the time it sat in a storage yard collecting leaves and dust. The local cops would have the security camera videos soon, but McCaig didn’t expect any surprises there, just a resourceful soldier “requisitioning” a vehicle.

He walked past the RV and deeper into the forest, taking occasional sips from his coffee. The faint road disappeared. His footsteps were noiseless on the damp, heavy mat of redwood needles that covered the ground. A knee-high carpet of wet ferns brushed against his pant legs, soaking them as he walked. He continued, scanning the undergrowth.

Suddenly he stopped. In front of him, the ferns were crushed in several places. The smooth mat of redwood needles that carpeted the ground was turned up here and there. A small chunk of redwood bark looked out of place on the ground; the tree showed a light spot on its trunk that matched the shape of the bark on the ground. Something had happened here. But what?

McCaig looked back. He’d wandered farther than he thought. The RV had disappeared behind him, blocked by the huge tree trunks. His wet pants stuck to his legs, chilling him. He wrapped both hands around the coffee cup and felt the warmth seeping into his fingers.

“Captain McCaig. We meet again.”

McCaig spun around and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

“So it is you. It’s ‘Special Agent McCaig’ now, Colonel Zarrabian. Drop your weapon. You are under arrest.”

Zarrabian’s face was stone cold. “I am the one with the gun. I must ask for your weapon. You know the procedure. Be careful with your coffee.”

McCaig took a hand off his coffee and pulled his jacket back to reveal his gun. Slowly, very slowly, he removed it from the holster, pinching the gun’s handle between two fingers. He held the gun out to one side and laid it on the ground, then kicked it carefully forward. Zarrabian leaned down and retrieved the weapon without taking his eyes off McCaig.

“What the hell happened to you?” said McCaig as Zarrabian straightened up. “You’re now a colonel? You must have what, three thousand soldiers under your command? And now you're a damned terrorist! What have you become?”

“Please do not spew colonialist, imperialist bull to me, Agent McCaig. You of all men must know why I am here.”

“I really don’t.”

“Maybe someday when this is over we can philosophize over a cup of strong coffee. I am not in the mood today.”

“Colonel, when this is over, you’ll be dead or in prison. Where you belong.”

“It is not as simple as that, Captain McCaig.”

“It’s Agent McCaig now. And it is simple. I’m going to capture you and bring you to trial.”

“Captain, there is something I need from you.”

McCaig scoffed. “You think I’m in a mood to help you? After . . . after . . .”

“You owe me. Your life, and the lives of your men.”

“I did before you blew up that bridge. If I’d found you hanging from a cliff and I wasn’t a sworn law-enforcement agent, I’d have risked my life to save yours in an instant. Trouble is, I work for the United States government now, and I swore to enforce the law and to bring in the bad guys. That would be you.”

“Just so, Captain. Yet, I am asking for payback.”

“You can ask all you like. I’m still going to arrest you.”

“Something is wrong here.”

“Clearly. You’ve turned into a goddamned terrorist.”

“Please, Captain. You know it is not that simple.”

“It seems pretty simple to me.”

“I do not have time to argue.” Zarrabian raised the gun and centered it on McCaig’s heart. “You understand the risk I took to contact you now, do you not?”

McCaig thought about it for a moment. “This makes no sense. You had us fooled with the burnt cabin and the body. I’ll bet the ME will tell me the skeleton is consistent with a man of Middle Eastern descent close to your height and weight.”

“Yes. And yet I revealed myself. To you in particular.”

“OK, so you thought it was pretty damned important to talk to me.”

“Exactly, Captain McCaig. Agent McCaig. You will be back in your office soon. You will have told everyone about this encounter, and they will be scouring this area looking for me. You will have a flood of information pouring through your computers and your head. Here is what I ask: in all that information that you collect, look for something that is not right. Find it. Find the truth.”

“I always search for the truth.”

“If you want to find the true villain, look harder.”

“I found the villain. It’s you.”

“I have to go now.”

“You forgot something.”

“Yes?” asked Zarrabian.

“You’re under arrest. And you have my gun.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“Never.”

“Good.” Zarrabian held McCaig’s gun up. “I will make you a deal. I do not want to kill you, but if it is your life against mine, I choose mine. But if I do not kill you, you will have to explain how you let me get away, and how I disarmed you. You will have to fill out paperwork and face professional embarrassment.”

“Shit happens, Colonel. It won’t be the first time.”

“There is an alternative. You are going to first set an alarm on your cell phone that will ring in five minutes. Then you will give me your cell phone and wait here for at least two minutes. After two minutes, follow me for two hundred meters, then stop and listen. When your alarm rings, you can follow the sound to retrieve your phone and gun.”

“You’re saying I’m going to let you escape, and then not tell anyone? Why would I do that?”

“You are not letting me escape. I am the one who captured you. I am offering you a way to stay alive, and an opportunity to escape professional embarrassment. Whether you use that opportunity is up to you.”

He waited. Finally, McCaig spoke. “Do I have a choice?”

“There are always choices. You can try to capture me now, but I will kill you. You can accept my terms. You can pretend to accept my terms, but then run straight back to the cabin the moment I leave. You will lose your phone and weapon and face the embarrassment and further damage to your career. And honor.”

“Damage my honor?”

“Yes. We are making an agreement here. You are trading your life for a few minutes of waiting. You are a man who keeps his bargains. If you break your promise, that is a matter of honor among soldiers.”

“A bargain made under threat of death is no bargain.”

“Captured soldiers have been accepting parole since the time of Carthage. I am not demanding a full parole from you, just two minutes. Now, Special Agent McCaig, I am out of time. Yes or no?”

McCaig took out his cell phone, poked its buttons, then tossed it to Zarrabian. “OK. Two minutes.”

McCaig was fuming by the time he reached the still-smoldering cabin. He stopped at the edge of the clearing to catch his breath. Cordo, Texas had been the low point in his career. The women and children haunted his dreams—and his career—even though everyone said he’d had no choice. But this? How could he explain being caught flat-footed, warming his fingers around a cup of coffee, by the worst terrorist of the decade? And why had he kept his promise to give Zarrabian a two-minute lead instead of sprinting back here immediately to raise the alarm?

“Crap,” he said out loud. There was no choice. He’d have to spill the whole story and face the music. Zarrabian couldn’t have gotten far, so they’d still catch him. They’d close off all roads, bring in the helicopters and dogs, and it would be just a matter of time. But even if they caught Zarrabian, this would be the final nail in McCaig’s coffin. His FBI career was dead.

He sighed and jogged out of the forest. One fire truck had departed. Three firemen were packing the remaining fire truck. Bashir was finishing his preliminary interview with the medical examiner and the arson expert. Bashir closed his computer and slipped it into the bag hanging from his shoulder as they talked. All three looked up as McCaig jogged up.

“Bashir, we’ve got a problem! Give me your phone; mine isn’t getting any signal up here.”

“Sorry, boss, mine either. What’s up?”

The sound of a helicopter interrupted. It thundered over them at high speed, flying low and fast, barely under the heavy the fog as it skimmed the treetops. In another instant, it disappeared over the treetops.

The medical examiner shouted over the receding noise, “Hey! That was my chopper! What the hell?”

“You came in a chopper?” McCaig exclaimed. “Where did you land?”

“In meadow back that way, about a half mile west on the ridge. We flew up from San Jose because they wanted us here fast.”

McCaig looked into the fog where the helicopter had disappeared. “OK, Zarrabian. Now you’re really pissing me off.”

The others looked baffled. Bashir spoke up first. “Zarrabian?”

“Bashir, have the ME take you to that clearing. You need to rescue his pilot. He’ll be either dead or tied up.” He called out to the firemen, “You guys have a radio, right? One that works here in the mountains?”

Dale Jenkins crawled forward quietly through the underbrush until he could see the clearing ahead. There it was, his worst fear: a government helicopter, as big as life. It’s engine was off, but the blades were still rotating slowly.

Any time a chopper flew over, the old memories returned. And each time, he’d waited until he was sure they were gone, then forced himself to calm down and go back to his work. But this time, the chopper didn’t fly on. Instead, it had banked around, hovered, and then landed just a half mile from his cabin.

Goddamned fascists! He’d served his country, fought their colonialist war, flown his chopper into enemy gunfire dozens of times, killed a few Viet Cong, and come home addicted to heroin. They’d locked him in a psych ward for a while until he figured out what he was supposed to say to the doctors. Once he’d escaped their hospital-prison, he’d sworn he’d never go back. Now he lived in the mountains with few neighbors and fewer friends, and life was good.

And he wasn’t the only one. The heavily wooded mountains of California’s northern coast were the perfect place for Vietnam’s dispossessed, men who’d been bent and broken and then cast away and ignored by a country ashamed of its defeat at the hands of an army of communist peasants. Dale Jenkins knew of at least six other men like himself nearby. They didn’t socialize, but occasionally would encounter one another in town. A passing nod was all the conversation they needed to acknowledge their brotherhood.

Now this helicopter? No doubt it was coming after his marijuana crop. Shit! This was a disaster. Early summer, peak growing season, his plants in the ground in clearings and vales spread around the redwood forests above his cabin—this was going to be his best year! Couldn’t the government just leave him alone?

The door of the helicopter opened and a man stepped out. He didn’t look like a federal agent. In fact, he looked like a trucker or logger, and from his olive skin, Jenkins guessed maybe he was Turkish or Arab or something.

Dale Jenkins wasn’t a fool. This was a trick. If he asked the guy, he’d say he was from the utility company, inspecting routes for a new power line, or maybe claim he was from a logging company taking inventory of the forest. But Dale Jenkins knew: this was a government DEA agent. They were after him. They’d finally found him.

The man looked around the mountains as if to get his bearings, then struck out across the clearing and disappeared into the woods. Jenkins held perfectly still and considered his options. He could wait until the federal agent returned and then kill him. But that would bring a storm of feds down on the whole area. Besides that, he didn’t want to kill anyone. He’d had enough of that.

He could do nothing, just let the guy fly away. He’d come back with dozens more agents, destroy his crop, arrest him, and probably send him to prison or back to the psych ward.

He could . . . heck, there were no options. He was screwed.

Suddenly, he knew what to do. If he was going to get screwed, he could screw the government right back. He felt a laugh coming up from way down deep. That chopper was worth over a million dollars, and nobody was watching it. Who did they think they were fucking with? Dale “Corkscrew” Jenkins was the best of the best!

He burst from the underbrush, crossed the clearing, and jerked the door open. The chopper was empty. The sight of the controls and instruments gave him an intense rush of deja vu, almost making him dizzy. Scenes flashed through his mind: flying low over trees, landing in a clearing so small his blades were chopping leaves from the jungle, blood-covered soldiers waving frantically at him . . . he shook his head to clear it and climbed in.

Smith stood up and leaned forward over his desk, looming over McCaig. He slammed his fist down. “Goddamn it, McCaig, you really fucked up this time!”

“You said that last time,” answered McCaig. He pressed back in his chair, unconsciously hoping to put another inch or two between himself and Smith. He’d never heard Smith curse before.

“Just shut up and listen, you clown! You had the guy! Had him! He was on a mountaintop with just one road out. He used what’s-her-name’s phone—”

“Garrett.”

“I said shut up! He used Garrett’s phone. Goddamned idiot! Almost like he wanted to get caught. We’d already closed every road, in and out. There was No. Way. Out! But you, you buffoon, you practically handed him a ticket out. A goddamned helicopter with an unarmed civilian pilot. Unguarded! You might as well have put a huge ‘Steal Me!’ sign on it! Or maybe, ‘Get Out of Jail Free!’ Maybe you could have put up spotlights shining into the sky too!”

“Those guys didn’t tell me they’d flown—”

“This was your operation! Excuses are like assholes: everyone has one, and they all stink! I don’t want to hear it. This was your big chance and you blew it. Big time. Cordo wasn’t your fault, everybody knows that. You got reamed and took one for the team. Good for you. But this one . . .”

Smith sat down hard in his chair. “Do you know what this is going to do to my career? I’m special agent in charge for San Francisco. I’ll be lucky if I’m in charge of the fucking outhouse when this is over! You get to retire in a couple years. But this shit is going to stick to me like old chewing gum for a goddamned decade!”

“So . . .”

“You’re off the case! The director himself called me! Orders straight from the White House. Can you believe it? Man, you really made enemies this time.”

“Do me a favor—”

“Ha! You’re joking, right?”

“Don’t beat up Bashir over this. He’s a good man.”

“I’ll think about it. Now go write a report or something. I hope you’re good at twiddling your thumbs and picking your nose, ‘cause that’s all you’re going to be doing until your retirement day.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smith’s phone rang. He glared at it for a moment, then raised his eyebrows and quickly snatched the handset from the receiver. “What? . . . Where? . . . You’re sure it’s the same helicopter? . . . Who is he?”

