Two miles away Ben Cole parked his car in front of his favorite Mexican restaurant on Spenard and got out, locking the door as a black van he’d noticed before pulled into the same lot and parked several stalls down. He felt a small chill as he realized he’d seen the same vehicle in his rearview mirror since leaving the base.
The doors were still closed, the windows darkened.
Ben began walking toward the front door of the restaurant, his mind searching for another explanation. He stopped in the doorway and looked back, waiting to see movement around the van.
A young couple pushed through the doors to the street, almost knocking him down, the woman sidestepping in her high heels to miss him.
“Whoa! Sorry, fella,” she said. A small cloud of Giorgio’s Red wafted by, a fragrance he loved, but neither that nor the black leather pants she was wearing distracted him. Ben nodded absently as he caught the door and held it open, his eyes focused on nothing.
No one’s getting out. Why?
“You coming in, sir, or just practicing?” a woman asked from just inside.
“Sorry?”
“Welcome to La Mex, sir, where we actually have the ability to close the front door and keep the cold out.”
“Oh. Sorry,” Ben said, moving inside.
“Table for one?”
“Yes.”
“Right this way.”
He followed, forcing enough cognitive brainpower to the task of walking behind her without stumbling.
I was followed. Oh my God, that means I’m under surveillance. Could it be Dan Jerrod’s people? Or MacAdams’s? After all, I just came from MacAdams.
A memory of himself in the lab transmitting classified data over a non-secure cell phone flashed in his mind. Had they seen that, too?
An extremely deep male voice coming from one of the television monitors was echoing through the bar as he walked by.
… This… is CNN!
“Here you are, sir. Your waitress will be with you in a minute.”
“Thanks,” he replied, barely acknowledging her as he took the menu, ignoring the teaser for the Larry King show in the background, which faded to the voice of Aaron Brown in his New York studio.
“Would you like something from the bar first, sir?” the waitress asked. He looked up at her large brown eyes framed by short blonde hair, as she poised to write. He tried to smile but his face was frozen, and the thought of drinking anything suddenly became nauseating.
She stepped back as Ben got clumsily to his feet.
“I… ah, I’m sorry… I suddenly realized I’ve got to, you know, be somewhere.”
“You’re leaving, sir?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” He yanked a small wad of bills from his pants pocket and laid one on the table.
Ben made his way back to the parking lot and climbed in his car. The black van was still there, still unopened. Ben pulled Jerrod’s business card from his shirt pocket and punched in the cell phone number. He pressed the transmit button, then canceled the call, then pressed it again, only to cancel it once more before the number could ring. His mind was a whirl of horrific possibilities.
Gotta think straight, here, Ben lectured himself.
There was a gentle buzz from the phone and he jumped slightly before reading the screen to find a message waiting. He punched in the appropriate codes and Nelson’s voice coursed from the earpiece.
“Ben, I’ve been looking for you. You’re not at home, of course, and all I can do is leave one of the messages, which you know I hate. But here goes. I’m at Chilkoot’s again and wish you’d come down here and drink with me. You’ve been acting really strange lately. Call me. This is Nelson. Bye.”
Ben’s eyes shifted toward the big, rustic sign over the entrance to Chilkoot Charlie’s right across the street. He’d forgotten Chilkoot’s was located across from La Mex. The fact hung there like the hint of a distant image through fog.
Suddenly the reason for trying to call Dan Jerrod seemed obscure and silly, and yet compulsive. He needed the reassurance that he wasn’t in trouble, and that was the fastest way. Talk to the source.
He saw the doors of the bar across the street open and Nelson himself pushed through onto the sidewalk, looking around and stretching, his big smile flashing at no one in particular. Ben felt a flash of pleasurable recognition as he fought the urge to get out of the car and yell to him. It was far more comfortable to think of sharing a beer with the jovial Alaskan than to sit there worrying himself silly about his career and his freedom, and whether he was already in serious trouble. If he was being watched right there right then, going across the street to share a few drinks with his friend could raise alarm bells. After all, it was Nelson he’d said too much to in the boat, and that entire conversation could have been monitored from the shore.
Ben felt a wave of loneliness. Nelson was always so much fun to be around, his outlook on life always positive, his sense of humor ranging from rollicking to subtle.
But tonight wasn’t the right time.
He hunkered down behind the wheel and put the car in gear, turning away quickly into traffic with the odd sense that he was betraying a friend.
There was something else MacAdams had said that had been scratching at his mind and triggering alarm bells. A half mile from downtown, Ben pulled to the right lane and stopped long enough to reach into his briefcase and pull out a copy of The New York Times. The article he’d remembered seeing was on page one but below the fold, a small item quoting an unnamed source in the Transportation Department warning of a new threat to civil aviation from sophisticated terrorists trying to find ways of manipulating the largely unguarded electronic control systems on modern jetliners. There were references to engine control computers and autopilots and refusals by industry spokesmen to comment, the words sounding too familiar.
Ben placed the paper on the right seat and accelerated back into traffic, pulling off the main road several blocks away and parking at the curb to think. General MacAdams’s reassurance that the airline-related listings he’d found embedded in the renegade code were no longer a threat replayed. “You can cut out the worry now,” MacAdams had said. “The responsible parties are contained.”
What does “contained” mean? Ben asked himself, remembering as well that MacAdams had asked if Ben suspected even him. The two-star general’s words had seemed totally reassuring and even fatherly, and after all, how could a United States Air Force flag officer not be trusted?
MacAdams can’t be mixed up in anything. I can trust him.
But Dan Jerrod had told him specifically to discuss his findings and worries with no one at Uniwave and no one in the Air Force, and Jerrod had even mentioned the possibility of a mole. Surely that wouldn’t include MacAdams.
How do I know I can trust Jerrod? Ben asked himself, remembering that his survival of the final flight and the absence of any new sabotage argued well for Dan Jerrod’s veracity. Maybe MacAdams was right, but the way to find out, he concluded, was to ask Dan Jerrod himself.
He pulled Jerrod’s card from his pocket again and punched in the number, with no success. There were probably other numbers, Ben thought in frustration, and the guards at Uniwave would surely know how to reach him in an emergency.