“Welcome back, Mr. Hatfield. Senator Wickham is looking forward to seeing you.”
Jack looked at Sara then glanced into the rear of the limo. “He’s not here?”
“He had another engagement,” the driver said. “You’ll be meeting him there.”
“Where?”
The driver smiled. “At the dog show.”
Jack had been to the Cow Palace many times in his life. Built on sixty acres of land in 1941 as a livestock pavilion, it was a San Francisco institution-although the only piece of it that actually stood on city land was a corner of the parking lot. The bulk of the property was in Daly City.
A large, indoor arena, the palace had been host over the years to the San Francisco Warriors, the San Jose Sharks, numerous rock concerts, wrestling events, two Republican national conventions, and a number of livestock exhibitions, including the Horse amp; Stock Show and the Grand National Rodeo.
Jack vividly remembered one trip here as a boy, when the palace was hosting an antiques exhibition. His father had known that a number of watch and clock collectors would be participating, and had brought Jack to show him some of their priceless wonders. They saw glass cases lined with watches from Rolex, Tudor, Lord Elgin, and Girard-Perrigaux, exhibit booths displaying grandfather clocks, Victorians, porcelains, cuckoo clocks, steeple clocks, and a variety of others, the rhythm of their ticking giving great comfort to young Jack.
It was a day he’d never forget.
The Cow Palace was an unimposing gray building from the outside, but once you set foot through the doors and moved past the concourse into the main arena, you were amazed by its size. A large oval, surrounded by high walls with satin curtains and gold and yellow seats, it boasted a capacity of up to sixteen thousand patrons, and often filled every single chair. Lights shone down from a maze of metal rafters overhead, reminding Jack of an alien craft hovering above the earth.
When they entered, Jack and Sara were guided by an usher toward a section near the arena floor. On the floor itself, men in blazers and women in conservative suits led dogs on leashes around a cordoned-off area, as the judges carefully eyeballed them, and the audience applauded. This was an all-breed conformation show, and there were a variety of purebreds in competition, including poodles, Irish wolfhounds, Boykin spaniels, German wirehaired pointers, Great Danes, mastiffs, Rottweilers-from large to small, fluffy to nearly hairless, all magnificent in their own way, the best of the best on display. An Irish wolfhound caught Jack’s attention-a breed he had always admired for its beauty and fearlessness. They were known to hunt wolves in packs. There were also Turkish sheepdogs, their gigantic, spiked iron antiwolf collars displayed beside them as they got to their feet. These Anatolian shepherd dogs hid among the sheep, giving an attacking wolf a huge surprise when they bit into their iron collars.
Jack had long been a dog lover, and seeing a gray poodle parade proudly across the floor made him instantly miss Eddie. But he knew the little guy was in good hands with Tony, and he’d be home soon enough to greet him.
He hoped, he prayed, it wasn’t to say good-bye. That was the thought that had haunted him from the moment they landed-that this city he loved, his home, would be harmed, possibly destroyed, by some lunatic with no regard for anything but his own, sick zealotry.
The usher led them to a pair of seats that were just a few yards from the arena floor. As they approached, Senator Harold Wickham rose from his chair and held out a hand. The men shook warmly. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Wickham’s bodyguard-an athletic, powerfully built guy in a dark suit-watching them closely.
“Good to see you, Jack,” Wickham said. “Even if it’s under such pressing circumstances.”
Jack was immediately comfortable in his presence. “Good to see you, too, Senator.”
Wickham was trim and well built, with thinning silvery hair that framed an angular, green-eyed face. He wore an expensive charcoal-gray suit, and carried himself with what could only be called Republican charm-warm, fatherly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes. The gentle Texas accent completed the picture.
Wickham’s gaze shifted to Sara in the way that most men seemed to look at her when she entered a room-with sudden great interest.
“I take it you’re Ms. Ghadah?”
Sara shook his hand and smiled. “Sara.”
“Well, Sara, it’s a great, great pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry you’ve found yourself caught up in this mess.”
“Completely by choice,” she said. She added quietly, “I want to stop these madmen as badly as you do.”
Wickham smiled. “That’s good to hear.” He gestured. “Have a seat. Both of you.”
Jack glanced at Wickham’s bodyguard, who didn’t seem to approve of either of them. In a way it was fitting. Jack just found out what it was like to be a Muslim under suspicion. Jack noted, curiously, that the bodyguard had what looked like a laser pointer clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket and wondered what it was for. Did he use it as some kind of defensive weapon? Jack certainly couldn’t imagine the guy giving PowerPoint presentations.
All of this vacated Jack’s mind as he and Sara sank into the two chairs next to Wickham. The senator was quiet for a moment, staring out at the show in progress, applauding as others applauded.
Then he said, “Such noble creatures, don’t you think?”
Jack nodded. “Definitely.”
“Look at that Newfoundland, for example. That thick black coat. The way he sits so straight and tall, waiting for his master’s command.”
“He’s beautiful,” Sara said.
“Did you know that a Newfoundland once saved Napoleon Bonaparte from drowning when he fell off a ship? Napoleon didn’t know how to swim, but Newfoundlands are notorious for their affinity with water. After the rescue, Napoleon himself is supposed to have said, ‘Here, gentlemen, a dog teaches us a lesson in humanity.’” Wickham chuckled. “Indeed.
“Loyalty,” Wickham went on, “that’s what it’s all about. You know the story about Greyfriars Bobby, don’t you, Jack?”
Jack nodded, but the senator pointed to a waiting group of Skye terriers and continued. “Greyfriars became famous in nineteenth-century Edinburgh after reportedly spending fourteen years guarding over the grave of his owner, John Gray. A year after this loyal little dog died himself, in 1873, a statue and fountain were built in the Scottish capital to remember him.”
“I know the story well,” Jack said with a nod. “From the 1961 Disney film about that angel with fur called Greyfriars Bobby. ”
Wickham smiled warmly. “Saw it as a boy. Made me what I am today. I don’t just mean the dog lover. I mean the concept of loyalty, dedication, no matter the inconvenience or cost. Without it, you’re nothing.”
Jack was enjoying the conversation, but had more pressing matters on his mind. “Senator, we need to talk about the Hand of Allah.”
Wickham quickly glanced around as if hoping no one had heard, a tiny bit of paranoia that seemed out of character. Then he leaned toward them, keeping his voice low. “Not to worry, son. Thanks to you and Ms. Ghadah here, we’ve got it all under control.”
“You found the guy from Allied?”
“We did indeed. It took some careful maneuvering with people I knew I could trust, but right now he’s in the middle of a sit-down with a contact of mine from Homeland Security.”
“Who is he?”
“A young Saudi kid who went to work for Allied about a year ago. We’re still checking whether or not he’s legal, but I’m guessing he isn’t. Which means our illustrious friend Mr. Soren may be in a bit of trouble-although I doubt he’d see much more than a fine. It isn’t likely he knew what was going on under his nose. Not many would.”