The pilot maneuvered their small boat into an empty space next to a ladder, then tied the boat down and gestured for everyone to disembark. They all climbed up and stepped onto the dock, then moved up a short ramp that led under an umbrella of trees onto the island itself. They continued along a small cement concourse past the old wooden fog signal building-which was little more than a large wooden shed with two pneumatic foghorns mounted on its roof-and moved toward the Victorian bed-and-breakfast on the far side of the island.
West Brother Island was visible just beyond this, a dry, elongated chunk of earth that was crowded with cormorants, gulls, and other bay birds sharing the bare, steep rock. Nesting pelicans had taken over the entire grassy area of the island. Just as with humans, the strongest birds had the best real estate. Off to their left, about one mile across the bay, was the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, its iron cross-work frame obscured by the fog.
“It’s beautiful here,” Sara said.
“Tell that to my ex-wife.”
She looked at him. “What?”
He shook his head. “Actually, forget I said that. It’s not worth talking about.”
Poking up from the center of the concourse was the large rounded surface of a cistern. Jack knew that there were no water lines out here and the island had been specially designed to collect rain. Water was so scarce, in fact, that the night he and Rachel visited, they hadn’t been allowed to shower before bed. Such a privilege was granted only to visitors on extended stays.
They moved past the cistern toward the main house, and the closer they got, the more reticent Jack began to feel. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but he suddenly felt as if something were off, his fight-or-flight instinct quietly kicking into gear.
He glanced at Wickham’s bodyguard, Mr. Laser Pointer, who was standing just to his right, then turned to Wickham himself as they approached the house.
“Senator, who exactly are we meeting with?” Jack asked.
“I already told you,” Wickham said. “People we can trust. Probably the only people we can trust.”
Then they passed under a set of white stairs that led to the second floor and moved onto the small porch fronting the first-floor entrance.
The interior of the house matched its exterior-old, quaint, with a Victorian-style flavor, all the way down to the furniture. The foyer walls were lined with framed black-and-white photos of the light station in years gone by, along with old photos of Richmond and San Francisco and the bay.
As they stepped inside, Jack could hear voices.
“It’s just past dinnertime,” Wickham said, “so they’re probably all in the dining room to your left. Let’s go in and make introductions.”
It sounded more like a command than a request, but Jack and Sara turned to their left, moving through a doorway into a narrow room dominated by a long white-clothed dining table.
Everyone stopped talking when they entered.
Seven men sat at the table, dirty dishes and drinks and ashtrays in front of them, cigars in hand, the sickly-sweet smell of their smoke hanging in the air. Jack recognized a few of the men immediately, all of them old-timers like Wickham-Senator Mitch Tomlinson, a Democrat from Maine; William Arland, a high-powered financial consultant and former chairman of the Federal Reserve; James Featherstone, an undersecretary at the British Home Office; and Clyde Parkinson, former assistant director of the FBI. The others were undoubtedly movers and shakers of the same caliber, but their faces weren’t familiar to Jack.
Except one.
At the far end of the table sat a man who always got his blood pumping. A man he had hated with such ferocity for the last two years that he felt like leaping across the table and strangling him. It was the man responsible for the smear campaign that had destroyed his career.
He spoke directly to Jack with a distinct Austrian accent. “Have a seat, why don’t you, Mr. Hatfield.”
It was billionaire Lawrence Soren.
33
“What the hell is this?” Jack said, turning to Wickham. “What’s going on?”
“I think you should do as he says. Sit.”
It was like a command to one of his dogs.
Sara looked completely deflated. Jack grabbed her arm and started to back from the table, but Wickham’s bodyguard got up behind them in the doorway and Jack felt the muzzle of a gun against his lower back.
This wasn’t good.
“You and your girlfriend are looking as shy as mail-order brides,” Wickham said with a smile. “Nothing to be afraid of here. We’re the good guys.”
“Is that why I’ve got a gun at my back?”
Now Lawrence Soren smiled. He was about seventy-six years old, with thin blond hair, a pasty-white complexion, and large bulbous blue eyes. Jack had always thought he looked like a former SS officer.
“We have to be cautious,” Soren said. “You’re an unpredictable sort. You’ve certainly proven that over the last several days-if not your entire career. So do be seated. Or, contrary to what the senator says, there will be something to fear.”
Another man stepped in through a doorway behind Soren. He was carrying a Glock 9mm.
Jack and Sara exchanged glances, but what choice did they have? They pulled out chairs and sat, Jack feeling his chest grow tight with tension.
“You need to relax,” Soren said, correctly reading his expression. “All this hatred you hold for me is not healthy. Perhaps if we took the time to discuss the world, we might find we have more in common than you think.”
“I doubt it,” Jack said.
“Oh?” Soren’s thick white brows went up. “Look around you. Here you have a room full of men from all ends of the political spectrum, yet we’ve managed to put aside our differences and come together for a common cause.”
“And what cause is that?”
“Restoring sanity to the world. Surely you can appreciate such a sentiment.”
“Depends on your definition of sanity. Yours no doubt has something to do with preserving the sanctity of your fascist agenda, along with your all-important pocketbook.”
Soren nodded in acquiescence. “There are always concerns about money, of course. We here are men of privilege who have no interest in losing what we’ve earned. Which is why we’ve learned, over the years, to back the winning horses.”
“Meaning what?”
Soren leaned back in his chair. “I think anyone who looks at the world today can clearly see that the Zionists are the cause for all the unrest in the Middle East.”
“ That big lie? You gotta be kidding me.”
“The policies of Israel and the United States are strangling Israel’s neighbors. And it’s obvious to anyone with any intelligence that the Jews rule the world by proxy. Right now, as we speak, preparations are being made to ship plutonium to the Jewish state, out of our very own ports. Here we are, helping the Israelis build their nuclear arsenal while we treat the countries around them, Muslim countries”-he made a point of glancing at Sara-“with complete disrespect, telling their leaders that they’re too unruly and immature to have such weapons of their own.”
“Israel is a democracy and our only ally-”
“And you talk of big lies?” Soren interrupted with a dismissive laugh. “But that discussion is for another time, assuming you have another time. What I’ve just told you is why we, a consortium of concerned citizens, have decided to back the underdog in this race. We’ve begun channeling money and resources into the Hand of Allah in the hope of putting an end to this Zionist stranglehold.”