McCaig stood up to leave.

“Sit down!”

McCaig sat.

“No, not you, sorry,” said Smith into the phone. “OK, keep me posted.” He hung up and looked at McCaig. “It seems you are mistaken. They caught the guy who stole the helicopter. It wasn’t Zarrabian.”

“But sir, it couldn’t—”

“Shut up, McCaig! You left a helicopter sitting there unguarded, you idiot! The fact that some other guy stole it instead of the most wanted man in the world is no thanks to you. Now you’ve got every cop in Northern California chasing a guy who’s already dead!”

“But he’s—”

“Out, McCaig!”

“So is the terrorist dead or not?” asked Senator Platte.

“We think so, sir,” answered Patterson.

“You think so? It’s either him or it’s not. Which is it?”

“The forensics guys don’t have medical or dental records, and no DNA samples either. The body was too badly burnt to get fingerprints. We can’t get a positive ID.”

“So we’ve got nothing? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, sir. We have solid evidence. The body matches Zarrabian’s height and weight. The forensic anthropologist said the facial bones were those of a man from the Middle East, and the age is exactly right. The clothing matched. And the RV that Zarrabian stole was parked in the woods right behind the cabin. There were fingerprints were all over it that matched fingerprints we found at a diner up in Marin. They also matched fingerprints we found at a WalMart that was robbed in Healdsburg just after he escaped. There’s no doubt he was holed up at that cabin, and the body matches him perfectly. It’s him, sir.”

“Not good enough,” said Platte.

“Sir?”

“Your story sounds good, but we’ve got these rumors that Zarrabian stole that helicopter and escaped. This guy you say stole it, what was his name?”

“Jenkins, sir.”

“The chopper’s pilot says Jenkins doesn’t match the description of the guy who stole his helicopter. And that agent guy, what’s his name?”

“McCaig, sir.”

“McCaig, he called in on the firemen’s radio for God and anyone with a police scanner to hear and said Zarrabian had escaped,” said Platte.

“But we’ve got a body, sir. And we caught Jenkins red-handed! He was just a nutcase Vietnam veteran who thought the feds were raiding his pot farm up in the woods. He flew the chopper over to Jenner and did some wild, crazy acrobatics that scared the residents half to death. He even bumped the top of a Highway Patrol car, put a big dent in it. There were hundreds of witnesses, sir. He finally crashed it into the surf and tried to swim ashore. He might have gotten away with it except that a rip current carried him out. The Coast Guard picked him up, and he had hypothermia so bad they almost lost him. He’s in custody now.”

“So why are there still rumors that it was Zarrabian that stole the chopper?” said Platte.

“Sir, we’re pretty sure—”

Platte cut him off. “You don’t go to war on ‘pretty sure.’”

“Senator, we’ve got the burned body. We caught a completely different guy, red-handed, flying the helicopter. Agent McCaig was just wrong.”

“You’re talking about lives and nations here, Jack. Billions of dollars. We needed proof he’s Iranian, and proof he’d dead. Give me a simple act of terror against the United States of America and tie it straight to Iran, and I’ll give you voters out for blood. With what you’ve got, every left-wing liberal news commentator, maybe even some in the middle, will be calling foul. And the nut cases will be yelling conspiracy.”

“Yes, sir, but we can take this to the United Nations—.”

Platte scoffed. “If Whitman takes this to the UN, they’ll rip him a new one. Fuck the UN. It doesn’t matter. It’s the voters who need a solid story. They want a bad guy, one they can hate. They want vengeance. They don’t want maybes, and that’s all you’ve got.”

“Understood, Senator. We’ll put the rumors to bed. I’ll get you what you need.”

Platte leaned back in his chair. “Thank you. The people I represent will be pleased to hear it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Christine stood at the back of the studio in the shadows and studied the figure of White House Chief of Staff, Major General (retired) John Patterson. He was sitting across the table from Dana Poindexter. A makeup artist was applying a few final touches to Poindexter’s face.

Patterson spotted Christine’s gaze and smiled disarmingly. Christine smiled back, but wasn’t fooled. She’d pegged Patterson for a shark long before he was in the national spotlight. Christine’s opinion had only gone downhill since Whitman’s election.

Patterson had a veneer of charm and civility, but his backroom political arm-twisting skills were legendary. The Fourth Estate had an understanding, spoken in low voices when the cameras were off and the keyboards silent, that Patterson had enough dirt on congressmen and senators to fill their graves—with a couple shovels full left over when he was done. He brought the same attitude to politics that he’d honed on the battlefield.

The director’s voice rose above the hubbub, “Thirty seconds!” There was an immediate hush. Poindexter waved her assistant away and said a couple words to Patterson, who nodded.

“Ten seconds . . . Five, four, three . . .”

Poindexter looked into the camera. “Good morning. I’m Dana Poindexter. Welcome to America Morning Edition. Our guest this morning is White House Chief of Staff John Patterson.

“Retired Major General John Patterson is a graduate of Texas A&M University, where he earned a degree in Political Science with a minor in History. His thirty-year career in the army spanned the Vietnam War, Kuwait, and Afghanistan. After leaving the army, Mr. Patterson returned to his family business, where he stepped in as CEO of the Patterson-Smith Energy Group.

“Mr. Patterson was tapped by President Oliver Whitman after the president’s victory six years ago and now serves as the White House chief of staff.

“Welcome to the show, Mr. Patterson.”

“Thank you, Dana. It’s good to be here.”

“Let’s get right to topic ‘Z.’ Zarrabian. Can you bring us up to date?”

“Yes, we’ve confirmed that the body found in the burned cabin near Guerneville was the Iranian terrorist known as Zarrabian. All of the terrorists involved in the attack on the Golden Gate Bridge are now accounted for and dead.”

“There were initial reports that Zarrabian had overpowered the medical examiner’s pilot and stolen his helicopter. What can you tell us about that?”

Patterson gave a short chuckle. “That’s a pretty funny story, and I’m glad to report it has nothing to do with terrorism. The details are still sketchy, but the FBI have arrested a local man for the theft, a guy named Dale Jenkins. He’s a Gulf War veteran with PTSD—that’s post-traumatic stress disorder—and a history of mental illness. The early reports, and this is not confirmed, Dana, but the early reports indicate that Jenkins was cultivating marijuana in the woods nearby, quite a lot of it. He thought the helicopter was full of DEA agents coming to destroy his crop and sort of flipped out. After the Coast Guard rescued him, he was ranting about how he’d evened the score.”

“That’s quite a story. I suspect Mr. Jenkins is not as amused as you are.”

“No doubt.”

“FBI Agent TJ McCaig initially reported that it was Zarrabian who stole the helicopter. And when they untied the pilot, his description of the man who hijacked his helicopter matched Zarrabian better than Jenkins. How do you explain McCaig’s and the pilot’s stories?”

“Well, Dana, I’m sure you know that eyewitness accounts are often the least reliable evidence. Agent McCaig never saw Zarrabian steal the helicopter; he just made an unwarranted assumption. Fairly unprofessional, I might add. And the pilot suffered a nasty blow to the head, and admitted he didn’t get a good look at his assailant. Dark hair, medium height, it could have been anyone.”

“How can we be sure the body was Zarrabian’s?”

“Well, as the president said in his speech, the Iranian government condemned this act of terrorism in the strongest terms and promised their full support. They came through on that promise. We have Zarrabian’s army medical records, which confirm his identity beyond a shadow of doubt.”

“So you are certain the burned body is that of the terrorist known as Zarrabian?”

“One hundred percent.”

“What about the Iranian claim that these terrorists were operating independently, that the Iranian government had nothing to do with this act of terrorism?”

“We appreciate the cooperation of the Iranian government and their strong condemnation of this act of terror. This is an ongoing investigation, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to interfere with our investigators’ work by ruling out anything at this point. It will take months, maybe years, to track down all parties involved in this act of terror. The president assured me that we will not rest until every single person, organization, or nation behind this cowardly act has been identified and neutralized.”

“Those are pretty strong words. Does the administration believe there is Iranian involvement?”

“As I said, Dana, we are not ruling out any possibilities at this point, nor are we pointing fingers at anyone. It is important to let our intelligence and law-enforcement communities do their jobs without political interference.”

“So you’re not ruling out Iran in your investigation?”

“I think I’ve answered that question.”

“Let’s get back to Zarrabian. He was a high-ranking military officer, obviously intelligent and well trained. He was able to organize a group of terrorists, sneak undetected across our borders, and carry out one of the biggest bombings in United States history. Our military advisors tell me he had at least a million dollars in funding. What does that say about our border security and our law-enforcement and intelligence agencies?”

“I’m sure every American is wondering the same thing, Dana. And I can assure you that we are looking into those questions right now. We need to ensure that our borders are secure and that every loophole and weakness that allowed his team to infiltrate our country is closed. The president will be asking Congress for a comprehensive overhaul of homeland security, as well as increased funding for all security and anti-terror activities.”

“So that still leaves us with a puzzle: How did this man, obviously a cunning, disciplined, highly trained soldier, let himself get killed in a cabin fire? His death raises more questions than it answers.”

“Well, Dana, I think you’re blowing it out of proportion. Our investigation is ongoing. We’re not sure how the fire started, but it was probably just bad luck. The cabin he selected had no power or running water. The investigators found several old-fashioned kerosene lanterns. We can worry about conspiracies all we like, but sometimes the simple answers are best. He probably lit an old kerosene lamp, or maybe built a fire in the fireplace, then was exhausted and fell asleep and the flames escaped and set the cabin on fire. The Marin Fire Chief told me it happens all the time. Those old wood cabins are fire traps. I prefer to let the investigators do their work. All we know for certain is that Zarrabian is dead.”

“Is it possible he was killed by his own accomplices?”

“No, Dana, that’s very unlikely. All of the terrorists involved in this operation are dead. ”

“Thank you for being with us today.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“That was John Patterson, White House Chief of Staff.”

Zarrabian lowered the dusty old book and rubbed his eyes. The book was a masterpiece: The Grapes of Wrath, by American author John Steinbeck. He would have preferred something in Persian or Arabic, but what were the chances of finding either in an old, abandoned ranch house in the middle of California’s Great Central Valley? He was happy that he’d found anything at all.

The book was even autographed: To Lillian – John Steinbeck, June 1, 1958. It was probably worth thousands of dollars, yet had been abandoned along with everything else in this old house.

How did an autographed copy of a Steinbeck book find its way to this house, and why was it left behind? He could only guess. According to the book’s cover, the town of Monterey, where Steinbeck had lived and worked, was not so far away. Zarrabian imagined the woman traveling there to meet the author at a book signing event. Maybe the old woman’s husband had died and she’d grown feeble, no longer able to care for the huge old house, and had been moved to a “rest home,” something that was unknown in the village of Zarrabian’s youth. And as she faded away, perhaps her children had thrown all of her old books into boxes and stored them in the cellar where Zarrabian had found them, not realizing that among the outdated, dusty books was a special one their mother had once treasured.

His arrival at the abandoned ranch house had been the end of a day-long race against time and capture. Once he was airborne in the helicopter, the low fog had forced him to fly just over the treetops, but had also hidden him from view. And the treetop flight had probably meant he was invisible to radar.

He’d found a small clearing, just big enough to land, then hiked several miles to retrieve his motorcycle, cached for this very situation. The machine was uncomfortable on the long ride; it was designed for agility and dirt roads, not highways. But it was reliable, and the helmet and leather jacket made him completely anonymous. Most importantly, the little motorcycle had let him use logging roads and a hiking trail to bypass a police roadblock and make his way east.

His next challenge had been the librarian in the little town of Rio Vista. He’d walked through the door and straight to their public computers. But it seemed the library had few patrons.

The librarian, a very tall, young, athletic woman with short, spiky, blue-tinted hair and penetrating eyes, had been quite eager to assist him in any way possible.

He’d left his Mexican sombrero in the RV, along with most of his stolen guns and ammunition, when he fled Guerneville in the helicopter. The best disguise he could muster was a San Francisco Giants baseball cap and a pair of off-the-shelf reading glasses with thick black frames, both acquired at a convenience store while wearing his motorcycle helmet.

Disguising his Persian accent was difficult. It wouldn’t do to pretend to be Mexican; there was a good chance that the well-educated librarian would be fluent in Spanish. He hoped that the utter absurdity of a terrorist showing up at the public library in Rio Vista would be his best disguise. He had let the librarian help him get started, then politely hinted that he wanted to do his Googling privately.

Once he was alone at the computer, it hadn’t taken long to find an abandoned farmhouse. Words like “auction,” “antique,” “farm,” and “ranch” revealed the melancholy history of America’s family farms. Zarrabian read one announcement after another, each telling a tale of lost hopes and dreams—of another family farm or ranch that couldn’t compete with huge corporate agribusiness, of children moved off to the cities, and of a graying and dying generation of farmers and ranchers.

