Abuse of Power (38 page)

“You kiddin’ me?” Doc said. “Who do you think raised the Almighty?”

“So what’s the answer?” Jack asked impatiently.

Doc stopped picking his teeth, dropped the matchbook into his shirt pocket, and got to his feet.

“I started thinking about that little headquarters they appropriated in the bay,” he said. “Wickham told you they picked it because it was isolated.”

“Yeah. So?” Jack said.

“Plenty of places in the city are isolated, secure,
convenient,
” he said. “That thing’s a pain in the ass to get to, and there’s always the chance a Coast Guard patrol will stop you, especially with the President coming to town—”

“Cold son of a bitch, too,” Goldman observed.

“No,” Doc went on. “There had to be another reason they picked it.”

“
What
reason?” Max asked.

Doc replied, “Location, location, location.” He waited a moment to let that sink in. “I called a buddy at the National Reconnaissance Office. They’ve got a MATS—Maritime Anomalous Traffic Satellite—that flags divergence from normal patterns in the nation’s major waterways. Sort of like NORAD for shipping. All that stuff we’re supposedly
not
doing to protect our ports? We are.”

“Draw your enemy out by pretending not to be watching,” Jack said.

“Exactly,” Doc told him. “I had him look at the images from that region. He said there’s been very limited nighttime activity along the mainland coast near the island. The infrared images did not raise any alarms at the NRO because it failed to fit any standard danger profiles: it wasn’t adjacent to a populated center, only small vessels came and went, and it stopped.”

“Someone knew what they could get away with,” Jack suggested.

“Obviously,” Doc said. “But it got me poking around that region. And I remembered something. After the Japs struck Pearl Harbor, California was considered a prime target. Not only that, our armed forces relied heavily on munitions and other cargo being shipped out of the bay, so a lot of the existing bunkers along our coastline were fortified and several new facilities were built. Some of those newer bunkers were located under park land.”

“Lincoln Park?” Max asked.

Doc nodded. “Officially, nobody knows the exact locations. This was all very top secret. But years after the war was over, several of these installations were discovered and explored by thrill seekers, until the government went to considerable expense and trouble in the seventies to seal them all off once and for all.”

“I’m a San Francisco native,” Karras said. “So why don’t I know about this?”

“Because you aren’t supposed to. Nobody is. The military has been operating on the theory that they never know when these bunkers might be of use again, so they’ve kept a lid on their existence. After the tunnels were sealed off and the decades went by they became an urban legend.”

“Only this one turns out to be true,” Tony said.

Doc nodded. “A few years back, a small group of urban explorers discovered a way into the Lincoln Park bunker, purely by accident. Nature has a way of shifting the earth and one of them found a hole in the ground and got curious.”

“And they might not be the only ones who know about it,” Max said.

“You know how things travel on the Internet these days,” Tony said. “If some enterprising terrorist wanted to explore the situation, he might—for love or money—find someone willing to show him one of our city’s biggest secrets.”

“Hassan Haddad,” Jack said.

“And you’re sure there’s one of these underground bunkers in Lincoln Park?” Karras asked.

“Absolutely,” Doc told him. “And a section of it that leads straight to the Legion of Honor.”

“How do you know all this?” Max asked.

Doc grinned. “Because, my dear, I’ve seen it firsthand. I used to work in those tunnels.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“It was my first deployment, straight out of boot camp, about a year before they closed the whole operation down. That’s why I stayed here—fell in love with the city. I must’ve traveled the length of those bunkers a thousand times. And I can tell you, they aren’t just limited to Lincoln Park and the Legion of Honor.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“They run all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s like an express highway system down there, but without the traffic.”

“Okay, so we know of a possible way into the building,” Jack said.

“Not possible,” Doc told him. “Probable. The Legion of Honor was built back in nineteen twenty-four.” He gestured to Karass and pointed to the blueprint on-screen. “Show me the subbasement on that thing.”

