“What about the threat of additional attacks? I heard something on the news about a gunman in San Mateo.”
“False alarm,” Klingenberg replied. “Some poor bastard with a BB gun attempting suicide by cop. Truth is, our sources have been quiet. But then, they didn’t see the first attack coming either.”
“No one did,” he replied. “I assume you’re in San Francisco now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how long’s it been since you last slept?”
“I don’t know. Since before the bomb went off, I guess.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. Tell me, Klingenberg, do you have a room in town yet?”
“Uh, no?” In Klingenberg’s confusion, it came out more a question than a statement.
“Then I’ll have my girl book you one straightaway. I know some people swear by the Ritz-Carlton, but I’ve always been partial to the St. Regis. It’s where I stay whenever I’m in San Francisco.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate-and anyway, the gesture would be wasted; I’m too busy to have much use for a room.”
“Not anymore,” he said.
“Come again?”
“Didn’t your director tell you? Oh, never mind-how could he have? You were on hold for me when last we spoke.”
Klingenberg’s stomach went all fluttery. It felt like something more than hunger, exhaustion, and Red Bull. It felt like that moment on a roller coaster where the bottom drops out. “Didn’t tell me what?”
“Bellum will be taking command of the investigation from here on out.”
There it was. The reason for the call. Klingenberg was being benched-by a goddamn private contractor, of all things. “I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?”
“Of course not. Under the circumstances, your performance has been exemplary. But, thanks to Bellum’s efforts to secure Iraq’s northwest border, we’re well acquainted with this group and their methods, which affords us a tactical advantage you simply do not have.”
“Then read me in,” she said, her words hollow, reflexive, because she knew how he’d respond.
“Much as I’d like to, I’m afraid you don’t have the clearance. It’s nothing personal.”
“But-”
“Listen,” Wentworth said, “I understand how this must seem to you, but in the end you and I both want the same thing. Bellum just happens to be better suited to the task at hand. We’re nimbler. More knowledgeable. Less encumbered by red tape. And we have equipment at our disposal that, frankly, the government can’t afford. Obviously, your AD and the president agree-they’re pushing the proper authorization through Congress as we speak. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure they both know you did outstanding work. If you ask me, you deserve a break. Take a bath. Get some rest. Order up some room service, if you like, courtesy of your friends at Bellum. I’m sure your AD won’t mind; he and I are old friends.”
Klingenberg’s face burned with anger and shame, but she was too good an agent to let it show in her voice. “Thank you, Mr. Wentworth,” she choked out around the lump forming in her throat.
“Think nothing of it,” he said.
Wentworth hung up. Klingenberg sat in stunned silence for a long while. Then some sort of commotion at the pier’s guard booth caught her attention. An argument, it sounded like. She opened the car door and stood so she could see what was going on, but by the time she did, the argument was over, and the gate arm had been raised.
Sarah Klingenberg looked on in disbelief as thirty Bellum Humvees rolled, one by one, onto the pier-and she wondered how the hell they’d gotten here so fast.
23.
CAMERON DREW A steeling breath, and released it slowly. It came out shaky. She told herself that was okay-helpful, even.
She took out her Bluetooth earpiece and plucked a second burner phone from the center console. Using its browser, she Googled the number she was looking for and clicked the link to dial.
The phone rang twice; the call connected. “San Francisco tip line.” The syllables tumbled out with neither inflection nor the appropriate stresses, as though the woman who’d picked up had said them so often, they’d ceased to have any meaning.
Cameron couldn’t blame her. This number had been broadcast on every station, local and national, and printed in every story about the blast since Homeland Security had set it up late yesterday. She’d probably been dealing with cranks nonstop since she’d come on shift.
“I-I’m calling to report a crime,” Cameron said, her voice a sharp whisper.
“Ma’am, if you’re the victim or a witness of a crime in progress, you need to hang up and call 911.”
“You don’t understand,” Cameron hissed. “I’m on Baker Street in San Francisco between Greenwich and Lombard. A man outside just dropped a backpack in the street and ran away. He…he looked Muslim.”
Ugh. Just saying those words made Cameron feel dirty. She was preying on prejudice and the looming fear of follow-up attacks. But there was no denying, they had the intended effect.
“Please stay on the line, ma’am,” the operator said, urgency creeping into her tone. “I’d like to put you on the phone with my superior. But first, can you confirm your location for me?”
“Baker Street, San Francisco, between Greenwich and Lombard.”
“And what did this man look like?”
“He, uh, had a long dark beard and was wearing some kind of flowy off-white shirt, I think. Wait-something’s happening. He’s come back. It’s…it’s like he’s looking for something. Oh God, I think he sees me, please hurry!”
Cameron hung up the phone. Then she popped off its back cover and removed the battery. The SIM card too, which she snapped in half.
That done, she replaced her Bluetooth earpiece, raised her binoculars-one of the two pairs she’d purchased at Walmart yesterday-and watched the Homeland Security agents manning the perimeter of the old base. It was hard to make out fine details because her hands were so unsteady, shaking not from fear, but from adrenaline. Still, she saw enough to get the broad strokes.
Both were startled into action when their radios went off. They conferred a moment and then left their posts and sprinted toward Baker Street, one down Greenwich, the other down Lombard.
“You still there?” Cameron asked.
“Yeah,” Hendricks replied in her earpiece.
“They’re on the move.”
“Both of them?”
“Yeah.”
“You must’ve been convincing, then. Good job.”
“Thanks. I’ll admit, it was a hell of a rush,” she replied, grateful he wasn’t here to see her dopey grin or the flush in her cheeks.
“Don’t get used to it,” he admonished. “Okay, I’m going dark. Remember: get clear, and hole up somewhere quiet-”
“-with an open Wi-Fi network,” she finished, because they’d been over the plan a thousand times. “Got it.”
“Good. I’ll call you when I need you.” Hendricks disconnected.
Cameron smiled again and started the car.
As far as she was concerned, his next call couldn’t come soon enough.
Halfway up Greenwich, Hendricks ducked into the recessed entryway of an apartment building and patted his pockets as if looking for his keys. There was no need for the charade, it turned out-the Homeland Security agent who sprinted by didn’t so much as glance his way. Hendricks poked his head out of the entrance alcove and watched the man round the corner onto Baker Street. Then he headed west on Greenwich once more.
When he reached Lyon, he looked both ways and then crossed it at a trot, slowing as he reached the far sidewalk. Rather than heading north toward the Presidio’s Lombard Street gate, Hendricks went south. The gate was too visible for his taste, Lombard Street too well traveled. Plus, half the cops in San Francisco were, at present, within the Presidio’s walls. If they’d bit hard on Cameron’s diversion, Hendricks figured they’d most likely leave via that gate to check it out.