This particular ranch house had once been the heart of a 120-acre dairy ranch. The auction announcement, dated two years earlier, boasted of five bedrooms, maid’s quarters, a kitchen that could feed a dozen farm hands, a formal dining room that seated twenty, paneling and wainscoting made of virgin thousand-year-old California Redwood trees, genuine Tiffany chandeliers, hand-woven antique Oriental rugs, and beautiful oak-and-leather hand-made Mission-style furniture.

At some point the dairy ranch had been converted to walnut orchards. Judging by the age of the oldest walnut trees and the dilapidated state of the dairy barn, Zarrabian guessed the dairy business must have collapsed a long time ago, forcing the dairyman to become a farmer. And then, perhaps, the agribusiness had driven the farmer out of business. Or maybe he just grew old and sold out. Whatever had happened, the farm had been acquired by the same corporation that already owned thousands of surrounding acres.

And the old house was in their way. They’d auctioned off the Tiffany chandeliers and lamps, the Persian rugs and oak furniture, and had sold the house itself to a dismantler who would take it apart board by board and sell the pieces to rich Silicon Valley executives who would could then brag about their polished virgin-redwood fireplace mantle or hand-waxed redwood wainscoting.

And finally, the foundation would be bulldozed, the cellar filled in, and more walnut trees planted. In ten years, there would be no signs remaining that a magnificent Victorian-style house had once housed a wealthy rancher’s family and fed a dozen ranch hands.

In the mean time, it was Zarrabian’s safe house. The other farm houses in the area had suffered a similar fate, so there were no nosy neighbors to come knocking. The occasional farm workers who came by to tend the trees had no interest in the old house.

Most of the furniture was gone, but he’d found a bed frame and mattress in the maid’s quarters, a couple old steel-and-vinyl chairs in the basement, and the kitchen yielded a chipped formica table. One bedroom provided an old lamp with a torn lampshade, which he added even though he had no electricity at first. The final touch was a wooden stool, which Zarrabian had repurposed as a bedside table for the lamp. He’d carried them all to one of the bedrooms upstairs and arranged things into a cozy one-room domicile.

His domestic enterprise had taken several hours, and then he’d rested. But the quiet stillness of the old house was too much, so he’d explored further. That’s when he discovered the treasure trove of books.

This was an impossible situation. He was safe, but what was the point? Was he to sit here forever? What was going on?

The world seemed upside down. His mission had succeeded, but his superiors wanted him dead. His attempt to make contact had resulted in an assassin stalking him; he’d had to turn the tables on the man. He’d been shocked when he searched the assassin’s body to discover that he was a fellow Iranian.

And something else: while at the little library in Rio Vista, he had taken a few minutes to read the news, to see how his successful mission was being reported by American and Iranian news outlets. The American news was as expected: outrage, calls for war, and the president calling for calm. But the Iranian news was unexpected—complete denial of responsibility, no mention of America’s aggression, and condemnation of the terrorists who were responsible. It was very odd . . . and very disappointing.

Was he supposed to carry on here in America? If so, how could he contact the other teams? Were the other teams still here? Should he try to get back to Iran? Would he be welcomed home as a hero, or shot as an inconvenience?

He lifted the window shade a crack and looked out. Walnut trees. Shimmering summer heat. Two crows. An old pomegranate tree, heavy with fruit. An empty, cracked fish pond. A lawn, brown with neglect and full of weeds.

He sat down heavily on the bed. The Grapes of Wrath was lying facedown on the armrest where he’d set it. He picked it up.

Senator Dean Platte leaned back in his huge chair, shook his head slowly, and blew out a stream of blue cigar smoke. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

Erica Blackwell jerked her head toward Platte. “What he said. You took a big chance.”

Patterson’s eyes narrowed. He looked back and forth between the two of them and wished he was in his own office behind his desk, confronting them on his own turf. Except that there was no way a senator and two White House staffers could meet in secret at the White House. Even meeting here in the Senate office building was tricky—Patterson could pretend to be negotiating with the senator about the defense budget, and Blackwell was nominally here as an advisor. But it was highly unusual for the White House chief of staff to call on a senator like this, and Patterson didn’t like it. They’d have to find another place to meet in the future—a private location where loyalty and sealed lips could be bought.

“Someone’s got to have some balls around here and make choices,” said Patterson. “I didn’t hear anything from you.”

“Don’t be a prick, Jack,” said Platte. “You can order your minions around, but I’m Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Never forget that.”

“Yes, Senator, I just meant—”

Platte cut him off. “And that ‘someone’s got to have balls’ is bullshit. We were working out contingencies, considering alternatives. You had no business acting on your own.”

“Contingencies and alternatives? Senator, you told me to take care of the problem. Now we need a committee or something? This isn’t the Senate. We don’t have committees and meetings. This is a military situation. We needed action.”

“You watch yourself, Jack,” said Platte.

“Gentlemen, this isn’t useful,” said Blackwell. “The White House already announced a positive ID for Zarrabian’s body, thanks to you, Jack. It’s done. What the hell happens if Zarrabian turns up alive? You can feed Dana Poindexter and her investigator side-kick, what’s her name?”

“Garrett. Christine Garrett,” said Platte.

“Yeah, her,” she continued. “You can go on Poindexter’s show and feed your bullshit to her and it makes you look smart. What happens if Zarrabian turns up alive?”

“You’ll look like fools and liars, that’s what,” said Platte. “It will be the end of the administration. You and you,” he said, stabbing a finger at each, “and the president, I guess he counts too.”

“Not gonna happen,” replied Patterson. “The man’s dead. It had to be Zarrabian. Think about it. He used Garrett’s cell phone to send a text message. Before we could close in on him, someone else knew exactly where he was and torched him in his cabin. His prints were all over that RV. They matched the prints on Garrett’s boat. It was him. How else could it have gone down?”

“That’s the problem,” said Blackwell. “We don’t know. Too many suppositions. You’re just guessing.”

“Bull. What, you think after the biggest act of terror in a decade, Zarrabian gets a hankering to kill some other Iranian asshole, so he lures him to a cabin, conks him on the head and torches him, then runs off? Don’t be stupid. The dead body has to be Zarrabian. And I’ll bet the Iranians did it. We needed him alive, and they wanted him dead.”

“That’s what doesn’t make sense,” said Blackwell. “The Iranians wanted him alive as badly as we did. There are rumblings from Boston to San Diego that we ought to bomb Iran. Our conservative-radio attack-dog hosts are practically foaming at the mouth with their war cries. The Iranians know Zarrabian wasn’t working for them. Why would they kill him?”

“We can figure that out later,” answered Patterson. “Who the fuck knows? We had to close this out so we can move on. We had a body, and it’s like ninety-nine percent that it’s him. OK?”

“I don’t like loose ends,” said Platte. “This is a big one. What if someone stumbles over a live Zarrabian?”

“We’ll just make sure he comes in dead. And that the autopsy is done by our people.”

“Yeah, like everything else you made sure of,” said Platte. “This whole operation has been a steaming pile of shit. We didn’t get to interrogate a single terrorist. We got nothing. What was the point?”

“The point is, you always have a backup plan,” said Patterson.

Platte grunted. “Backup plan or fuck-up plan? You should have gotten it right the first time. Why should I think you’ll get the backup plan right?”

“We have a more immediate problem,” said Patterson.

“What?” asked Blackwell.

“That FBI agent you used as cannon fodder.”

“TJ McCaig?”

“That one. Didn’t you get his ass fired?”

“No, his ass is just badly blistered,” she replied. “He’s basically out of circulation for good. He was the same asshole who was dumb enough to take the heat for Cordo. Guys like that are a valuable asset, but expendable. We just got lucky that we got to use him twice.”

“Yeah,” said Patterson. “So now you need to bandage his sorry ass, maybe even kiss it. I got up in front of God and Dana Poindexter and told the world that the Iranian colonel was dead. The case is closed, and McCaig is an official fucking hero for chasing Zarrabian into a hidey-hole where he got trapped and torched. It’s gonna look great when McCaig gets on Poindexter’s show and tells her how he got bent over and reamed. And then repeats his stupid claim that Zarrabian got away in that chopper. You need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

McCaig raised his hand to knock on the frosted-glass window of Smith’s office door. His own face, dimly reflected by the glass, made him pause, hand frozen in mid air. Bags underscored his eyes, and the slight smirk he usually wore had been replaced by a clenched jaw. His brow was furrowed. His hair showed the signs of a missed appointment with his barber.

But his suit looked sharp. The creases were crisp, the light-blue shirt was well pressed, and the blue-and-charcoal striped tie was perfectly knotted. The G-man uniform, done right.

McCaig closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and looked at his reflection again. He calmed his mind and relaxed his face, letting the furrows smooth out. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket, then pushed the door open.

“Sir, you asked for me?” said McCaig.

“Ah, yes,” said Smith. He stood up and gestured at a large, comfortable-looking chair. “Special Agent McCaig. Please come in. Have a seat.”

McCaig stiffened at Smith’s deferential tone. He sat down, but didn’t lean back in the chair.

“Agent McCaig, I’m afraid our last encounter was rather, um, unpleasant,” said Smith. “You were under a lot of pressure to solve this case, you know, with the national media’s spotlight on you and all. And a terrorist on the loose, me breathing down your neck. It must have been stressful.”

He waited a moment for McCaig’s response, but McCaig kept silent. Smith continued.

“And I hope you know it wasn’t just you. We were all under the gun on this one. Me included. I was taking it from everyone right up to the director—even the White House. It was pretty intense. Everyone wanted Zarrabian’s capture, and I mean like right now. Pretty intense. I’m not used to the spotlight like that. You either, I’ll bet. We do the footwork, catch the bad guys, and fill out reports. We’re just not used to that kind of publicity and scrutiny. And the pressure. So if I seemed a bit stressed at our last meeting, I apologize.”

McCaig gave a barely perceptible nod. Smith waited, eyebrows raised. After a pregnant pause, Smith went on.

“Now, we, I mean I, have been looking at your record. You’ve had an excellent career here at the FBI. Exemplary. Twenty-seven years of service, hundreds of cases. Your conviction rate is way above average. No disciplinary actions, regular promotions, solid work. All in all, a stellar career.”

“Why do I sense you’re about to say, ‘but?’”

“On the contrary, Agent. I’m going to say, ‘and.’ You’ve had a solid career, and we’d like to recognize that achievement. Ever since Cordo, and by the way, we know Cordo wasn’t your fault, you did a great job; nobody could have done better. But ever since Cordo, you’ve been doing time, just waiting for the day you could retire.”

McCaig opened his mouth to object, but Smith kept going. “I know, I know, really, I’m not criticizing you. You’ve been doing a fine job. It must have been pretty hard on you, thinking about those women and kids. Maybe even a bit of trauma?”

“I . . .” said McCaig.

“No,” said Smith, interrupting McCaig. “It was a no-win situation. No apologies needed.”

“I wasn’t apologizing.”

“Of course not! And now this Zarrabian guy, the whole country watching as the worst terrorist in a decade slipped through our fingers. Then instead of us catching him, he’s dumb enough to burn down the tinderbox cabin he’s hiding in.”

“Or maybe not.”

Smiths eyes narrowed. “Don’t, McCaig. The coroner’s ID was conclusive. You’re now a hero.”

“What if I told you I know he’s not dead?”

“Special Agent McCaig, he’s dead. You know he’s dead, I know he’s dead, and the director knows he’s dead. The president knows he’s dead. Are you paying attention to what I’m saying?”

“I am now.”

“Good!” Smith leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “OK, so this can go both ways. We know Zarrabian’s dead, and we don’t need you out there sowing doubts, stirring up the conspiracy theorists and loonies. Lord knows they’re crazy enough on their own. They don’t need your help.

“And, like I said, this is a two-way street. With Cordo, and now the Golden Gate, we think it’s entirely appropriate that we offer you early retirement due to on-the-job stress and trauma.”

“Stress and trauma? Like, you’re putting me out to pasture? For PTSD?”

“Well, we don’t want to label you or anything. We can work this out so that nothing specific goes into your personnel files.” He waved his hand dismissively. “The details don’t matter. We’ll figure that out.”

McCaig’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you will. You’re buying me off.”

“No, no. You’re looking at this the wrong way. We want to do right by you, give you the break you deserve. You were a great agent, you hit a rough patch, and your country owes you.”

“What if I don’t want to retire?”

“No problem. You’ll still have a place here at the FBI. I was thinking of making you my personal assistant. I have way too many meetings. You’d be a big help.”

“Got it.”

An explosion tore the world apart. Zarrabian was flat on his back. Something heavy was crushing his chest. Dust and smoke swirled while cries and screams filled the air. He tried to lift a weight from his chest.