Karass did as he was told and the blueprint came up on the screen. Doc pointed to it. “Back in my day, there was a way into the tunnels by an elevator located in this subbasement right about here. They sealed that off after the tunnels were closed but there was a special hatch built close by, in case the elevator wasn’t working.” He shifted his finger to point out the location of the hatch. “It’s a few years since I’ve been down in that basement, but the last time I saw that hatch it was secured by a simple chain and padlock.”

“Wouldn’t the Secret Service know about this?” Tony asked.

“No doubt they would and they’d have a man guarding it,” Doc said. “But if these savages have a friend on the inside, who’s to say he couldn’t neutralize the agent and open the hatch?”

“Jesus,” Max said. “Can’t we just call in a bomb scare?”

“With what proof?” Jack said. “They get a hundred of those a day, and they undoubtedly do routine sweeps.”

“So what’s the solution?” Karras asked.

Tony said, “A two-pronged attack. Doc has a friend he thinks can give him a pretty good idea where the exterior entry point to the bunkers is. I say we wait for cover of darkness then go and see what we find.”

“And what’s the second prong?” Jack asked.

“You and me,” Tony said, then reached into his pocket and took out the VIP invitation to the gala that Danny Pescatori had snagged for him. “Better break out your tuxedo, brother. We’re gonna be rubbing shoulders with the President tonight.”

36

Hassan Haddad sat at a corner table in the Bilal café, savoring some of the best meat and potato curry he’d had in months, when the man he was waiting for finally arrived.

It was well past the hour of their appointment, and Haddad had considered a number of times simply getting up and walking away. But as he waited, quietly sipping hot tea, the spicy smell of the curry kept wafting in from the kitchen and he knew he couldn’t leave this place until he’d at least sampled it.

He wasn’t disappointed.

This meeting had not been Haddad’s idea. He had been going about his business these last two days, making preparations as needed, procuring Chilikov’s device from the shipping yards, and selecting seven men out of a field of twenty who he thought would best serve Allah.

Many of Allah’s soldiers showed great confidence when a mission was proposed, but the moment it became a reality some found their confidence start to wane, and Haddad had to know who he could and could not rely on to carry out his orders. The last thing he needed was another Abdal al-Fida on his hands.

Haddad had interviewed each of the twenty, looking for any signs of regret or weakness or fear, and had relied on his instincts to choose the men he needed. All of his preparations had been made and his men were now in position, and everything was going as planned—until he received an unexpected phone call that morning on his pay-as-you-go cell phone.

Only one person knew its number.

“
Assalamu
alaikum,
my friend,” the familiar old voice said.

Imam Zuabi.

Haddad expressed surprise at the sound of his voice. Had something gone wrong? Was this a call to tell him to abort? Such a thought sickened Haddad after all he had gone through to make this moment a reality.

But his imam gave him assurances that all was well.

“I am merely calling to wish you the blessings of the Prophet, my friend. Allah is smiling on you every moment of every day. He knows that what you do to avenge us is not without sacrifice, and He thanks you for your efforts. As do I.”

“There is no need to thank me,” Haddad said. “I am His servant. I do as He asks without question.”

“Excellent, my friend. Excellent. Because there is someone I would like you to meet. Someone who has been helping us carry out Allah’s plan.”

Haddad frowned. “I do not understand. I have all the men I need. They are ready and committed to the cause.”

“Yet you have asked many times about our benefactors, no? The people who have helped us these last years, procuring for us the things we need. Helping us smooth the way.”

“Yes, of course,” Haddad said. “I’ve been curious, but—”

“Today that curiosity will be sated,” Zuabi informed him.

Haddad didn’t understand. “What are you asking of me, Faakhir?”

“That you go to the Bilal restaurant at one
P.M.
today and order tea. A man will be there shortly and present himself to you. He is your final key to gaining entry to the place you seek. It is important that you meet him so that you may form a bond of trust.”

Haddad knew it would be unwise to refuse this request, so he agreed—as Zuabi knew he would.

Haddad sat in the restaurant just long enough to get hungry as he waited for this man to arrive—a man he had known nothing about until the imam’s phone call. He was deeply disturbed by this turn of events.

He did not like surprises.

