“Major, Mr. Chamberlain’s actions have more to do with your decisions than with what we found or suspect we found in Brazil,” Jefferson said. “Just stay in your quarters like I ordered. I’ll keep on top of things.” He held out his hand. “And give me that remote control thing for the CID units.” Jason reluctantly handed over the wrist remote control device for the CID unit. “Try doing it my way for a change, Richter.”
CHAPTER SIX
San Jose, California
Two days later
He had never seen security such as this. Upon checking in for his American Airlines flight from Mexico City to San Jose, airplane salesman and businessman Tom Estrada had to run his finger across a biometric scanner not once, not twice, but six times before he was allowed to board his flight, and his carry-on luggage was checked twice by hand. Security was everywhere—heavily armed, visible, and purposely intrusive. During the flight, no one was allowed to leave their seats without notifying a flight attendant first; no one could stand near the lavatories or galleys; and no one could get out of their seats within an hour prior to landing. Fortunately Estrada was a resident alien of the United States, because all non-resident aliens without visas had to surrender their passports toU.S. Customs upon arrival. Around the airport, security was tighter than he’d ever seen—they even had Avenger mobile antiaircraft vehicles and National Guard canine units patrolling the airport perimeter.
After retrieving his car from the parking garage, Estrada took the U.S. 101 North expressway to San Mateo and parked near the Third Avenue Sports Bar and Grill, a small but friendly neighborhood pub that had a surprisingly well-stocked wine list and free wireless Internet access. After ordering a glass of Silver Oak Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon and a small order of beef enchiladas and chatting with Grace, his waitress, who was also the daughter of his landlord, for several minutes, he opened up his Motion Computing Tablet PC and got online.
He checked e-mail first as always, and was worried to find a series of e-mails from a specific sender, one with only a scrambled alphanumeric name and domain. The messages from this sender were small digital photos. Estrada had wired his apartment in San Mateo with a security appliance that would take a digital photo of a room in which the appliance detected motion and automatically upload the photos to Estrada’s e-mail box. Several of the photos were of Grace herself—he had hired her to clean the place when he was gone and to turn lights on and off randomly to make the place look lived-in—and she and her family were absolutely trustworthy. But some of the photos were of unidentified men wearing suits and ties, searching the place—just hours ago!
“Hey, Grace, thanks for keeping an eye on my place for me,” Estrada said the next time Grace came over to check on him. He handed her an envelope with two hundred dollars in cash in it.
“Thanks, Tom,” the attractive young woman said. She hefted the envelope. “How much is in here? Feels like a little more than usual. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
“There’s a little extra in there for you. You’re on your way to college next week, right? Barnard?”
“Yep. But you didn’t have to do that, Tom. I was happy to help out. You’re kind of a neat-freak anyway—taking care of your place is a piece of cake.”
“Any problems while I was gone?”
“Nope.” She started to walk away. “Did you get the message your friend left on the door?”
Estrada’s ears buzzed with concern. “I haven’t been by the apartment yet.”
“A guy who said he used to work with you came by looking for you,” Grace said. “Left a note and his business card on the door.”
Estrada thought of the digital photos he’d just downloaded. “Small guy, bald, dresses nice but wears dark running shoes?”
“That’s him. Glad you know him. I was worried.”
“Worried? Why?”
“Well, he said he knew you, described you pretty well, and thought you lived in the area, but he didn’t know exactly where. I thought at first he was canvassing the area, you know, like the cops do on TV.”
Estrada fought to look completely unconcerned. The reason for that was simple, Estrada thought: his postal mail was delivered to the same Arroyo Court address as the other three families that lived there. That meant that whoever it was who had his address was looking for him. “Well, actually, I didn’t tell the guy my address when I met up with him a while back—I’m not sure I want to work with this guy again,” Estrada lied, “but I did describe our neighborhood, so I’m sure he tracked me down.”
“I pointed out your place to him. Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Don’t worry about it, Grace,” Estrada said.
“If he comes around again, what should I do? Should I give him your cell phone number?”
Estrada shrugged nonchalantly, but inside his mind was racing a million kilometers per hour. “He should have it,” he said casually, “but sure, if he wants it, go ahead and give it to him.” It didn’t matter—it would be shut down soon anyway. “Another glass of the Silver Oak Cab and I’ll be ready for the check, Grace.”
“Sure thing, Tom.”
When she left, Estrada pulled out his secure cell phone and sent an SMS message that said simply, “Problem with escrow.” He then packed up his gear, being careful to shut down his wireless network adapter so no eavesdroppers could interrogate or “ping” the idle system, and shut the computer down. He tried to look unhurried and relaxed when Grace came over with the wine and the check, but inwardly he was screaming at her to move faster. He downed the wine much faster than Silver Oak deserved, paid the check, left his usual tip, then departed, being sure to wave at the staff and the other regulars and, more important, not to rush.
Just like that, Colonel Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov knew that his days as Tomas “Tom” Estrada, helicopter salesman, were over.
He got into his Ford minivan, carefully pulled out into traffic, and drove ten minutes to the Bay Area Rapid Transit station nearest San Francisco International Airport. Before he left the van in a secluded area of the parking lot, he took his SIG Sauer P230 pistol from its hiding place in his seat and stuffed it into his belt. Executing a well-rehearsed escape plan, Zakharov took the BART train across San Francisco Bay to Oakland. Security patrols were everywhere on the BART stations and on the train, but the guards looked young, tired, and bored. He panicked a bit and started looking for a place to ditch his pistol when he saw the signs warning passengers of security inspection stations ahead, but the airport-like X-ray machines and metal detectors had not yet been installed.
He got off at the Harrison Street BART station in Oakland and walked five blocks to a small café on Madison Street across from Madison Park. The word “escrow” in the status message he sent was the clue to the rendezvous location. When Zakharov first mapped out this attack plan, there was a real estate company on Madison Street near this park, in the heart of the city. The park offered good concealment; it was a mostly Hispanic neighborhood, so he wouldn’t stand out too much; and there were lots of small, nondescript hotels nearby in case he had to linger. The real estate company was no longer there, replaced by an organic bean café, but it was still a good location. Zakharov found a park bench, kept the café in view, and waited. Two hours and four drunks who wanted to use the park bench to sleep on later, he saw a faded blue Jeep Grand Cherokee drive up to the spot with a magnetic sign on the driver’s door of that same real estate company, and he crossed the street and got in the front seat. A soldier that Zakharov recognized was in the backseat, a TEC-9 machine pistol in his hands but out of sight.