A breath of wind cleared the smoke momentarily. He turned his head, searching. His wife’s face was turned toward him, but her eyes were closed. It took a few seconds for his mind to register. Only half of his wife was there.

But where was his daughter? The breeze swirled again, revealing Mina lying a few meters from her mother. A pool of bright red blood spread from under her head.

Zarrabian sat up abruptly. The cries and screams of his dream still rang in his ears. He shook his head, then put his hands to his face and scrubbed his skin vigorously, trying to chase away the ghosts. The sharp sensation of rough, unshaved stubble grating against his palms brought him back to reality.

He looked around at his tiny world: the bed, the chipped Formica table, and the old vinyl-cushioned chairs and lamp with its torn shade. A ruddy light from the afternoon sun filtered through the drawn shades. Steinbeck rested on the stool-cum-table beside the lamp. The stillness of the room was driving him crazy; he needed something to remind him he was alive.

There was one addition to his furnishings: an old analog television. Its glow lit the room with a ghostly blue-white light. The sound was turned down, but the screen showed some sort of game show, apparently a word game where letters appeared one by one, orchestrated by a sexy blonde-haired woman in a long, sequined evening gown. Each time a new letter was revealed, the contestants tried to guess the phrase.

The television had been a surprising find. Out of sheer boredom, he’d peeked under the drawn window shades on all four sides of the house to make sure no farmworkers were in the area before venturing out to investigate the tower-like building adjacent to the old ranch house. It turned out to be a tank house—a narrow, three-story square structure with a huge, round redwood water tank on the third floor that had once provided gravity-fed water to the house.

The tall, narrow building’s first floor had been used as a garden shed. Its walls were cluttered with old rakes, shovels, hoes, and other garden tools. Some showed signs of having been crafted by a blacksmith. A wooden workbench on one side was stacked with crumbling bags of fertilizer, dusty seed packets, old cans of paint, and bottles of plant food and bug poison. A pair of leather gloves still looked useful, but they were so old that they cracked when he put them on.

In the back corner of the room, a wooden ladder ascended through a square hole in the ceiling. He’d climbed it, step by step, tugging hard on each slat to make sure the old nails were still solid before trusting it with his weight.

The second floor looked like some teenage boy’s hideaway clubhouse. The walls were covered with dusty posters of bikini-clad women, shiny sports cars, and speeding motorcycles. An old bed was against a wall. A quick search under the mattress yielded a well-read Playboy magazine from February, 1990, featuring the large-breasted Pamela Anderson. A dresser, a small refrigerator whose contents were unidentifiable, and the old television completed the room’s furnishings.

The TV’s primary use had apparently been for an elaborate video-game system that was stacked underneath it. Zarrabian’s first thought was that the old TV was useless since the United States had stopped broadcasting analog TV. But further investigation revealed a digital-to-analog signal-converter box under the stack of video games. After exploring the third floor and finding nothing of interest, he had gathered the TV, converter box, and various cables and connectors and taken them to his room where he re-stacked and reconnected them.

The old house’s power had long since been turned off. Zarrabian guessed that the utility company might not have bothered to disconnect the power from the telephone pole on the road. It hadn’t taken long to find the power box in the basement, break the utility company’s “do not remove” seal, and flip the main switch back on. He’d been rewarded by bright yellow light from an old incandescent light bulb hanging on a wire from the basement ceiling. He turned it off—a sliver of light emanating from the tiny windows of the old basement could attract the attention of a passing farmhand.

Remarkably, the old television and converter box worked perfectly, bringing in the signals from Modesto, Stockton, Oakland, and as far south as Fresno.

Daytime American TV proved frustrating. Game shows, soap operas, and reality shows abounded. The only twenty-four hour news he could find seemed to be an ultra-conservative network that alternated between gun-control conspiracy theories, the “persecution” of America’s Christians by atheists and Muslims, and reports praising the current president and his conservative allies in Congress. Their reports about the bombing of the Golden Gate Bridge caught his interest briefly, until he realized that their “investigations” had more to do with conspiracy theories involving liberals who purportedly funded the bombing in order to further their socialist agenda.

Oddly, there was still nothing about the conflict with Iran. He’d eventually become disgusted with the conservative “news” and changed channels. He’d have to wait until evening to get an unbiased news report from one of the mainstream TV networks.

A seagull’s cry pulled McCaig out of the book he was reading. He shifted his seat, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard dock box. The seagull tried to land on the rigging of Christine Garrett’s boat in front of him, but some sort of twirly anti-bird device set spinning by the breeze foiled the bird’s plans.

He looked over the lines of the boat. It was a beautiful sailboat: elegant curves, taut rigging, neatly coiled lines, and a perfectly straight sail cover. Small waves from a passing boat’s wake made the other boats along the dock sway, but this one bobbed lightly, hinting of its ultra-light construction.

McCaig had studied engineering in college, and although he’d long since switched to a law-enforcement career, he still admired a great design. This one had a single purpose: to go fast and win races.

He’d researched the craft’s design after his first voyage with Christine. In spite of its decades-long history, the Santa Cruz 27 was still considered one of the most influential designs of all time. There were no compromises: not an ounce of extra weight, and every winch, cleat, and block was perfectly placed.

He’d enjoyed sailing and racing with Christine Garrett. Maybe some day he’d take up the sport. McCaig closed his eyes, enjoying the sun’s warmth.

“You’re so goddamn naive, you make me sick!” his wife screamed.

“Naive?”

“I could have screwed the whole navy and you wouldn’t have guessed!”

“And trusting you, that’s a bad thing?”

“What, you need it spelled out for you? That’s your problem right there! You’re supposed to notice when your wife is unhappy! Bring her flowers! Be romantic!”

“And there’s nothing in there about getting up and going to work, putting a roof over the kids’ heads, making sure they have shoes—”

“It takes more than money!”

“—making sure they have shoes on their feet and clothes on their backs? And I put clothes on your back too! Oh, I forgot, you spent a lot of time on your back. Didn’t need clothes for that, eh?”

“Asshole! If you knew how to make a woman feel special, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I was making a living, unlike you.”

“I had two kids to raise! You think that’s easy? You, gone day and night, chasing bad guys. And you’re all, ‘My country needs me!’”

“You said that’s what you wanted!”

“Well your family needed you! I needed you! I practically raised the kids alone. You think that’s easy? Now you have the nerve to wonder why I didn’t have time for romance.”

“You found plenty of time. Just not for me!”

“I was just your goddamn maid and fuck buddy. At least Raul made me feel beautiful!”

“Yeah, and George and Simon, too.”

“You knew about them?”

“I’m a G-man, remember?”

 

“Agent McCaig!”

He snapped out of his dark daydream. “Christine! I was . . .”

“You looked like your mind was off in the ozone somewhere.”

“Yeah, guess so. Hey, it’s good to see you. What’s the plan?”

“A race. Double-hander. You’re my crew today.”

“You know this is highly irregular, right?”

“You said you needed to talk, privately. This is when I have time, and it’s private. You coming or not?”

“Sure, why not?”

Someone shouted at them from a distance. “Hey, Christine, you ready to eat my wake?”

McCaig looked across the harbor at the voice’s source. It was another Santa Cruz 27 with a gleaming candy-apple metallic-red paint job, gliding noiselessly out of the marina on a light breeze. A tall, bearded sailor was standing in the cockpit, wearing bright yellow weatherproof bib overalls, with the tiller held lightly in one hand.

Christine yelled back, “In your dreams, Kerry!”

“Ha! I’m gonna clean your clock, and no more silly-ass excuses like terrorists falling from the sky!” he replied.

“You have a good recipe for crow, Kerry?” she shouted to the receding boat. “Cause you’re going to be eating some at the clubhouse tonight!”

Kerry laughed and waved. Christine turned back to McCaig.

“So, you ready to crew in an actual race?” she asked. “This one’s a double-hander, captain and one crew allowed.”

“I thought you liked to win.”

She laughed. “Oh, we’ll win. No worries there. Just do exactly what I tell you, OK?”

“I’ll bet you say that a lot.”

She laughed.

A half hour later they were in position, maneuvering among the fleet of two dozen boats, all jockeying for position. Christine was at the helm, steering the boat and barking orders at McCaig to release a line, crank in, ease off, and shift his weight to balance the boat.

It was amazingly complex—nothing like what McCaig had expected. He had imagined it would be like a car race: the boats line up at a line, a gun goes off, and they start sailing. Christine laughed at that.

“Sailboats don’t stop. There’s no parking brake; in fact, there’s no brake at all. If you’re on the water, you’re moving. If you’re not moving, you can’t steer. If you can’t steer, you’re out of control.”

“So if you’re not waiting at the starting line, where are you?”

“You don’t wait,” she replied. “A sailboat race starts long before the starting gun goes off. The perfect start is to cross the starting line at full speed, close hauled, on starboard tack, at the right end of the starting line, at the exact instant the gun goes off. Everybody wants to be that guy, but only one is. A second too early, you’re ‘over early’ and have to go back and re-cross. A second too late and you’re behind. Port tack and you have no right of way. Left side or the center of the starting line and you’re trapped in the fleet; you can’t tack because you’ll lose your right of way.”

“So what, you just go a certain distance back, calculate the time to the starting line, and set your speed so you get there at the right time?”

“Just watch and learn, sailor boy.”

The pre-start maneuvering was a chaotic jumble of turns and tacks, shouts of “starboard!” and “mast abeam!” There was good-natured cursing, boats stealing one another’s wind, and an undercurrent of intense competition as everyone jockeyed to claim that one course line that led to the perfect start. It was a chess game played on the water.

He gave up trying to understand the complex moves and counter-moves and instead focused on pulling lines, cranking winches, and enjoying the camaraderie.

At the one-minute warning horn, Christine made her final turn and ended up in decent position with the starting line dead ahead. Only one boat was slightly to windward and behind on her starboard side, its bow almost overlapping their stern. McCaig recognized the candy-apple metallic paint; Kerry was at the helm. Kerry had better speed and would soon overtake Christine and steal her wind.

He watched Christine. She was intently focused on the wind, waves, and competitors and didn’t notice his gaze. For the moment, he was just another piece of rigging that Christine would manipulate to win this race.

“Give me three clicks on the jib sheet!”

He cranked the jib in tighter.

“Main sheet!” He tightened it. “More!” He pulled hard on the line, his muscles bulging under the force. The four-part block-and-tackle amplified his muscles to almost a thousand pounds of force and brought the mainsail in just one more inch. He snapped the line into its cleat. The boat settled in and matched Kerry’s speed, holding off his advance. Both boats crossed the starting line perfectly as the starting horn sounded. Kerry tacked away to port to get away from the fleet, leaving Christine and McCaig in clear air.

“So. Not bad,” said Christine. She spoke without taking her eyes off the sails and boat. “Your first start, you did well. I might even let you to do this again.”

“I think I could learn to like this,” he replied. “What now? How come everyone is spreading out? Don’t we have to follow some race course or something?”

She laughed. “You’re such a natural at cranking and trimming, I forget that you’re a total landlubber. No, there’s no fixed course, just buoys. See that orange buoy about a mile up?” She pointed to windward.

“Yeah?”

“That’s called the weather mark. We have to sail around it to port—that means it has to be on our left side. Then down there,” she said, pointing downwind to another orange buoy barely visible in the distance, “is the leeward mark. We go around the course twice, then to the finish line at the committee boat, where we started.”

“So it doesn’t matter where you go in between, as long as you round the marks?”

“Exactly. So this is the part where we can relax a bit. We’re going to tack upwind to the mark, but on each tack, we hold our course for a while. It gets crazy at the buoys. We’re going to put up our spinnaker for the downwind legs. That’ll be tricky, but just do exactly what I tell you and we’ll win this race.”

“Deal. So we’re not going out on the ocean today, past the bridge?”

“No, this is a smooth water race. A good place to break in a lubber like you.”

McCaig noticed that even while talking and gesturing, Christine was in full race mode, the tiller constantly moving, turning the boat minutely to take advantage of every shift in the wind and follow the smoothest path over each wave. Her eyes were never still, darting from sails to waves to her competitors.

He observed in silence for a few minutes. She brought the same intensity to sailing that she had on the job. And yet out here, her intensity grew out of her love of the wind, sea, boat, and sails. The boat became an extension of her.

“Ready about!” she called, startling him.

“Ready!”

“Helm’s a-lee!”

McCaig released the jib sheet and the boat whipped around from starboard to port tack. He wrapped the jib sheet around the winch, yanked it tight just at the right moment, and gave it a couple cranks with the winch handle to trim it perfectly. The boat settled onto its new course.

“Nice. Like you’ve been doing this for years,” said Christine.

