A Wild and Lonely Place (37 page)

“Won’t he be afraid you’re trying to trace him by keeping him on-line?”

“Communication by computer can’t be traced like a phone call, if that’s what you’re thinking. Posting on the boards creates
a paper trail; he left one, of course, but once we got our court order we found he’d been using a password belonging to a
woman in Tennessee who’d never heard of the Diplo-bomber and hadn’t logged on to the service in six months. Since then he’s
been using other borrowed passwords. Now that he’s moved to live discourse, he’s selected the perfect method of communicating
undetected; it doesn’t create any trail at all.” Parkhurst looked at his watch. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

He led me to the office Adah had occupied only ten days before: a small high-ceilinged room rendered claustrophobic by the
two women and seven men assembled there. They all looked tired and on edge; the air was thick with cigarette smoke, and Styrofoam
cups littered every surface except the desk. Craig Morland sat there, a Macintosh PowerBook in front of him. When Parkhurst
and I came in, he motioned for me to take the chair next to him.

The flashing numerals at the top of the Mac’s screen said 2:40
A.M.

As I sat down, Morland was scrolling through a menu: eco-freaks; lesbian forum; writer’s heaven; post divorce; over thirty;
badass males; feminist backlash; stressed out; looking 4 love—the list seemed endless.

“What’re those?” I asked.

“Conversation rooms.” Morland moved the cursor to an item near the bottom of the window.

DIPLO-BOMBER.

“That’s ours?”

“No. It’s just a public room; there’re eighteen people in there babbling about the case. I lurked, checked out what they’re
saying. None of their theories is as improbable as what’s really happening.”

“Explain this ‘room’ business, would you.”

“I take it you’re not familiar with the boards or live talk?”

“My computer’s strictly for business purposes, and I only use it when my assistant’s unavailable.”

“Then I’m glad I waited for you before setting this up.”

The words WELCOME TO LIVE DISCOURSE appeared on the screen. Below them were listed two options: PUBLIC ROOMS and PRIVATE ROOMS.

“Imagine a large house,” Morland said. “A mansion, actually. It contains hundreds of rooms, each devoted to a different topic
of conversation. Right now we’re only in the foyer.”

The other agents had been milling around and talking, but as he spoke they grew silent and crowded behind us.

“Most of the rooms in the house,” Morland went on, “are public. Any subscriber to the service can select and enter one, and
either converse or lurk—just listen. Anyone can also set up a private room dedicated to any topic he wants, simply by selecting
that option.” The cursor moved to it. “You name the room with a password of your own choosing, but the name doesn’t appear
on the menu. The only people who know it exists are those you give the password to. I’m now going to set one up, using the
name the bomber specified when he last posted on the boards.”

“Wait a minute—if he posted it, don’t all the people using the service know what it is? What’s to stop them—”

“Our guy’s too clever a bastard by far.” Morland smiled grimly. “He told us to use the last two words of his last note to
the Azadis. We’ve never made that public.” He began to type.

REMEMBER C.L.

I glanced at the top of the screen. 2:42
A.M.

“That’s all there is to it,” Morland added. “We’re now in the room and waiting for him to arrive.”

In my mind’s eye I visualized a shadowy room and Craig standing beside me, his features barely distinguishable in the gloom.
There was a door, open just enough to let in a thin stripe of light. Any moment now I’d hear footsteps—

I pulled myself back from the scene, gripped the desk with cold fingers. Was that what they meant when they talked about getting
lost in cyberspace?

Morland hadn’t noticed my absence. He said, “This particular service is a very fast one; it’s about as close to actual conversation
as you can get on-line. When our guy logs on and enters the room, he’ll type and send his first message. You’ll hear a chime,
and his words’ll appear on the screen. You’ll then tell me how to reply, and I’ll enter it word for word. If you don’t know
what to say, consult with Special Agent Parkhurst. Take your time; delays are normal.”

2:43.

In a low voice I said, “I just briefed Parkhurst on what I’ve been able to find out. I’m reasonably sure that the bomber is
Kahlil Lateef, the Azadi trade attaché.”

Morland looked sharply at me, then shook his head. “You
did
know something we didn’t. What’s Lateef’s motive?”

“It’s complicated and, frankly, I’m too nervous to go into it. What if I screw this up?”

“You’ll be fine. Just bring him along easy, let him enjoy his game.”

“And it
is
a game to him.”

He nodded. “I’ve got a theory about players like this guy. Something happens to them—a shock, a loss, or just an irresistible
impulse to go against the acceptable norm. So they start to alter their behavior a little at a time, moving farther and farther
away from society’s standards until they’re finally free of all the emotions the rest of us feel: guilt, pity, remorse, empathy,
even love. Eventually only one emotion remains: the fear of being caught out. You’ve lived with fear, I assume. So have I.
We both know what happens after a while.”

