Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

My decision was “go.”

My hands were sweating on the wheel as I shot through the intersection and was flamed by a cacophony of horn blasts which called attention to us. I didn’t enjoy that at all.

Conklin said, “There he is.”

The white van was hemmed in by other vehicles traveling at something close to the speed limit. I kept it in our sights from a good distance behind the pack. And then, 10th merged into US 101 S toward San Jose.

The highway was a good, wide road, with enough traffic to insure that J. would never pick our Chevy out of the flow.

Conklin worked the radio communications, deftly switching channels between Chief Warren Jacobi and DHS Deputy Director Dean Reardon who was three time zones away. Dispatch kept us updated on the movements of other units in our task force who were now part of a staggered caravan weaving between lanes, taking turns at stepping on the gas then falling back.

We followed J.’s van under the sunny glare on 101 South and after twelve miles, instead of heading down the coast to San Jose and the Central Coast, he took the lane funneling traffic to SFO.

Conklin had Jacobi on the line.

“Chief, he’s heading toward SFO.”

Several voices crackled over the radio, but I kept visual contact with the man in the van that was moving steadily toward San Francisco International Airport.

That van was now the most frightening vehicle imaginable. GAR had sensitized all of us to worst case scenarios and a lot of explosives could be packed into a vehicle of that size. A terrorist wouldn’t have to get on a plane or even walk into an airline terminal. I could easily imagine J. crashing his vehicle through luggage check-in and ramming the plate glass windows before setting off a bomb.

Conklin had signed off with Jacobi and now said to me, “Lindsay, SFO Security has sent fire trucks and construction vehicles out to obstruct traffic on airport access roads in all directions.”

Good.

I stepped on the gas and flipped on the sirens. Behind us, others in our team did the same and I saw flashing lights getting onto the service road from the north.

Passenger cars pulled onto the verge to let us fly by and within seconds, we were passing J.’s van as we entered the International Departure lane.

Signs listing names of airlines appeared overhead. SFO’s parking garage rose up on our right. Off ramps and service roads circled and crossed underneath our roadway which was now an overpass. The outline of the international terminals grew closer and larger just up ahead.

Rich and I were leading a group of cars heading east to the airport when I saw cruisers heading away from the terminal right toward us.

It was a high-speed pincer movement.

J. saw what was happening and had only two choices. Keep going or stop. He wrenched his wheel hard to the right and the van skidded across to the far right lane where there was one last exit to the garage which a hundred yards farther on, had its own exit to S Link Road. The exit was open and unguarded.

I screamed to Conklin, “Hang on.”

I passed the white van on my right, gave the Chevy more gas and turned the wheel hard, blocking the exit. At the last possible moment, as I was bracing for a crash, J. jerked his wheel hard left and pulled around us.

By then the airport roadway was filled with law enforcement cruisers, their lights flashing, sirens blowing.

The van screeched to a halt.

Adrenaline had sent my heart rate into the red zone and sweat sheeted down my body.

My partner and I both asked if the other was okay as cop cars lined up both behind us and ahead of us forming an impenetrable vehicular wall.

A security cop with a megaphone addressed J.

“Get out of the vehicle. Hands up. Get out now, buddy. No one wants to hurt you.”

Would J. go ballistic?

I pictured the van going up in a fiery explosion forty feet from where I sat in an old sedan. I flashed on the image of my little girl when I saw her this morning; wearing yellow, beating her spoon on the table. Would I ever see her again?

Just then, the white van’s passenger door opened and J. jumped out. A voice amplified through a bullhorn boomed, “Don’t move. Hands in the air!”

J. ignored the warning.

He ran across the four lanes and reached the concrete guard rail. He looked out over the edge. He paused.

There was nothing between him and the voluptuous curve of South Link road but forty feet of air.

Shots were fired.

I saw J. jump.

Rich shouted at me, “Get down!”

We both ducked below the dash, linked our fingers over the backs of our necks as an explosion boomed, rocking our car, setting off the car alarm, blinding us with white light.

That sick bastard had detonated his bomb.

Chapter 3

IT WAS our wedding anniversary, also our first date night since Joe and I had separated six months ago. Joe had surprised me, calling me up as I was leaving work, saying “I reserved a window table. Say ‘yes,’ Lindsay. I’m parked right outside.”

I’d given in and now, we were at the Crested Cormorant, the hot new seafood restaurant on Pier Nine with a front row seat on the San Francisco Bay. Candles flickered on tables around us as a pink sunset colored the sky to the horizon, tinting the rippling water as the mist rolled in.

Joe was talking about his youngest brother.

“So, at age forty, Petie finally meets the love of his life at a fire department car wash.” He laughed. “Amanda was power washing his whitewalls, and, somehow, that jump-starts his heart.”

“You think her T-shirt got wet?”

Joe laughed again. I love his laugh.

He said, “Very possibly. We’re invited to their wedding in Cozumel next month. Think about it, okay?”

Looking into my husband’s eyes, I saw how much he wanted to bring us back to our wedding three years ago in a gazebo overlooking Half Moon Bay. We’d vowed in front of dear friends and family to love each other from that day forward.

It had been a promise I knew I could keep.

But I hadn’t been able to see around corners, not then. Now, in this romantic setting, Joe was hoping for magic to strike again. As for me, my innocence was gone.

I wished it weren’t so.

Our waiter set a Dungeness crab platter down in front of me. As I stared at a pair of claws, a metaphor jumped into my mind. I was on the horns of a dilemma.

Should I reach across the table, squeeze Joe’s hand and tell him to come home? Or was it time for us both to admit that our Humpty Dumpty marriage couldn’t be put back together again?

Joe lifted his wineglass and said “To happy days.”

Just then, there was a sharp sound—as if the world had cracked open, followed by the boom of rolling thunder and a bright flash on the neighboring pier.

I screamed, “Nooooo!”

I grabbed Joe’s arm and stared open-mouthed as I looked across to the water to Pier 15, the site of a science museum called the Exploratorium. It was a massive geometric glass and steel structure designed for human interaction with the past and especially the future. As I stared, the structure was unfolding like a bud bursting into bloom, right in front of my eyes. Metal panels flew toward us, a mushroom cloud formed over Pier Fifteen 15 and an overarching hail of glinting glass shards fell into the Bay.

Joe said, “Jesus. What the hell?” his expression perfectly mirroring the horror I felt. Another bomb.

The Exploratorium was open to the public seven days a week, but to adults only on Thursday nights. This was Thursday, wasn’t it? Yes. People were inside the museum.

Was this a GAR attack? Had to be.

Joe threw down a credit card, stabbed at his phone and called his job. Similarly, I called SFPD dispatch and reported what looked to be a mass casualty incident.