“I’m pretty good with mechanical stuff. My dad was a farmer, and every farmer is a mechanic. I sort of grew up playing in the shop, helping him fix cars, trucks, and the occasional tractor or lawnmower. I guess a boat is just another type of machine. You figure out how it works, and then you’re good.”

“I never thought my boat would be compared to a tractor.”

McCaig laughed and then looked out across the bay. The fleet had split in two, some staying on starboard tack, some taking the port tack. Most boats had just made their first tack, and the two halves of the fleet would soon come back together. Christine was leading the first group by about ten boat lengths, but only time would tell whether one side of the racecourse was favored.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said. “Off the record.”

Christine glanced away from her sails momentarily. “I’m racing, McCaig.”

“It’s important.”

She looked back to the sails and waves. “It can wait until after the race. I’m busy.”

“Zarrabian is alive. I talked with him.”

“What?” Christine stared at McCaig.

“Zarrabian is alive. He escaped.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“He held me at gunpoint not far from the burned cabin. After he was supposedly dead. Your sails—”

The jib started luffing as the boat turned too close to the wind, shaking and rattling the rigging.

“Shit!” She yanked the tiller and pulled the boat back on course. “Now look what you’ve done! Goddamn it, McCaig! Look at that!” She gestured angrily behind them. They’d lost at least six boat lengths of their lead.

“Sorry! I just . . . there’s something crazy going on.”

“Just be quiet, OK?”

He turned back to the sea and watched for a few minutes. The two halves of the racing fleet grew closer and closer together. He knew Christine was watching the other boats carefully, but he couldn’t help but notice a collision was imminent.

“Uh, are we going to collide?”

“Quiet. No. With luck, we’re still in the lead and will pass in front of Kerry.”

There was a look of intense concentration on her face as she steered, her eyes darting from her sails to the approaching boats. Finally a cry of “Starboard!” came from across the water.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she yelled. She pulled the tiller, turning so that they passed behind Kerry’s boat, narrowly missing the next boat behind him. As they passed through the wind-shadow of Kerry’s sails, the boat flattened and lost speed for a moment, then was hit by the full wind again and heeled back over, regaining the lost speed.

The minutes ticked by. Christine sailed on in silence, one eye on the sails and one on the weather buoy that marked the race course, calculating the best moment for the next turn. McCaig grew increasingly uncomfortable as wave after wave passed under the boat.

“Look, I’m sorry—”

“Not now! Ready about!”

“Uh, ready!”

“Helm’s alee!”

He released the jib sheet and cranked the sail in on the new course as before. They sailed on for another minute.

“Crap!” she exclaimed. “Let the jib out.” She yanked the mainsheet out of its cleat and let the mainsail out as she turned back toward the marina.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

“You drop the biggest bombshell of the biggest goddamned story in the last decade on me in the middle of a goddamned race, and you think I can just keep sailing?”

“Sorry!”

“Sorry doesn’t get it, sailor boy. Christ almighty! I mean, I want to hug you and smack you in the head at the same time.”

McCaig raised his eyebrows. “Uh . . .”

“We’re out of the race, TJ. I blew another one for this asshole Zarrabian. That’s two races this season. It will be damned near impossible for me to take the season unless Kerry gets a brain aneurysm and loses about a hundred IQ points. And it’s going to be damned hard to explain why I left the race in the middle of the first weather leg. Kerry’s going to be crowing about that one for the next decade or two. Get it?”

“Sorry.”

“Quit the sorry. Just tell me what the hell is going on. We have lots of time before we’re back at the dock.”

Two hours later, Christine burst through Grant Petri’s office door. Jennifer, the young assistant, was sitting on his desk right next to Petri, her legs crossed seductively in front of him. She jumped up at the sound of the door.

“Jennifer, I need to talk to Grant. Alone.”

“I, uh,” said Jennifer. She glanced at Petri, who nodded toward the door. “Good to see you, Ms. Garrett. I’ll check in later, Mr. Petri, OK?”

Christine sat down as Jennifer walked out. The moment the door closed, she turned to Petri.

“Jesus Christ, Grant, she works for you.”

He shrugged, re-buttoned the top button of his shirt, and snugged his tie.

“Grant, I need indefinite leave and a blank check.”

“Sure, and I need a fountain of youth and a hundred million bucks. Don’t hold your breath.”

“I won’t, because you’re going to give it to me.”

“Garrett, I love playing tantalizing guessing games. Maybe this time you could just tell me what the hell you have.”

“Grant, we’ve been doing this for what, five years? We have our spats, sometimes we joke, and sometimes we’re really pissed. This time it’s serious. I need to go after this story.”

He leaned back and gave her an appraising look.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious. Deadly serious.”

“OK. I’m listening.”

“Zarrabian’s not dead.”

He sat up straight. “You’ve got a reliable source for this?”

“Grant, that’s not even the story. Not only is he alive, but the only guy who knows it is being railroaded out of the FBI.”

“Special Agent McCaig?”

“One and the same.”

“And he thinks Zarrabian is alive?”

“He doesn’t think, he knows. Zarrabian held him at gunpoint, something like two hours after they discovered the burned-up cabin and the body that was supposedly Zarrabian.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“OK, now comes that off-the-record part. McCaig slipped up and told me that much before he got to the part about off the record. But everything else I’m going to tell you, he said it’s off.”

“There’s more? That’s already a bombshell.”

“Yeah, Grant, but it gets better. Off the record, OK?”

“Sure, OK.”

“Remember when I said I thought McCaig knew something about Zarrabian that he wasn’t telling us?”

“Yeah, but you were pretty vague. Your ‘gut feeling’ is where we left it.”

“Well, my gut was right. McCaig doesn’t just know something about Zarrabian. They’re know each other. Fairly well.”

“What the fu . . . ?”

“They were thrown together by chance. McCaig was in some kind of Special Ops in the Marines. They were sent into Iran during the Iran-Iraq War in the eighties. Somebody in the CIA was suspicious about a warehouse and nerve gas. They got over the border, scouted the place, and waited until they thought the place was empty. McCaig got his team inside, then more or less stumbled on Zarrabian. McCaig didn’t want to kill Zarrabian since the good ol’ U S of A wasn’t even supposed to be there, not to mention that Iran wasn’t officially our enemy. I guess they got to know each other pretty well.”

“What, they sat down to socialize for a while?”

“Even better. They tied Zarrabian up. You remember that Zarrabian studied engineering at Berkeley?”

“Right, he told you that on your boat.”

“Yeah. Two years upper-division studies. Got his degree in engineering. Lived in a dump in Oakland with three other Iranian engineering students. Anyway, so McCaig has Zarrabian tied up, McCaig’s team is digging around the place, and the Iraqis start bombing it. Maybe they’d got the same intel about nerve gas, who knows? After a couple bombs gave them pretty bad headaches, Zarrabian confessed that there was a tunnel. McCaig got his men and Zarrabian into the tunnel, and they all survived the bombing. But the Iraqi bombs blew out the stairway and filled it with rubble. They were stuck in an underground tunnel for two days and nights. With Zarrabian.”

“No shit? So they did sit down to chat. How’d they get out?”

“Zarrabian hoped that if he waited, someone would come to investigate and he’d get the credit for capturing an American Special Ops team. After two days with no food or water and no sign of anyone else, he told them that if they blasted through a certain door, there was another tunnel that led to the next building.”

“What’d they do with Zarrabian?”

“Did what soldiers have done for centuries. They trusted him.”

“Like, just let him go?”

“No, but remember, they’d had two days to work this out. McCaig explained that they’d either have to kill him or take him prisoner. Zarrabian said of course, that it’s what he’d have done if their roles were flipped. So Zarrabian didn’t want to die or be a prisoner, and McCaig didn’t want to kill him or drag his uncooperative ass across the mountains. Everyone was on the same page.”

“And?”

“And so they shook hands on it: McCaig would let Zarrabian go, and Zarrabian would wait another six hours at the bombed-out warehouse, then make like he’d just escaped from the place.”

Petri shook his head in wonder. “And they trusted him?”

“Apparently so. And it paid off, big time.”

“How’s that?”

“So the other day, somebody torched Zarrabian’s cabin. McCaig was there doing his FBI thing. The fire trucks were leaving, the forensic guys were cleaning up, and McCaig decided to check out the woods behind the place. And about a quarter mile back, he found himself looking down the barrel of Zarrabian’s gun.”

“Jesus.”

“You said that already.”

“Get on with it, OK?”

“So Zarrabian told McCaig it’s payback time, that something didn't make sense. McCaig didn’t buy it. Like, you were a real soldier, a man of honor, now you’re a terrorist, and I’ve gotta cuff you sooner or later.”

“Good point. You know, that’s a really good point,” said Petri. He thought for a moment. “Christ, if McCaig isn’t outright lying to you about all this, that’s where you’ve gotta start digging. What the fuck is going on with this Zarrabian guy? What was this guy?”

“A colonel. Highly respected. A family man.”

“And now he’s a terrorist. Doesn’t make sense.”

“And Grant, has it occurred to you to wonder why Zarrabian even confronted McCaig?”

Grant’s brow furrowed. “I . . . damn. Right! I’m jumping ahead here, but the body wasn’t Zarrabian, which means Zarrabian must have killed the guy they sent to kill him. Am I right?”

“Bingo.”

“And Zarrabian knew that. He knew they’d think the carcass in the ashes was him.”

“Bingo again.”

“So why show his face to McCaig?” he asked.

“You’re batting a thousand. Or whatever you do in bingo.”

“So what’s the answer? Why’d he do it?”

“Show his face? That’s the question, Grant. And why did he turn terrorist in the first place?”

“McCaig didn’t tell you?”

“No. He doesn’t know. He’s as baffled as I am. Zarrabian seemed to want something—wanted to tell McCaig something smelled fishy. But that’s all.”

“He said 'fishy?'”

“No. According to McCaig, his words were ‘Something is wrong.’ He wouldn’t elaborate any more than that.”

“And let me guess. The helicopter, that really was Zarrabian?”

“McCaig says so,” she replied.

“And what about that poor sap they arrested for stealing the chopper? Some old vet with PTSD or something, growing pot up there in the redwoods?”

“He actually is a bit of a nut case—has a record of disturbances and such. But harmless. I think he was just incredibly unlucky.”

“Did that poor guy even know the feds aren’t raiding pot farmers any more?”

“Who knows?” she replied.

“OK, so I’m guessing that the whole business in Iraq, where they shake hands and Zarrabian lets McCaig walk, becomes a tit-for-tat here.”

“Right. Zarrabian had McCaig at gunpoint in the woods—didn’t want to kill him and didn’t want to drag his uncooperative ass along for his escape. So Zarrabian offered a deal, and McCaig gave his word, and Zarrabian hoofed it over the hill and stole the helicopter while McCaig twiddled his thumbs for a few minutes.”

“Damn, Garrett!” Petri jumped up from his chair and started pacing. “This is a hell of a story. The most wanted terrorist in the world escapes in a government chopper, is probably still alive and doing God-knows-what, and the government is flat-out lying and claiming the guy is dead. Jesus. This is going to take the administration down!”

“Wrong.”

He stopped abruptly and faced her. “What part did I miss? It’s the biggest cover-up of the decade!”

“McCaig never told them he’d met Zarrabian.”

“What?”

“What I just said. He never told them.”

Petri flopped back into his chair and stared at her for a moment. “This gets crazier and crazier.” He waved for her to go on.

“So go back to when they were in the woods. McCaig knew his career was already in the toilet after Cordo. He also knew that if he admitted giving Zarrabian a jump start, he’d not only be fired but maybe face jail time for aiding and abetting.”

“So he keeps mum.”

“Not exactly. Remember, this guy believes in honor. He let Zarrabian escape because he gave his word, but he still had to tell his superiors what he did, because he was sworn to uphold the law. What actually happened is he dashed back to the burned-down cabin where all the other G-men were hanging out, and just then Zarrabian flew over them in the stolen chopper. He sent his sidekick, that Palestinian kid, what’s his name—”

“Bashir. Omar.”

“Right. He sent Bashir and a couple other guys off to untie the pilot and then got on the radio to let everyone know that Zarrabian just stole a helicopter and escaped.”

“McCaig never told them about how he got to inspect the inside of Zarrabian’s gun barrel?”

“He figured it was more important to let everyone know the guy had escaped, and he’d give details later. The next day, before he could fill out his report and talk to his boss, he basically got called in and handed his walking papers.”

“On what basis?”

“Well, it was weird. First he gets reamed for generally screwing up the operation and letting Zarrabian fly away, then the boss kicks him out of his office. The next morning the boss is all nicey-nicey and gives him early medical retirement. It seems word came down that they got medical records from the amazingly cooperative Iranian army. From this, the ME is sure that the corpse in the cabin is Zarrabian. The boss is sorry for the ‘misunderstanding.’ They offer him early retirement for PTSD or some bullshit like that. And, last but not least, McCaig is told in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t Zarrabian in the chopper, that they caught the crazy PTSD pot-growing vet who actually stole the chopper, and that McCaig had better keep his mouth shut about Zarrabian.”

