A Knife Edge Read online

  “Stale?” I said, gesturing at the spread.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “And so are the doughnuts. What took you?”

  He wasn't expecting an excuse so I didn't offer one.

  At the nearest table a couple of tanned, gray-haired marine gunnery sergeants stared angrily at a third man, also a marine, who wore the insignia of the JAG corps—a lawyer. He was speaking to them in hushed tones, underlining the point he was making with hand movements. Whatever he was saying, it wasn't giving the two older men a whole lot of joy. I wanted to tell the sergeants my current favorite lawyer joke to cheer them up, but I could sense that they were well beyond being humored, so, to get things rolling, I said to Arlen, “Hey… a couple of lawyers are in a bank when a gang of robbers bursts in and begins taking the money from the tellers. Another gang member lines the customers up and starts stripping them of their wallets, cash, and jewelry. While this is happening, Lawyer One feels something being jammed into his hand by his associate, Lawyer Two. Lawyer Number One whispers to Lawyer Two, ‘What's this for?' To which Lawyer Number Two answers, ‘It's all that money I owe you.' “

  “They're not getting any better, are they?” said Arlen.

  “Seemed appropriate,” I said, gesturing at the JAG guy in a huddle with the marine sergeants.

  “Where do you want to start?” Arlen asked, but he already had his own thoughts on how to get things under way because he said, almost immediately, “Vin, I'm sorry things worked out the way they did between you and Anna.”

  I gave him what I hoped would pass for a smile and said, “So how'd you make out with Moreton Genetics?” After a moment's hesitation, Arlen reached down to a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a plain manila folder, placing it on the table. I made a bet with myself that a hidden surveillance camera had picked up that action and captured it on tape.

  “I think you should wait till you get out of here before you go through this,” Arlen advised. His eyes held not the slightest flicker of emotion. Sometimes nothing can say everything.

  “So,” I said, placing the folder on my lap. “How's everything across the river?”

  But something had distracted Arlen. The expression on his face had changed. In fact, he now had one. He was also looking past my shoulder. Somewhere close by, I heard a cup smash on the tiled floor. I was about to say, “Another happy customer when Arlen got to his feet. I glanced around and saw that several people were following suit. One of the Air Force lieutenants had her hand up against her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, and I realized that the entire cafeteria had fallen silent, like it was holding its breath. I'd experienced group shock like this only once before, one day in the month of September that was both a long time ago and just yesterday. I turned and saw all eyes focused on the television monitors scattered about the place. The channel was tuned to CNN. Then the cells and beepers began to ring, a chorus of two hundred assorted ringtones—Beethoven's Fifth, dogs barking, bells tolling, rock songs, rap, blues, applause, a door slamming, the growl of a NASCAR V8 revving up … My own cell was vibrating against my leg. On the television screen was a view being filmed from a network news chopper. The caption read, Live. Smoke, fire, and torrential rain made it difficult to see what was going on below the aircraft. The helo flew into relatively clear air revealing a familiar skyscraper with many of its upper-story windows smashed and its lower floors shrouded in smoke. The helo continued on past a building that had collapsed in on itself and was burning fiercely. A second title appeared on the screen.

  It read, San Francisco Attacked.

  NINE

  When I arrived in San Francisco, the air was still heavy with dust that stank of burnt concrete, scorched paper, and cooked sewage. The smell took me back to Baghdad and Afghanistan and Kosovo, the three war zones I've been unlucky enough to experience firsthand. The smell would hang around for some time—it was the type that sticks to the back of the nostrils and puts down roots. San Franciscans wouldn't forget that smell for years to come, nor would any town downwind.

  The Transamerica Pyramid building in downtown San Francisco was built to withstand significant earthquakes and so its structural integrity had not been compromised by the blast, despite numerous assertions by so-called experts on television that it would come down like a World Trade Center tower at any moment. Several other buildings in the immediate vicinity, in particular an upmarket apartment block, had fared far worse. That had been utterly consumed, along with the majority of its residents, by a gas explosion and subsequent fire. Broken glass had fallen away from buildings three blocks from the epicenters of the twin blasts, causing a frightful array of injuries.