Twenty minutes into the hour, the bell over the door jangled and a tall, muscular-looking man with a crew cut and sunglasses entered the restaurant and walked without hesitation to Haddad’s table.

He gestured to the chair opposite Haddad. “May I?”

“By all means,” Haddad told him, recognizing a British accent, not unlike his own. The man looked very dangerous and Haddad did not know what to make of him. Was he not Muslim? And if not, how could he possibly have a role in what they were about to do?

But even more disturbing was the thought that Imam Zuabi would associate with someone like this. If this man worked for one of their benefactors, what did these benefactors want for the money they’d given to Zuabi? Whose agenda was Haddad being asked to carry out? That of Allah or some unseen entity?

The man pulled out a chair, sat, and removed his sunglasses. The eyes behind them were like ice. “Good afternoon, Mr. Haddad. I’ve heard many great things about you.”

“I wish I could say the same of you,” Haddad answered. “Shall I order you tea, Mr…?”

“Swain,” the man said. “Adam Swain.” He showed Haddad a set of credentials. “I’m with MI6.”

Haddad’s eyes widened but the man held up a hand to reassure him. “Take it easy, mate. We’re on the same side.”

It wasn’t for that reason Haddad was aghast. He knew that Imam Zuabi had been working with certain people within the British government to help—which is why Haddad had traveled here on a diplomatic visa—but he had no idea how deeply Zuabi’s network went.

Did the Hand of Allah truly have MI6 in their control? Or was it the other way around?

“I assume you have everything in order,” Swain said. “Your men will all be in place at the proper time?”

“Yes,” Haddad said, still trying to recover. “Yes, of course.”

“All right,” Swain told him. “The big man’s speech is scheduled to begin at twenty-one hundred hours and they’re usually pretty punctual about these things. Someone on the inside will slip away well before then, and the door to the kingdom will be open and waiting for you.”

Haddad considered this and nodded.

“I assume you know your way around those tunnels?” Swain asked.

“I have been through them personally,” Haddad said. “There will be no mistakes.”

“Good. That’s what we like to hear.”

We?
Haddad thought. Was he speaking of Zuabi or someone else entirely?

Haddad was becoming uneasy.

A waitress came over, asking Swain if he wanted something to eat, but he waved her away. Rather rudely, Haddad thought, as if she were somehow beneath him.

Not a promising sign, and not a good way to stay unnoticed.

“There’s just one last thing,” he said to Haddad. “A slight change in plans.”

Haddad’s discomfort grew. “Oh?”

“We’re going to need your full commitment on this mission.”

“Of course,” Haddad said. “As always.”

Swain shook his head. “I don’t think you understand. Your
full
commitment.”

It took Haddad a moment to realize what he was saying. The request was surprising to him, considering what a valuable soldier he had been over the years, but if this was Allah’s will, then he would give himself without question.

He did, however, have to wonder.

Why now?

Was it because of what happened in Sofia? Or what he’d done to Abdal al-Fida in London? Had the imam deduced that the fool’s death wasn’t a suicide and felt he had to punish Haddad for going against orders?

Haddad did not think Zuabi could be so small-minded, but the imam had been showing signs of weakness lately. His willingness to consort with infidel outsiders like Swain was ample proof of this.

But Haddad knew that whatever happened truly was Allah’s will. And if he was to die tonight to help bring about the fall of the infidel, then so be it. He would sacrifice himself a thousand times if he could.

He looked at Swain. “I give whatever Allah requires of me.”

“Good,” Swain said, then checked his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry. I have a plane to catch. But I’ve brought a gift for you.”

One of Haddad’s eyebrows went up. “What sort of gift?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Getting the message, Haddad pushed his plate aside then dropped some bills on the table and stood.

“Show me,” he said.

Swain grinned then got to his feet and gestured for Haddad to follow. A moment later they were outside and walking down the street. They turned together into a narrow alley where a van was parked.

Haddad wondered if he had been too quick to accept this man as an ally, yet he sensed no threat in Swain’s demeanor. He did not think this man was capable of subtlety. If he meant you harm, it would be telegraphed.