“But he knows Zarrabian isn’t dead. You’re telling me a senior FBI agent would withhold this? I’m having trouble with this story.”

“Right. And McCaig is known for being painfully ethical, even when it’s bad for his career.”

“So did he ever tell them he’d seen Zarrabian alive?”

“No.”

“Do they know McCaig and Zarrabian were buddies?”

“Apparently not.”

Petri sat there for a minute digesting this information.

“OK, what do we have right now? McCaig said it was Zarrabian who stole the chopper. That’s public. And that army vet, he’ll dispute the government’s story. He may be crazy, but it’s something. Zarrabian studied at Berkeley; that’s a good scoop, we can follow up on that. So we can drill in on the Zarrabian’s-alive story based on what’s already out there. But we can’t use McCaig’s eyewitness account?”

“No.”

“And we can’t tell the story of McCaig and Zarrabian trapped during a secret op?”

“No.”

“Shit, Christine! You’ve got to convince him. This is bullshit!”

“Let me work on this, Grant. I’ll get it.”

“OK, you win. Blank check, indefinite deadline. But you’d better bring me back a story.”

“In case you didn’t notice, this is already a Pulitzer-level story.”

“What’s holding McCaig back? Hell, this is a massive story. He could be the whistle-blower of the decade.”

“He must think there’s more. If he decided to hold out, I can only think of one reason: he doesn’t trust them. I don’t either. If we go on the air with the full story now, there’s too much plausible deniability. McCaig could be buried in a pile of manure so deep he’d never get the stink off. Zarrabian, the only guy who may know what’s going on, will probably be killed. And, just between you and me, this story has more questions than answers. If this got out now, every reporter from here to Bangor would be digging. I want to be the one who finds it.”

“Always the killer instinct, eh Christine?”

“Takes one to know one, Grant. That’s why you hired me.”

He smiled. “Go squeeze someone’s balls. Get me a story.”

“Hey boss,” said Bashir.

“Morning, Omar. Come on in. I’m just finishing packing up my desk.”

Bashir nodded at the security guard in the corner who was watching the proceedings. He didn’t nod back.

“Don’t mind him,” McCaig said. “He’s gotta make sure I don’t steal any paper clips or coffee-stirrer sticks before he escorts me out the door.”

“Wow. I can’t believe this, boss.”

“You’re going to have to stop calling me that.”

“I . . . I just wanted to tell you . . .”

Bashir looked almost teary eyed.

“Hey, knock it off. No worries. I’m leaving here some kind of hero, and they’re even accelerating my pension. There’s a bungalow in Hawaii with my name on the front door.”

“Gosh, that’s great. I just . . . I’ll miss you. You’ve been the best teacher I've ever had!”

McCaig was taken aback. He could almost feel himself choking up. That wouldn’t do.

“Hey, just promise me that twenty or thirty years down the road, you’ll do the same for some other young agent, OK?”

“OK.”

“Promise? It’s important to me.”

“I promise.”

“Did they give you a new partner yet?”

“Yeah, sure, a guy named Johanssen. Got assigned here from Minnesota or something.”

“Tell him I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t have your back.”

“Thanks, boss, I will. You take care.”

Bashir held out his hand tentatively. McCaig took it with a firm grip and then, to his own surprise, gave Bashir a brief hug and a rough slap on the back.

“Now get out of here, before I get emotional or something.”

After Bashir had left, McCaig scanned his office. The walls were bare. Boxes had swallowed the pictures of his Hawaiian condo, his kids, his mom and dad, and the snapshots of fellow agents at ceremonies and celebrations. Dusty outlines on the wall were all that remained of his diplomas, academy certificates, and commendations. His desk was empty, the computer screen dark. A tech had erased and reformatted his system. Billions of bytes of information—his life, his cases, his reports, his emails—all inaccessible, backed up in some cavernous basement computer archive. Empty office, empty computer. Nothing left to show he’d ever been here.

“Ready, sir?” the guard asked.

“I’m outta here,” he replied.

A minute later, the elevator doors opened into the lobby. McCaig tucked his box of personal items under one arm and stepped out. The security guard escorted him across the lobby to the front door. Through the tinted glass of the doors, McCaig could see a crowd of at least a dozen reporters and several camera crews milling on the plaza outside.

“Huh. Wonder who they’re after,” he said.

“No idea,” said the security guard. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thanks.”

The guard held the door open and McCaig stepped out. He was immediately assaulted by flashing cameras, bright video lights, and shouted questions.

“Agent McCaig! Can you tell us—”

“Agent McCaig! Is it true that you're being—”

“Was Cordo the reason you were—”

McCaig looked bewildered, squinting and blinking in the bright lights and flashes. He held up his hand and spoke loudly. “Please, please! There must be some mistake! I’m just retiring, OK?”

A dozen voices shouted again. One woman’s voice rose over the rest.

“Special Agent McCaig, are you retiring voluntarily?”

“Yes. But really, I’m not—”

A man with a rumpled suit shouted out, “There are rumors that you were railroaded out. Why would the FBI do that?”

“That would be a confidential personnel matter.”

“Is it true?” he pressed.

“Confidential means I won’t confirm or deny it. My reasons for retiring are my own,” he replied.

He glanced across the plaza to Golden Gate Avenue and spotted Christine Garrett emerging from a cab. A woman in the back shouted a question.

“Was your performance on this mission compromised by the disaster at Cordo, Texas?” she asked.

“No. Really, can you please excuse me? I’ve got to—”

“But surely Cordo haunts you.”

“I did my job at Cordo. It had nothing to do with this investigation.”

“How many years have you been with the FBI, Agent McCaig?” someone shouted.

“Twenty-seven years and two months.”

“Why are you retiring early and losing some of your retirement benefits?”

“My reasons for retiring are my own.”

“Are you glad Zarrabian is dead?” asked another woman.

“I never rejoice at any man’s death. Not even an enemy.”

“But you must be glad he’s no longer a threat.”

McCaig paused. He wouldn’t lie, but most people, including reporters, hear what they want to hear. He glanced in Christine’s direction again. She had climbed the stairs and was walking across the plaza behind the other reporters.

He returned his attention to the reporter. “Our job at the FBI is to prevent crime and enforce the law. I’m sure my fellow FBI agents will carry on the good work while I enjoy my retirement. Now, I really have to—”

“Special Agent McCaig!” said Christine loudly.

“Ms. Garrett, I’m glad to see you back on the job.”

“Is it true, Agent McCaig—”

“I’m not an agent any more, Ms. Garrett,” he interrupted.

“Is it true that you met Zarrabian personally during your service in the Persian Gulf War during the eighties?”

There was sudden silence among the reporters. They turned from Christine back to McCaig. McCaig saw a TV cameraman twisting his lens, zooming in on his face. He wondered fleetingly if he’d missed any spots while shaving. The reporters waited.

He looked down for a moment as if contemplating, then back again at Christine. “Yes.”

A wave of murmurs ran through the crowd. Several reporters dialed cell phones.

Christine’s voice rose over the noise again. “Is it also true that he saved your life?”

“The details of my missions while serving my country as a United States Marine are classified, Ms. Garrett.”

“Do you believe that Zarrabian is dead?”

“The State Department tells me he is. Why should I doubt that?”

“Do you believe he’s dead, Mr. McCaig?”

“I wouldn’t presume to contradict the medical examiner’s findings.”

“If Zarrabian saved your life—”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“—you must have mixed feelings. Is there something you’d say to him if you could?”

He paused for a moment, then looked directly into the TV cameras. “Zarrabian and his team attacked the United States of America. Now it’s payback time. Our president has promised that everyone involved in this operation will be tracked down and held accountable. I’m retiring today, but I know that my former colleagues in the FBI, along with every other law-enforcement and intelligence agency, will bring the perpetrators to justice. Payback may take time, but it will happen.”

A dozen voices shouted simultaneously, but McCaig ignored them. He pushed through the group, clutching his box of photos, diplomas, and certificates, and jogged across the plaza and down the stairs to a waiting cab on Golden Gate Avenue.

Patterson’s TV showed the receding back of FBI Special Agent McCaig as he dashed across the plaza and down the stairs to a waiting cab.

“Fuck!” Patterson clicked the remote control and froze the image, spinning his chair around to face Erica Blackwell and Senator Platte.

“That asshole is buddies with Zarrabian! Why the hell didn’t we know this? Why wasn’t it in his military records? How the fuck did we miss a piece of intel this important?”

“We could throw him in jail for this!” said Blackwell. “That pissant agent withheld information critical to an investigation.”

“And how did that Garrett bitch figure this out?” asked Patterson. “Where’d she get something this big? Christ, that fucking terrorist falls out of the sky right into her boat and gives her the best story of her life. Now she has this story, too! I’m gonna ream some asses over at Langley.”

“Smith burned a lot of favors to get McCaig out of our hair,” said Blackwell. “This cost a lot. McCaig played us.”

“Maybe you should stop whining and use your heads for a minute” said Platte. “You’re being stupid. Don’t you see it?”

“See fucking what?” asked Patterson.

“That was a bullshit press conference.” said Platte.

“Yeah, it’s bullshit that McCaig is still walking the street a free man!” said Patterson.

“You’re not getting it,” said Platte. “This was a total setup. Garrett knew Zarrabian and McCaig were friends because McCaig told her. The rest of those reporters were her stooges.”

“What the . . .?” Blackwell’s brow furrowed. “Christ, you’re right. It makes sense.”

“Fill me in here,” said Patterson. “What makes sense?”

“That Garrett and McCaig staged that so-called press conference,” said Platte. “Think about it. She’s got intel that’s not in our file—intel that only McCaig could know, namely that McCaig and Zarrabian knew each other. Ask yourself, why were those reporters there in the first place? Because Garrett knew you’d axed McCaig. She knew to the minute when he was going to walk out of that building. And she knew about McCaig and Zarrabian. How? Because McCaig told her. All of it.”

“Jesus,” said Patterson.

“She set this up,” said Platte. “She wanted a crowd, so she threw out a rumor about McCaig being railroaded out. She got the dogs all slobbering over a story, and then pretended she was just one of the pack. He comes out, they mob him thinking maybe there’s some conspiracy cover-up about Cordo Mormons somehow linked to Zarrabian the terrorist. Then Garrett comes along, and she’s got the real story, and it’s not just the bone they were promised, it’s the whole fucking cow. Bigger than their wildest dreams.”

Blackwell’s brow furrowed. “So McCaig withholds a critical piece of intel about the biggest terrorist attack of the decade, that he actually knows the asshole who pulled it off. Then he goes to a reporter and tells her about it. And then gets on the front page with publicity that would make Donald Trump green with envy. Do I have this right?”

“Exactly,” said Platte.

“Damn,” said Patterson. “It makes sense.”

“No,” said Platte. “We’re still missing something. Something big. Christine Garrett just threw away one of the biggest news scoops of her career. In about five minutes, every newspaper and network is going to be shouting this story. She lost her exclusive with McCaig. She just threw it to the dogs like it was nothing.”

“Why the hell would she do that?” asked Patterson.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Platte.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” said Patterson. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

“Sure it does,” said Blackwell. “If Garrett threw away a story, she’s got something bigger.”

“But what?” asked Platte. “That’s a huge story. The FBI agent in charge is buddies with the very terrorist he’s chasing. Not only buddies, but it sounds like the guy saved McCaig’s life. Christ, what could be bigger than that?”

“Maybe we could use this,” said Patterson. “Like, what if McCaig deliberately diverted the investigation so his buddy Zarrabian could escape in the fog and hide in a cabin? If McCaig gives us any more shit about Zarrabian being alive, even one little leak from an ‘unnamed source,’ we can nail his hide to the barn, say he was in cahoots with Zarrabian.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Platte, “So you’ve got McCaig by the balls. Big whoop. He’s already a nobody, and if he squeaks, you squash him. We don’t give a shit about McCaig. It’s Garrett. She’s got something up her sleeve. How does throwing away a story this big do her any good?”

Blackwell was still staring at the ceiling. “Christ. Jesus Christ.” She sat up abruptly. “That wasn’t a news conference at all.”

“Looked like one to me,” said Patterson.

“Now you’re the one being dumb. It was a message. To Zarrabian.”

“But—” said Patterson.

“Yeah, yeah. Zarrabian’s dead,” she said. “You almost had me convinced. But he’s not. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Suppose McCaig knows Zarrabian is alive. I don’t know how, but suppose he does. McCaig wants to get him a message. What’s he going to do, look up his phone number in the white pages?”