  A command center had been established two blocks from America's newest ground zero, within the closest building to have kept its windows. The place was a nightmare of shouting people, sirens, phones, and heartbreak. Homeland Security had assumed control, unless you talked to the FBI, who begged to differ. The San Francisco Police Department maintained the crime scene and so believed it was the lead agency, except that the San Francisco Fire Department was concerned about secondary cave-ins and gas leaks, which meant you couldn't get near the Transamerica Pyramid building without their consent and escort. The National Guard was securing the wider area, telling everyone where they could and couldn't go. CIA was there, covering its butt in the event that the culprits turned out to be on its watch list. And, of course, there was little ol' me, representing the DoD's interests. The situation reminded me of the one about the various parts of the body arguing over which was more important, the head because it did all the thinking, the heart because it pumped all the blood, the stomach because it processed all the food, the legs because they provided the locomotion, and so on. The joke went that eventually all the contenders agreed on the most important part of the body being the asshole, which won the argument. It did so by refusing to do its thing and clamping up solid. Within a couple of days, the brain could no longer think, the stomach could no longer deal with food, the legs couldn't move, and the heart threatened to stop pumping altogether. I wondered which agency would turn out to be the asshole here, a question quickly answered when the representatives from my fellow crime-fighting agencies were introduced to the CIA's SAC—the special agent in charge.

  “Ah, Special Agent Cooper. So nice to see you again,” the man said with a smile as genuine as his fluorescent teeth.

  “You're a long way from Japan, Brady.”

  The smile never wavered. “I have always had a roving brief. And it's Bradley, Bradley Chalmers.”

  We shook on it. If I was not mistaken, he actually tried to roll my knuckles.

  “So, what's the DoD's interest here?” he asked.

  “Same as yours—to get in the way of the people doing the real work. How's the wife, by the way?”

  I could tell Chalmers wanted to move on, but he also didn't want to desert the field of battle. “She's well. I wasn't aware you'd met her.”

  “I hadn't. Your girlfriend Michelle told me all about her.”

  “Ms. Durban? Girlfriend? Administrative assistant, more like, and not a very good one. I'm in the process of having her transferred.”

  Yeah, I was right about the asshole question being resolved. Before I could punch him in the nose, Chalmers was evacuated to a separate briefing by a harried captain of the SFFD.

  The rest of us made our way to an area that had formerly housed a telemarketing operation. Rows of chairs faced a large whiteboard displaying unintelligible scribbles, plus a lectern displaying the crest of a well-known investment bank. A short, thickset man, dressed in a cheap suit, with a bald head so round and white it reminded me of the ball on a bottle of roll-on deodorant, made his way through the crowd and took up the position behind the lectern. His name was Captain Eugene Metzler. He was the lead detective from the SFPD heading up the crime-scene investigation. I'd already met Metzler briefly and I liked him—a tough, no-nonsense cop with the kind of halitosis that smacked of a serious garlic habit. Uniformed and plaincloth
es police flanked him. Metzler waved his arms over his head and said “Hello” a couple of times into the lectern's microphone in the hope of generating some quiet in the room. After a few unsuccessful attempts at this, he gave up. He nodded to a fellow cop, who brought his fingers to his lips and whistled loud enough to make me wince.

  “Hello, can I have your attention!” Metzler's voice boomed through the speakers into the sudden silence.

  He cleared his throat, then continued. “OK. So we got a lot of people here working for different masters, but last I heard we're all on the one payroll so we thought it appropriate to share with you our initial findings and thoughts. I don't need to remind you that everything said in this room must remain confidential, at least until further notice. We have a team liaising with the press so no one needs to talk to the media. I hope everyone's clear on that…” Metzler referred to a sheet of paper in his hand. “Working in conjunction with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, as well as the various departments within the SFPD, we can now confirm that a vehicle loaded with explosives—ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel, we think—parked out front of the Transamerica building, was the cause of the initial explosion.” He had the room's full attention.

