The favor that Walker asked of the Master Chief worked. The Air Force man, with his two NCO door gunners from the Huey, were dressed in their Airman Battle Uniforms, the Air Force equivalent of the Army’s BDUs, complete with their body armor and helmets, secondary weapons of holstered 9-millimeter Beretta pistols, and M4 assault rifles. They looked a mean, serious outfit.
They approached the two uniformed Palo Alto police officers who were standing sentry on the footpath by the stairs that led up to the front door of the four-story apartment block, and Walker watched from a block away as Doolan did as instructed.
“You really think this will work?” Monica asked, standing next to him and watching intently.
“Yes,” Walker said. And it did work. Doolan had instructed his two guys to stand sentry, with M4s at the ready across their chests in a defensive stance. They stood at the top of the stairs, by the wooden doors into the block, while Doolan spoke to the two cops and walked them up the street toward their cruiser, keeping in front of them so that the cops looked forward, toward him.
“Go,” Walker said to Monica, a hand on the small of her back to guide her in front of him. They crossed the street and made for the apartment building. He could see that Doolan was keeping the cops facing the opposite way, keeping their attention as he explained how this was becoming a military situation, at the very least buying some time for Walker and Monica to enter, look around and find the book, and bug out.
Up the stairs they ran between the two Airmen standing at attention, and then took the lift to the fourth floor.
“What if we can’t find the book?” Monica said.
“We’ll find the book.” Walker was confident, but this feeling faded as the old lift clanged and banged its way up the shaft and the door rattled open onto the fourth floor. The building was old and dank, and the light at the end of the hall, above Jasper’s apartment, 408, was flickering and blinking. There was police tape over the door. Walker tried the handle—it was locked. He gave it a shoulder and the wood splintered from the jamb and the door gave in and yawned open.
He reached in and flicked on the hall light. He went inside, Monica close behind him. The wall was painted light blue, maybe thirty years ago, and that paint covered several other layers. The floor was made from the same worn floorboards as the passageway outside. The apartment was dark. All the blinds were drawn, and the sun was almost set.
The first room, to their right, was a bathroom. It was empty—devoid of everything but the toilet and basin and shower over a bath. There were no towels, no toiletries, nothing. The next doorway was to their left and was a bedroom. It contained a mattress on the floor. No sheets, no pillows, no wardrobe, no side tables or lamp or books or clothes. Nothing but a small window, the blind drawn.
Next the hallway opened up into a kitchen and living area. The only furniture was a beanbag, a tall lamp and a small television on the floor. Nothing in the kitchen but a small bar refrigerator. The only thing suggesting any form of a home was the wall the door was set into, lined entirely with bookshelves, and on those bookshelves were not hundreds but thousands of books. Rows stacked neatly, standing up, spines out, and then above each were stacks of books in every possible nook of space.
Walker held the note containing the code in his hand. “Where do we start?”
Monica shook her head. “I have no idea.”
•
General Christie placed a call to her team. It was a secure satellite link, protected by the best cryptography that the NSA could create.
“Sit rep?”
“All good here,” her guy said. “I’ll have good news for you soon.”
“There’s just over four hours to deadline.”
“Will the President order the kill switch?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Better for us that he does, so make sure you get done what you need to get done. But the plan is playing out—that guy is headed there. Be ready for him.”
“Yes ma’am, you can count on us.”
There was a knock at General Christie’s door. Her secretary entered and said, “Visitor, ma’am.”
“I’m not to be—”
The door behind the secretary was pushed open and Bill McCorkell entered. “General Christie. We need to talk.”
“Continue with your mission,” General Christie said into the phone, then hung up and turned to McCorkell. “Okay, Bill, take a seat. I’ll give you exactly two minutes of my time.”