I thought back to the tremendous rush I’d felt while sitting in the sidewalk café in Marigot, before I’d pulled my trick on
Cam Connors and gotten Habiba off Jumbie Cay. Intoxicating stuff—effective if used wisely, dangerous if it got out of hand.
“Fear can become how you get your kicks.”

“Yeah. And tonight our guy is getting the biggest kick of all.”

I studied the staid-looking FBI man, surprised to find a kindred soul lived within his conservative facade. Adah could do
far worse; Craig, like Hy, understood and accepted the darkness that inhabited us all.

2:44.

The room was very quiet now. The flick of a cigarette lighter made me start; a cough set my heart to pounding. Tension connected
all of us like an intricate web of electrical current. I thought I imagined the hair on my arms bristling, looked down and
saw that it was.

Still 2:44.

Come on.

2:44.

Come
on
!

2:44…2:44…2:45.

The Mac’s chime was incongruously whimsical for such a prosaic piece of equipment. Words appeared on the screen.

GREETINGS, MS. MCCONE. YOU THINK YOU KNOW WHO I AM, DON’T YOU?

I stared at the message, as if somehow I could bring his face into focus.

“What do you want to say?” Morland prompted.

“…Say ‘You have me baffled. Why do you want to talk with me?’”

Morland typed and pressed the send key. The reply came quickly.

AS TO YOUR STATEMENT, YOU ARE LYING. AS TO YOUR QUESTION, I THOUGHT YOU WOULD ENJOY MATCHING WITS. DO YOU KNOW WHERE DAWUD
HAMID IS?

Right to the crux of the matter. “As of an hour ago, yes. I spoke with the man he’s staying with.”

AN HOUR AGO ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH. WHERE IS HE NOW?

I snapped my fingers, motioning for the phone. “Give me a minute and I’ll find out.”

Morland pushed the phone toward me before he entered my words. I punched in the number Mick had given me for his borrowed
cellular unit. When he answered, he sounded agitated.

“Thank God you called, Shar! Has he—”

“I need Hamid, Mick. Is he still at the bungalow?”

“No. Newton’s car was gone and the place was empty when I got here. But listen—I checked the office machine. Blanca Diaz called;
Hamid’s at her house.”

“What!”

“I guess Newton drove him to Ronquillo’s condo; he got there around two, drunk and raving about the bombing. Ronquillo wouldn’t
let him stay, so Leila asked Blanca to take him home to her place in the Mission. I’m on my way there now.”

“Okay, Mick, call Blanca and tell her not to let him out of her sight and not to turn him over to anybody but me. Get there
as fast as you can, so you can help her in case he tries to take off.”

“Will do.”

I broke the connection and said to Morland, “Tell him, ‘I’ve located Hamid.’”

JUST LIKE THAT? MY, MY. THEN YOU MAY BE ABLE TO HELP ME—AND YOUR FRIEND INSPECTOR JOSLYN.

“How?”

DON’T BE SO TERSE, MS. MCCONE. TRY TO ENJOY THIS. I AM.

“I’m very concerned for Adah Joslyn.”

YOUR FRIEND IS FINE, ALTHOUGH SHE COULD DO WITH A MORE PLEASANT DISPOSITION. I AM WILLING TO EXCHANGE HER FOR DAWUD HAMID.

I glanced at Parkhurst. He nodded.

“It’s a done deal,” I said. Quickly Morland entered and sent the words.

I LIKE A DECISIVE WOMAN. BUT WILL THE FEDS ALLOW YOU TO MAKE THE EXCHANGE?

“You have my word on it.”

I TRUST YOU, BUT I DO NOT TRUST THEM.

“They will make good on this.”

I DON’T SUPPOSE IT MATTERS.

Now what could that mean?

HOW SOON CAN YOU GET HOLD OF MR. HAMID?

“Within the hour.”

THEN I WILL RETURN TO THE ROOM AT FOUR O’CLOCK.

“I’ll be here.”

Morland said, “He’s logging off now.”

Parkhurst put his hand on my shoulder. “Well done,

Ms. McCone.” He sounded as though it pained him to

acknowledge it. “Now where’s Hamid?”

Blanca’s address was in my notebook. “I’ll take you there.”

“You’ll give me the location and we’ll—”

“No way.” I wanted to be there when they hauled Hamid downtown.

Morland interceded quickly. “Sir, what’s the charge for picking him up to be?”

“Material witness in a federal investigation. And you get that ambassador who arrived from D.C. a few hours ago— what’s his
name?”