  “Surveillance cameras picked up this vehicle in front of the building shortly before the explosion. I can confirm that it belonged to a courier company and that it had been stolen from a location in south central Los Angeles a week before the bombing.”

  There was a general nod from the audience. Progress.

  “We also believe that the secondary gas explosion was deliberate. It originated beneath the Four Winds apartment complex, in its basement parking lot, which accounts for the high levels of loss of life and damage at that location. Forensics has yet to conclude how the gas leak was engineered or how the explosion was touched off. They're telling us we should know within the next twenty-four hours.

  “All this would seem to indicate a highly organized, systematic attack, though no organization has so far claimed responsibility for the bombing. That is all we have at present. I don't have to remind you all that if you come across information important to this case, share it.

  “Another progress report will be given in ten hours' time at four this afternoon. That is all, thank you.”

  A firestorm of questions followed, which I didn't hang around for. Metzler had given up everything his team had found and, I noted on the issue of solid leads to go on with, that was a fat zero.

  I made my way to the office Metzler was using. I badged the guardsmen covering the door. “I have an appointment,” I said to the young sergeant. She looked at me like I was a ghost, then let me pass. I'd received that same look before. DoD investigators are mythical creatures, up there with yetis and unicorns. That uniqueness has its uses, one of them being the ability to open doors others found locked.

  Inside, I scoped Metzler's seconded office. Nice digs. According to the various Kodak moments scattered around, the usual occupant was a young guy who earned far too much money. His girlfriend—it could have been his wife—was too good looking. He drove a Dodge Viper, water-skied, went parachuting, and liked to go deep-sea fishing with his buddies. A vacation snap showing him standing beside a large shark caught my attention. The fish was hanging by its tail over some wharf down in the Florida Keys, with its guts spilling out its mouth. Maybe sharks had a case for revenge, after all.

  Metzler arrived ten minutes late, peeling his collar undone and loosening his tie as he made his way to the desk. The desk phone was ringing. He picked it up, his back to me. He listened for half a dozen seconds and then said, “Aw, shit, I don't know! You work it out!” before slamming down the receiver.

  He turned and gave a small jump when he finally saw me. “Christ, how did you get in?” he demanded.

  “Actually, the name's Cooper. Through the front door, and I can come back,” I replied.

  “No, sorry. It's all right. I remember. Special Agent Cooper, right? DoD?”

  I nodded, impressed by the guy's memory. He'd met at least a hundred new faces in the last couple of hours.

  He gestured at the phone. “We've got six hundred wounded—crush injuries, cuts, broken bones—and nowhere to take them. Not my problem.”

  Something about Metzler's manner told me he'd make it his problem. I'd heard about this guy. San Francisco was his town, and he cared about it.

  “So,” he said, “you want to tell me what the DoD's interest is in this event?”

  “We're concerned about one of the residents of the Four Winds apartment block.”

  “You and fifty thousand others.”

  I hoped all those thousands weren't interested in the same person I was.

  Metzler elaborated. “Seems everyone living there had a dozen relatives apiece.”

  “How many you got missing?”

  “Plenty. A lot of people are buried under a hundred thousand tons of rubble. Not many managed to get out of the Four Winds alive. It went up at nine A.M. Most everyone home at that time were mothers with small children under school age, old folk, retirees—slow movers.”

  Captain Metzler was obviously affected by the things he'd seen down at what was left of the Four Winds. His chin quivered and he had to take a moment. “Could have been worse,” he continued. “If it had been hit early in the morning, we'd have had double the casualties.”

  I nodded.

  “At last count, we had a hundred and sixty-five unaccounted for. But we were missing over two hundred and fifty yesterday, so we are finding people. You been down there?”