“Damn,” said Platte. “That’s it. What better way to get a message to a terrorist than to get the paparazzi drooling over it? McCaig put out a message, and it’s going to be twenty-four seven on every TV station, front page on every newspaper, and in flashing red letters on every web site for the next week. He can’t miss it unless he’s dead or blind.”

“And McCaig and Zarrabian, they know each other, right?” said Patterson. “So he said something that only Zarrabian would understand.”

“Payback,” said Platte. “He used that word. Twice. And he’s not talking about payback for the terrorist attack. Special Agent McCaig is going to pay Zarrabian back for saving his life in Iran.”

“Wow,” said Blackwell, “That’s gotta be it. It all adds up. Maybe this McCaig isn’t such a pissant after all. Maybe he’s the one using Garrett, not the other way around.”

“Or maybe they’re working together,” said Platte. “A team.”

“Yeah?” said Blackwell. “On what?”

“The questions never end, do they?” said Platte.

“No,” replied Blackwell. “But whatever they’re up to, it’s sounding more and more like a criminal conspiracy. We’ve got to get in front of this one.”

A drop of condensed fog rolled down Watergate’s mainsail, merging with other droplets in its path as it gained size and speed. Its journey ended on the back of McCaig’s neck. He looked up, annoyed. Big drops of water seemed to have an affinity for his neck lately. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

Christine guided her boat with a light touch as it slipped noiselessly away from its berth and past the docks. A light breeze barely rippled the gray, glassy water of South Bay Harbor. The fog dampened their hair, jackets, deck, and seat cushions. It seemed to absorb the very sounds of the city.

To the west, the gray, ghostly outline of the new baseball park loomed over the harbor, named after some phone company or other. To McCaig, Candlestick Park was the real home of the Giants, the place where he and his Dad had shared hot dogs and Cokes while huddling under their blankets in the fog and wind, cheering as the Giants beat the Dodgers.

“Not much of a day for sailing,” he said.

Christine didn’t say anything.

“It seems pretty early for a race, eh? You were pretty insistent that I be here at the crack of dawn.”

She gave a barely perceptible nod. McCaig got the hint.

They glided past the breakwaters and left the protection of the harbor. Watergate began to bob slightly with the small morning waves of the bay. Tugboats and fishing boats churned toward their dawn tasks. McCaig could see the dark silhouette of a large ship moving slowly from its anchorage.

A few minutes later, Watergate was completely surrounded by a wall of gray. Except for the fog-muffled sounds of a tugboat’s engine in the distance, they could have been in the middle of the ocean.

Christine took her cell phone out of her pocket and turned its power off. She pointed at McCaig’s pocket. McCaig cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Yours. Is it off?” she asked.

He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket showed her that it was off.

Christine pulled a folded sheet of aluminum foil from her pocket and laid it on the cockpit seat, then smoothed it flat. She held out her hand toward McCaig’s phone.

“What?” he asked.

She gestured at his phone. He finally understood and handed it to her. She wrapped both phones in a sheet of foil, then wrapped another sheet of foil around that. Satisfied, she dropped the whole shiny package in her pocket.

“OK, we can talk now,” she said.

“A bicycle courier banged on my door at five AM,” he said. “He handed me hand-written note saying I had to go sailing, but to turn off my phone and walk. For Christ’s sake, did you know it’s three miles from my apartment to the harbor? Then you sneak us out in the fog like thieves before the fish are even awake. What the hell?”

“I know, it seems ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? Since I have no idea what we’re doing out here, I couldn’t say whether it’s ridiculous or not. All I know is you’d better have some coffee.”

“We’ll get some soon.”

“Soon? That means no, right? No coffee?”

She pulled a postcard out of her pocket and handed it to him. It was a picture of Yosemite Park’s Half Dome mountain.

“How do you send a message these days that the government won’t intercept?” she asked.

“Snail mail?”

“Yes. Postmarked yesterday from Fresno.”

McCaig flipped it over. The back was covered with youthful handwriting in blue ink.

“Pretty ordinary looking, right?” she asked.

“I’m sure if I answer ‘yes,’ you’ll point out what I’ve overlooked. It looks pretty faded, though.”

“Look at the copyright.”

McCaig squinted to see the tiny print. “Nineteen fifty five? This card is older than me!”

“I’ll cut to the chase. It’s from Zarrabian. No telling where he found a postcard that’s more than a half-century old. Read it.”

He scanned through the message. “It looks like a letter from a kid named Zane thanking his uncle Grant for sending him to a summer camp for his twelfth birthday.”

“Check the address,” she said.

“Lake Street? Isn’t that over in Sea Cliff? Pretty Ritzy neighborhood.”

“Right. He sent it to Grant Petri’s place.”

“Wow. Nice digs.”

“And see the part about ‘Tell Chris he’ll have to pay me back’?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s obviously me. Even Grant figured that out.”

“Obviously?”

“Don’t you think so? ‘Chris’ and ‘pay me back?’ Doesn’t that tell you he saw us on TV and wants to meet?”

McCaig’s eyes scanned over the card again. “Wow. I think you’re right. And ‘Zane’ is Zarrabian, right?”

“You’re catching on.”

“Why a postcard? Why not a text message or an email? We did our press conference two days ago. He could have been in touch the same day.”

She stared at him for long moment. “Seriously, TJ? Have you not picked up a newspaper in the last ten years?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Internet spying? Viruses? Key loggers? Malware? The NSA scanning your email? Edward Snowden? Phone metadata? Do these words mean nothing to you?”

“Ah. You mean an email might get intercepted by the feds.”

“Not might. Would.”

“But Congress passed laws prohibiting that.”

“Right. And if you believe our nation’s spooks care about some niggling little law when there’s a terrorist on the loose, I can sell you that bridge over there.”

“OK, OK. But why all the drama with our cell phones? You don’t believe that conspiracy crap about how they can listen in even when your phone is in your pocket, do you?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. But why take a chance? Either way, as long as the phone is even powered on, they can triangulate the phone’s signal and figure out our exact location.”

“So? We’re just two citizens out for a sail. Besides, you left your phone on until we were out here on the water, so if they wanted to track you, they could.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know you’re with me. As far as they know, I went for an early-morning sail and turned off my phone to get away from the job. And maybe your phone ran out of juice and you’re still asleep in your bed.”

McCaig waved the post card. “What’s this all mean?”

“Look at it again.”

McCaig scrutinized it.

“Notice that there are several numbers?” she asked. “Like ‘Cabin 38’ and ‘392 kids at camp,’ and so forth?”

“Yeah? What, is it a coded message?”

“It’s a location. You put the numbers together and they’re a latitude and longitude.”

“Seriously? Who figured this out?”

“We’ve got a whiz-kid intern who fancies himself a latter-day Sherlock. Loves to solve cyphers and puzzles. I see him in the café at lunchtime working the New York Times crossword. In ink.”

“And he figured out that these were latitude and longitude?”

“I showed him the card and told him there was a hidden message. It took him about two seconds to give a derisive snort and ask what sort of dumb-ass spook would leave map coordinates in plain sight like that. That’s today’s mission, to meet Zarrabian.”

“Damn. That’s about the last thing I expected when I got out of bed. But OK, this is good. Our plan worked.” McCaig glanced at the navigation computer. “So we’re meeting Zarrabian in the middle of the bay. Phones off and everything. Surrounded by fog. Pretty clever.”

“No, wrong again.”

“Of course. Silly me.”

“The map coordinates are somewhere near Modesto.”

“Modesto? Then what are we doing out here on the water?”

“Making sure we’re not followed.”

“Who would be following us?”

“TJ, for an FBI agent you can be pretty dumb. Where have you been for the last two days?”

“Reading some great fiction on my couch. Jogging in Golden Gate Park. Watching old Humphrey Bogart movies. Enjoying retirement.”

“Seriously? You need to turn on the news.”

“OK, yeah. I know what’s going on. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

“That little charade we did for the cameras the other day is attracting a lot of attention. You basically admitted that you know the terrorist you were chasing. The conspiracy nut-jobs and tinfoil-hat crowd are already going crazy over this. Reporters are digging through every news article, leak, and probably even some classified stuff trying to figure out where and when you met Zarrabian. And I’ll bet there are people in high places who think you violated some pretty serious rules about disclosure.”

“Yeah, I know all that. But I’m trying to enjoy my retirement.”

“Try to think just a little harder, OK?”

“So what about Modesto? I don’t know much about sailboats, but I’m pretty sure we can’t get to Modesto on this thing.”

“You might be surprised. Historically, most of the rivers in California’s Central Valley were navigable, but . . . never mind. We’re going to dock in Berkeley. A friend is loaning me a car.”

“And where exactly do these map coordinates point to?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look it up.”

“What? Why not? Can’t you just Google it and get a satellite picture? I found my own house and could see my barbecue grill.”

“Again, TJ, do you even live in the twenty-first century of law enforcement? You don’t think the CIA and the NSA are monitoring my Internet searches? Yours too? If you or I or anyone I work with enters latitude and longitude coordinates into a search engine, it will take the feds about two minutes to dispatch a team to check it out.”

“Yeah, I’m usually on the other side of the law, catching the idiots who make those mistakes. My partner, former partner, I guess, was pretty good at that stuff. OK, so no Internet searches, so how do you know it’s near Modesto?”

“A good old-fashioned paper map. I could only tell within a couple miles, but I know roughly how to get there.”

“So what, we just wander around knocking on farmhouse doors asking if anyone’s seen a terrorist?”

“We use GPS, TJ. Ever heard of it?”

“Oh. Right. And the car’s GPS isn’t connected to the Internet.”

“Right.”

“But we’ll still be going in blind. We’ll have no idea what’s there until we drive up to the place.”

“Just like the good old days, eh TJ? You should be right in your element.”

“In spite of your sarcastic barbs hinting that I’ve joined the Luddite movement, I actually know what the internet is and how to use it.”

Ahead, the dim outlines of the Berkeley Marina started to emerge from the fog.

“We’re almost ashore,” said Christine. “There’s one more thing.”

McCaig gave an exaggerated sigh. “Of course there is.”

“No, nothing bad. I want to take a slight detour. It’ll be really nice.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Have you ever been to the Lick Observatory on Mt. Hamilton?”

“That’s where that huge telescope is, up on the mountains southeast from San Jose, right? I remember you can see some white buildings up there on a clear day.”

“That’s the place. There’s a guy up there I want to talk to about eclipses.”

They docked in Berkeley and found the two-seater Mercedes convertible left by a friend—Christine wouldn’t say who—then made their way south to San Jose. They chatted a bit as they left Berkeley but soon fell silent, each absorbed in thought under the gray overcast that blanketed the Bay Area.

Once they left the freeway behind, the road started to climb and the scenery changed from urban sprawl to the sparsely situated mini “ranchos” of Silicon Valley’s high-tech executives. Past these, there was nothing on the mountain but waving golden grass and huge old California Oaks.

About halfway up the narrow, twisting road that climbed the shoulders of Mount Hamilton, they broke through the foggy layer of clouds into bright blue sunshine. Christine pulled into a tiny turnout and lowered the convertible’s roof. She pulled a bottle of sunblock from her purse and handed it to McCaig, then put the car into gear and continued their slow crawl up the winding mountain road.

Hawks circled in the bright, blue sky. Squirrels scampered across the narrow road at the sound of their approach. A huge black crow squawked and flapped into the air as they interrupted its meal of roadkill. McCaig spotted a rattlesnake warming itself on a rock in the early morning sun, probably eyeing the very same squirrels that had the interest of the circling hawks.

Below them, civilization was hidden by the flat layer of fog and clouds that had dampened their morning sail. From San Jose to San Francisco, and up the East Bay from Milpitas to Oakland and Berkeley, civilization was hidden. Only the brown, grassy mountains, dotted with oak trees, stuck up through the clouds. There was little sign of the seven million people who lived below. It probably looked just as it had a century or so ago, when the first engineers were surveying the mountain for a road to the proposed Lick Observatory.

The huge, brilliant-white domes of the observatory finally came into view. Christine parked the Mercedes.

Inside, a wiry, gray-haired old man manned the counter of the observatory’s visitor center. He was showing a brochure to a young couple and talking to them in an animated voice. His shoulders were stooped, but his movements were filled with energy. He seemed to have a perpetual twinkle in his eye, and gave the impression he’d just heard a good joke. McCaig had the strange thought that if you put a hundred pounds on this guy, he’d be Santa Claus.

The young couple thanked him and took their leave; the old man turned to McCaig and Christine. “Welcome to Lick Observa—Chrissy!”

“Hello, Uncle Carl!”

“My God, girl, is that really you?” He rushed out from behind the counter and the two embraced. “You’re all grown up! My goodness, Chrissy, I hardly recognize you!”

“And you look as good as ever, Uncle Carl!”

“Gosh, I haven’t seen you in, it must be ten or fifteen years!”