“Jalil.”

“Get Jalil over here. Tell him…ask him to exert pressure on Hamid to play it our way.”

“Yessir.”

“And you, Ms. McCone—”

“Mr. Parkhurst,” I said, following Morland’s tactful lead, “you’re going to need me. As I was about to say before, there’s
no way the woman who’s sheltering Hamid will turn him over to anyone other than me.”

Parkhurst eyed me mistrustfully. “Why?”

“Because I’m Ricky Savage’s sister-in-law.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought he might deliver an ultimatum. Then he raised them to the ceiling and rolled
them dramatically. “If I don’t go along with you, it’s going to be more hassle than it’s worth. Come along, if you must.”
Sourly he added, “Whoever the hell Ricky Savage is.”

* * *

By the time we got back to task force headquarters with our sullen, booze-saturated material witness, Ambassador Jalil had
arrived. I could see a family resemblance to Malika Hamid in the portly diplomat’s facial features, but little of her intelligence
in his small eyes. Jalil proved to be crafty, though: when Dawud refused to cooperate, citing his immunity, the ambassador
exerted strong and swift influence to change his mind. He could, Jalil said, waive Dawud’s immunity, as was the prerogative
of the senior diplomat, but that would be too lenient. Instead he thought he’d repatriate him to Azad, where a tribunal of
Muslim judges would try him for the rape and murder of Chloe Love. Slyly he reminded Dawud that the penalty for those crimes
in their native country was death by stoning.

Hamid decided he’d stand a better chance against the Diplo-bomber.

At ten to four, as Morland and I were about to resume our positions in front of the Mac, one of the ATF agents rushed in and
handed Parkhurst a message slip. He scanned it, then announced, “Listen up, people. An anonymous tip was phoned in to the
SFPD an hour ago. Caller said the bomber was operating out of an apartment on Fillmore between Bay and North Point. He’s not
there anymore, but they got their warrant from the judge who’s standing by, and they’re going in to collect evidence.”

The reactions ranged from whistles and foot-stamping to grumbles about the police horning in on the task force’s investigation.

“Fillmore between Bay and North Point,” I said to Morland. “That’s right around the corner from Adah’s building. I’ll bet
she came across what Lateef was doing by coincidence, like her message to me said. Went investigating, and he grabbed her.
He’s superconfident—thought nothing of telling me he took daily walks to the Marina Green.”

Morland grimaced. “You mean daily walks to his private bomb factory.”

* * *

WHAT A COOPERATIVE WOMAN YOU ARE. OR ARE YOU LYING TO ME AGAIN?

Lateef had logged on at exactly four o’clock.

“No, I’m not lying. We have Hamid in custody.”

WHERE DID YOU FIND HIM?

What does it matter? “At the home of a woman named Blanca Diaz, in the Mission district.”

I AM SATISFIED. NOW HERE ARE YOUR INSTRUCTIONS. FOLLOW THEM TO THE LETTER. UNDERSTOOD?

“Yes, understood.”

TAKE HAMID IN YOUR LITTLE RED CAR TO THE MARINA GREEN AT TWENTY MINUTES AFTER FIVE. THERE IS A PARKING LOT AT THE EAST END
NEAR THE PAR COURSE. IT IS CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL SIX. DO YOU KNOW IT?

“The one by the Gashouse Cove boat slips?”

YES. DRIVE INTO THE LOT, TURN, AND PARK AT THE GATE FACING MARINA BOULEVARD. TELL THE TASK FORCE TO HAVE A HELICOPTER AND
AN UNARMED PILOT WAITING ON THE GREEN JUST BEYOND THE PAR COURSE.

I glanced up at Parkhurst. He nodded.

“It will be there.”

LEAVE HAMID IN THE CAR AND GO TO THE FIRST PHONE BOOTH BY THE BOAT SLIPS. I WILL CALL YOU AT EXACTLY FIVE-THIRTY.

“I’ve got it.”

There was a stir behind me, a rustling of paper. I ignored it.

THE POLICE ARE TO CORDON OFF THE AREA. THERE ARE TO BE NO CONCEALED SHARPSHOOTERS AND NO HEROICS ON ANYONE’s PART. I WILL
BE WATCHING THE AREA AND WILL KNOW IF A TRAP IS SET. IS THAT CLEAR?

“Yes, it’s clear.” Parkhurst had handed a message slip to Morland. He passed it to me before typing my reply.

The slip gave the address of the apartment on Fillmore and noted, “Bomb-making materials in kitchen. Press-on lettering and
stationery stock on desk. No other evidence except a photo of an unknown woman in a chef’s hat and apron with an Arab who
bears a strong resemblance to Richard Nixon.”