  I shook my head. I hadn't. I've seen enough destroyed buildings with people trapped inside to know what they looked like. “What about the Transamerica building?”

  “Superficial damage, and surprisingly few casualties. They had antiblast traffic barriers in place on the street, as well as bombproof glass on the lower floors installed recently as part of a general security upgrade.”

  “Who're you looking at? Any clues?” I asked. There were rumors and guesses. Media commentators suggested the usual suspects who get fingered every time a bomb goes off in the Western world.

  “Some seriously fucked-up nutcases. I'll let you know when we narrow it down further.”

  Something about this didn't feel right. Terrorist bombings were usually meticulously planned and executed so as to cause maximum damage to life and/or property. Sure, the Transamerica had taken a hit, but it was more of a jab than a knockout punch. A few doors down the road at the Four Winds, however, it was a different story. The place was completely destroyed, and intentionally, according to forensics and bomb squad people. If I didn't know better, I'd have said the bombing on the Transamerica was no more than a diversionary tactic and that the real target was the apartment building. Only, why would a terrorist organization light the blue touch paper under an apartment building? I glanced at Metzler. He was watching me think, or maybe he was listening to the cogs whirring. Whatever, I had the feeling he was holding out on me. “You want to tell me what you really think happened here?” I asked.

  Metzler's arms were so tightly wrapped around himself that he looked like he was wearing a straitjacket. He unfolded his arms, picked up a pencil, and drummed it on the edge of the table beside his leg. “OK, we have got a theory,” he said. “Actually, we're hoping it's more like a coincidence.” He continued drumming on the desk, but didn't speak. Whatever this coincidence was, it appeared to be causing him some anxiety. I gave him a little push. “Didn't someone out there,” I said, gesturing at the door, “say it was important to share?”

  He gave me a half smile. “First I want to know why the DoD is sniffing around—and who is this person you're interested in? Or perhaps I should say was—because if he or she was in the Four Winds, there won't be much left to have any interest in.”

  “A guy doing some work for us lived in that building. I was just following up,” I said.

  “What kind of guy? A bad guy?”

  “Jury's still out on that point.”
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  “Right about now I'm just lovin' this spirit of cooperation.”

  “Sorry. National security issues.” I'd given him nothing, which was basically all I was authorized to offer.

  The captain picked up another pencil from the desk and tapped out a beat with it. “I'd appreciate it if you'd keep a lid on what I'm about to tell you, at least until this afternoon when we're releasing it as a possible motive—unless something else comes up.”

  “Cross my heart,” I said.

  “OK…” Metzler fiddled with the pencil some more as if he hadn't convinced himself of the wisdom of letting me in on the latest. “We lost a team of good cops in the Four Winds. Eight men and women. We had a wise guy under observation there, in one of the Four Winds' serviced apartments. A big fish—the biggest. We'd turned him. He was supposed to be meeting a bunch of other wise guys for breakfast half an hour after the gas leak exploded.”

  One of the phones on the desk began to ring. Metzler ignored it.

  “You think his breakfast associates found out about it?”

  Metzler nodded. “There's that chance. The timing was impeccable.”

  “You're saying the real target was not the Transamerica?”

  “Yeah. It looks to us like the bomb in front of the Transamerica building was—is—a diversion. The perpetrators wanted us to think it was a terrorist job.”

  I felt hollow inside. So, nearly a thousand men, women, and children killed a couple of days before Christmas to keep a godfather from spilling the beans? “And keeping the wise guy bottled up in the safe house was your operation?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  That was tough. Along with everything else, Metzler had to be swimming in an ocean of guilt. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the photocopies of various documents, as well as a photo, and spread them on the desk. “This is the guy we're missing.”

  Metzler took a look. “Is that a bowl on his head?” he asked.

  It wasn't a great photo of Professor Sean Boyle, but then I didn't think the guy was particularly photogenic. “No,” I said.