Jane ceased to be able to read him. As if it were a moon within his skull, Simon’s mind had turned toward her its cold and cratered dark side, on which no light reflected.
He lay in tortured silence until she had nearly reached the back of the theater, and then he called to her as if her name were the same as a smutty word for vagina. He made an obscene promise of extreme and personal violence, but she was not moved because she had heard the same from others who, like him, were all talk and no performance.
3
When Booth Hendrickson disembarks from the Gulfstream V and sees the white Cadillac limousine awaiting him in the Southern California sun, the vehicle is both an affront and a warning.
In his estimation, a white limo is for weddings, proms, and bachelorette parties, for bar mitzvah boys to horse around in with their friends between the synagogue and the reception that follows.
People of accomplishment and serious purpose should be met by a black car with windows tinted even darker than the law allows—and in his case, always by a stretched black Mercedes. Simon’s contract with the Department of Justice requires that his stable include two Mercedes limousines for those of high rank who might have business between San Diego and Los Angeles.
Hendrickson is certain that Simon would never offend him like this. Therefore, the car is more than just transportation. It is a message to the effect that the morning will not unfold as expected.
Beside the prom wagon stands a chauffeur, not either of the two usually sent for him, both of whom are also unofficial muscle. This guy wears a black suit, as all Simon’s drivers are attired. However, he also wears a black two-peaked cap with a short shiny bill, though those who have driven Hendrickson previously wore no hat. He also sports a pair of wraparound sunglasses, which ordinarily a driver would not put on until behind the wheel, if at all.
The inescapable conclusion is that the hat is meant to conceal the driver’s hairline, which can be a helpful identifying factor if later one needs to look through mug books of suspects’ photographs. The sunglasses are part of his disguise as well, a simple way to conceal his eye color, to make it difficult to discern and remember the set of his eyes, the shape of his nose.
“Mr. Hendrickson?” the chauffeur inquires.
Resisting an urge to lament the car, Hendrickson says, “Yes.”
“My name is Charles. I hope you had a restful flight, sir.”
“Good weather all the way.”
Charles opens the rear door of the limo. “If you’ll wait in the comfort of the car, sir, I’ll get your luggage from the steward.”
“I have only two bags and a laptop. I’ve been sitting all the way across the continent. I’d rather stand a few minutes and enjoy the fresh air.”
“Yes, sir, of course,” Charles says, and proceeds to the jet, where the steward has appeared at the top of the portable stairs.
As far as the open door allows Hendrickson to see, no one waits for him in the passenger compartment of the limo. He warily surveys the tarmac surrounding the private-aircraft terminal—the parked planes, the variety of battery-powered service vehicles attending them, mechanics and luggage handlers and embarking passengers—seeking those who might be shanghaiers in league with the chauffeur, but he sees no one who appears particularly suspicious, because all of them look suspicious.
A few people notice him, which means they are not individuals of concern. Any operative who has him under surveillance will be at pains to avoid looking at him. No doubt he attracts their interest because he’s tall, handsome, with a stylish mane of salt-and-pepper hair, the very image of success, authority, and erudition.
Inevitably, he thinks back to the missing chardonnay and the inappropriate pinot grigio. Could it be that some drug was given to him in the wine? To what purpose? Perhaps it is some new delayed-effect sedative that requires five or six hours to work, that will drop him into a sudden, helpless sleep when he’s in the limo and at the mercy of the driver. Or perhaps the damn stuff lingers in the system an inordinately long time; so that when he unwittingly drinks another doctored beverage hours later, the two will combine in his blood to form both a sedative and a truth serum, compelling him to divulge all his secrets while in a drugged sleep.
That scenario might seem unlikely, even absurd, to a layman unfamiliar with the technological advances that have occurred in the fields of espionage and national security during the past decade. But Booth Hendrickson is well aware that, week by week, the unlikely is waxing into fact, and the impossible is waning into the probable.
He regrets not having bodyguards.
For three reasons, he doesn’t travel with security. First, in spite of all his power, his face is unknown to the general public. He doesn’t need to worry about being accosted by some deranged proponent of limited government or an earnest but disturbed advocate for the proposition that animals should be allowed to vote, or any of the other human debris that is becoming an ever larger part of the population. Second, the men on a security detail might testify in court about where Booth goes and with whom he speaks; a man in his position can’t risk constant witnesses. Third, he carries a gun, knows how to use it, and has confidence in his innate—if untested—talent for physical violence and derring-do.
Anyway, fretting about the pinot grigio is most likely a step too far into the paranoia zone. For all her cleverness, Jane Hawk can’t have breached the security around the Bureau’s jets, which are hangared in a location unknown to most agents. Besides, providing pinot grigio in place of the wanted chardonnay only calls attention to the substitution; if Hawk or anyone else meant to drug him, they would have used the chardonnay.
Unless…unless a difference in the acid-alkaline balance between the chardonnay and the pinot grigio makes the former an inappropriate medium for the drug.
The chauffeur and the Gulfstream steward together transfer the luggage from the jet to the trunk of the limousine, except for the laptop, which is given to Hendrickson at his request.
He watches the two men with an eye for any evidence that they have known each other prior to this encounter, for any small sign of familiarity that indicates collusion. He sees none, but that might mean only that they are well practiced in deceit.
This is a world of dissemblers and imposters, and Hendrickson’s mission particularly requires him to swim in a sea of duplicity and subterfuge. Paranoia isn’t only justifiable but essential if he is to survive. The trick is not to allow healthy paranoia to escalate into panic.
The steward wishes him well before departing, and the chauffeur steps to the open rear door of the limousine, intending to close it once Hendrickson has entered the vehicle.
“Charles,” Hendrickson says, “I’m sure you know the itinerary and schedule.”
“Yes, sir. First to Mr. Yegg’s house for lunch. Then to Pelican Hill Resort at three o’clock for check-in.”
He can conceive of no excuse to avoid boarding the limousine. And if it is in fact Jane Hawk at work here, he must go along with this to some extent and not fumble the opportunity to capture or kill her.
As he settles in the plushly upholstered seat, the door closes with a solid thunk.
4
Jane, in Simon Yegg’s study, at his desk, using his computer, entered the telecom company’s network by a back door.
Just then her disposable phone rang.
She picked it up from the desk. “Yes?”
She recognized Gilberto’s voice when he said, “He’s landed. I’m watching the plane be taxied onto the apron.”
“You have the remote?”
“It was in the cup holder where you said it would be.”
“Let’s make it happen.”