“Thirty years, Uncle Carl.”

“Oh, my.”

“They’ve got you manning the visitor’s desk now?”

“Oh, I enjoy it, and they let me use an office, too. Sometimes I even squeeze in some time on my old telescope. And who is this gentleman with you? You never were one for manners, Chrissy!”

“Carl, this is TJ McCaig. He and I are, uh, investigating a story. TJ, this is Carl Wirtanen. Uncle Carl’s an astronomer, retired now, but he spent his career up here on the mountain.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McCaig.” Carl shook McCaig’s hand with a surprisingly firm grip.

McCaig looked the old man up and down. The guy was ninety years old if he was a day, yet he had more vigor than most men half his age.

“Likewise, Dr. Wirtanen.”

“So you’re issuing PhDs, Mr. McCaig? Please, just call me Carl. I worked at this observatory for thirty-six years, but that ‘doctor’ stuff is for the professors. My job was to point the telescopes, take pictures, and count stars and galaxies.”

“Oh, don’t let him fool you,” said Christine. “His sky survey is still the gold standard for quality astronomy. He’s the best!”

“Well,” he replied with a smile, “it’s not hard to do things right. You just have to care and everything else follows.”

“So you’re her uncle?”

“Oh, just an honorary uncle, I suppose, but I’m honored that all the kids who grew up here on the mountain call me that.”

McCaig looked at Christine. “You grew up here? On Mount Hamilton?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

“People live up here?”

“Oh yes,” said Carl. “Fewer now, but we used to be a tiny little town with our own post office.”

“I was raised by an odd cocktail of hillbillies and scientists,” said Christine. “My brother and I went to a two-room schoolhouse with just ten other kids, hardly ever went to town, but got to hear Dad, Uncle Carl and all the other scientists talking about quasars, black holes, and arguing about whether Pluto is a planet, planetoid, or asteroid.”

“Wow, I never would have guessed,” said McCaig. “I just thought there were telescopes up here.”

Carl laughed. “We do have telescopes. So what brings you back to the mountain, Chrissy?”

“I’ve got an astronomy question, and you’re the best.”

“Oh, you can’t fool me, Chrissy. You’re a reporter now; I’ve kept an eye on you, and love your news reports. A resourceful woman doesn’t need to drive to the top of the mountain to ask an old man a question.”

“It’s . . . it’s something we want to keep confidential. For now.”

Carl raised a gray eyebrow. “All right then. Intrigue! I love it. But first, let’s take your friend here for a tour. I’ll get someone else to man the visitor desk.”

An hour later, Carl led them into his office. It was small and crowded, but neat.

“You’ll have to pardon the tight quarters. I’m just a volunteer now, and they were kind enough to give me this little office. Please, sit!” He gestured at two old steel folding chairs and then sat down behind a battered wooden desk.

“So, what brings you back to the mountain?”

“The lunar eclipse.”

“Ah! The lunar eclipse! Gorgeous, wasn’t it? You saw it? The experience of a lifetime! It rose over the mountains almost fully eclipsed, blood red with just a sliver of white. We had a perfect view from up here on the mountain. Gosh, there hasn’t been a beauty like that in California since, what was it, 1990? I’ll remember that eclipse until the day I die!”

McCaig stole a surreptitious glance at Christine and raised an eyebrow.

Carl continued, “You saw it, right? What did you think?”

McCaig started to reply, “Well, um . . .”

Christine interrupted. “Of course! Gosh, I’d never miss something like that. It was truly amazing!”

Carl smiled. “Indeed! Indeed! So, what’s so intriguing about a lunar eclipse?”

“We need to know who could see it? What part of the world?” asked Christine.

Carl chuckled. “Sure. That would be . . .” He walked over to a huge whiteboard on the wall that featured a map of the world. “Let’s see, I’d say most of the people in the world.”

“The whole world? How can that be? Isn’t the eclipse only visible from the night side?”

“I said most of the people. This eclipse was almost perfectly timed. From California all the way across to about the middle of Russia, everyone could see it. That’s all of the Americas, all of Europe and Africa, the Middle East, Pakistan, and about half of Russia. The only ones who missed it were Siberia, India, China, and rest of the Far East. Oh, and the Pacific Islanders, Aussies, and New Zealanders—they missed it too. So maybe four billion people could see it.”

“What would it look like to someone in, say, Iran?” asked McCaig.

“Everybody sees the same moon. There’s only one, you know.”

“Right, of course,” said McCaig.

Carl continued, “It would have been blood red at totality, very dark and very pretty.”

McCaig’s brow furrowed. “I thought this was a total lunar eclipse. I’m not much of a scientist, but doesn’t ‘total’ mean the moon was in the Earth’s shadow? As in, completely black?”

“A common misconception,” answered the old astronomer. “Yes, it was in the Earth’s shadow. But imagine you were on the moon looking back at the Earth with the sun behind it. What would you see?”

“Uh,” said McCaig, “I guess the light of the sun would kind of glow around the edges of the Earth.”

“Exactly! More specifically, you’d be seeing the sunset. And not just one sunset, but every sunset in the world, all at the same time. You know how the red light of sunset makes distant mountains glow even after the sun is below the horizon? It’s the same thing. That red sunset light passes through the Earth’s atmosphere and out again. Even though the moon is in the Earth’s shadow, that red sunset light still hits it, so the moon looks deep red.”

“Makes sense,” said McCaig.

Christine asked, “If someone in the Middle East, say Iran, said it was rising over a sand dune, would that make sense?”

Carl looked at the map. “Not from Iran. You said rising, not setting, right? Someone who saw it rising would be in . . .”

He turned to one of his computers, sat down, and started typing. “Let’s see, seventy-eight minutes in totality, started at twenty-seven degrees seventeen minutes west by twenty-one forty-five south at twenty-three forty GMT. Now, of course, you’ve got to take into account the change in azimuth for local geography, you know, mountains and such, and the observer’s stance in relation . . .”

“Uh, Carl?” McCaig interrupted. “I’m just a retired G-man.”

Carl looked up from his computer and glanced back and forth between them for a moment, then gave a chuckle. “Of course. I get carried away. Alright, then, let’s look at it a different way.” He walked over to the world-map whiteboard on the wall. “During a lunar eclipse, the sun and moon are exactly opposite one another, right?”

Christine answered, “Right!”

McCaig nodded his head.

“So that means that if you’re seeing the moonrise, you are also seeing the sunset. One goes down as the other comes up. And if your terrorist saw the moonrise—”

McCaig interrupted. “Who said anything about a terrorist?”

Carl looked nonplussed. “Oh, uh, sorry. If this, uh, fellow, uh, saw the moon rising in full eclipse, then he was somewhere here.” Carl used a marker to slash several lines from Edmonton and Calgary down through Montana, Idaho, Utah, Arizona, and then across Mexico into the Sea of Cortez.

“You mean he was in the United States?” asked McCaig. “Right here in America?”

“Or Canada or Mexico,” said Carl. “But yes, probably here in America.”

“That’s a pretty long line.”

“Right, well, astronomers are used to big distances. But you also said sand dunes, right?”

“Right. Rising over a sand dune.”

Carl turned back to the map.

“OK . . . . it could have been Bruneau dunes.” He drew a big circle around Bruneau Dunes in Idaho. “Or here.” He drew a squiggly line around southern Arizona.

McCaig cocked his head at the map. “Why not Nevada or Utah? Or Montana? Or Alberta? Even Mexico? Don’t they have dunes?”

“I know that one,” said Christine. “Mountains. He said it was before they boarded the planes, so he thought he was in Iran. The mountains in Idaho, Colorado, and New Mexico don’t look anything like Iran, and those dune fields are tiny compared to Iran’s. It wouldn’t fool an Iranian for a minute.”

McCaig glared at Christine. “If, as I noted a moment ago, our hypothetical someone happened to be Iranian. And who said anything about fooling him?”

“Right.”

Carl looked intrigued. “Fool him? This gets more and more interesting. In that case, there’s no doubt. Arizona.”

“Why Arizona?”

“Because that’s the only place on this line,” he said, waving at the map, “that has weather warm enough to fool someone from Iran, looks roughly like the ‘Dunes of the Jinn’ in Iran’s Great Salt Desert, and wouldn’t have snow-capped mountains in the distance. The eclipse was in January, after all.”

“January?” McCaig asked. “In America?”

“Without a doubt,” said Carl.

“Six months ago?”

“January twenty-third,” said Carl.

McCaig and Christine looked at each other for a long moment. She turned to Carl.

“Thank you very much, Uncle Carl. We have to go. It was really great to see you.”

“I don’t fucking care!” Patterson yelled into his phone. “Your excuses stink! So quit making them, OK?”

Erica Blackwell was fascinated by the physiological changes she saw in Patterson as his anger consumed him—a pulsing vein in his temple, a flush of red creeping up his face, tendons as tight as ropes standing out in his neck. She wondered idly whether his fury would blow out a vein in his brain one day and he’d fall dead of a hemorrhage.

“Find them! . . . I don’t care! Just fucking find them!” Patterson slammed his phone down and leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the desk.

“I take it that was bad news,” said Blackwell.

“I call up for a status report and they tell me they tracked that bitch Garrett’s phone down to her boat this morning and out for a sail, and she turned her phone off once she was on the water. OK, no big deal, lots of people turn off their phones. So what about McCaig? Oh yeah, they say, he turned his phone off around 5 AM this morning. Christ, are these people morons?”

“You think they’re in cahoots on something?”

“Of course they are! Isn’t it obvious? She somehow gets him a message to turn off his phone and meet her at the harbor. They slip away together. By the time we figured it out, they could have sailed anywhere in the whole fucking Frisco Bay!”

“Nobody calls it ‘Frisco,’ Jack.”

“I call it whatever the fuck I want!” he replied.

“So we lost track of them. They’ll turn up. What’s the big deal?”

“We didn’t lose them, they lost us. Deliberately. Think. Why would they do that? What, they both turned off their phones the same morning by coincidence? No fucking way. They got a message back from Zarrabian; I’m sure of it. He must have a TV; he saw their news conference and figured out what they meant.”

“Didn’t you put your spies on every phone and computer they had?”

“I don’t know how Zarrabian got a message past us, but he did. The three of them could be bobbing around the bay right now. One big happy family. She could be getting the interview of her life!”

“This isn’t good,” she said. “Have you talked to the senator about this?”

“Platte? He didn’t call me back.”

“We’ve got to get in front of this,” said Blackwell.

“What if Garrett interviews Zarrabian and figures out his story doesn’t add up?”

“As far as Zarrabian’s concerned, everything adds up.”

“But that FBI agent, what’s his name?”

“McCunt,” he replied.

“McCaig. Can’t you say two words without swearing?”

“Fuck off.”

“Right. TJ McCaig. He’s the wild card. We never counted on a terrorist who happened to somehow know an FBI agent, the same one who just happens to be lead investigator. What are the chances? And what does he know about Zarrabian that we don’t know? We’re blind when it comes to McCaig.”

“I fucking can’t believe this,” said Patterson. “All we had to do was capture one of these so-called terrorists. Just fucking one. The evidence would have led straight to Iran, straight to the Ayatollah assahola himself. We’d have the voters demanding that we invade. Even the candy-ass liberal anti-war hippies would have to think twice.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t. And Zarrabian even managed to escape.”

“He’s dead meat. We just have to find Garrett and McCaig, and we’ll get him.”

Platte burst in. “What’s so goddamned urgent that you interrupted my meeting with the president?”

“Fuck, do I have to go over it all again?” asked Patterson.

“You watch yourself, Jack. I’m sick of your attitude,” said Platte.

“I’ll fill you in later, Senator,” said Blackwell. “For now, the quick version is that the FBI agent and the reporter seem to have gotten together and slipped through our net. They’re off the radar. No phones. They sailed off on Garrett’s boat, and we can’t find them.”

“In other words,” said Platte, “they’re probably going to meet with Zarrabian. Could be with him right now, while we’re sitting here doing nothing. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, sir,” said Patterson. “Zarrabian must have heard their TV ‘payback’ announcement and somehow gotten a message to them that we didn’t intercept.”

“They were going to lead us straight to Zarrabian, and you lost them. Do I have that right?” said Platte.

“Yes, sir,” said Patterson.

“So now we have nothing. Worse than nothing,” said Platte. “That girl-wonder reporter is going to interview him, and his buddy the ex-Marine is going to help him out of some sort of twisted loyalty.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Patterson.

“And what are you doing about it?”

“How about this,” said Blackwell. “Put out ‘Wanted, Dead or Alive’ posters, or whatever we do these days. Exaggerate, use some deniable innuendo. We’ll get the public to help us. Garrett manipulated the news; we can too.”

Patterson looked at her with surprise. “That is a damned good idea.”