FIVE
The Honorable Maureen Dunn stood between the US and state of California flags arranged on pedestaled staffs in front of the paneled wall of her San Francisco city hall office. Seated in a chair at her side, Arthur Petrie motioned Shepard, who was holding an ice bag against the back of Arthur’s head, to step out of frame.
The photographer, kneeling in front of Arthur and the mayor, motioned her closer to him, then he reached forward and smoothed the fabric of the black cloth sling that supported Arthur’s arm.
Hitting one’s funny bone was, strictly speaking, nerve damage, and one couldn’t be too careful.
The mayor looked down at Arthur, brow furrowed in concern, while Arthur stared up at her, tightening his lips as though his head ached more than it usually did at eight a.m.
The photographer’s flash flickered and the camera whined as he shot a cluster of photos. He reviewed the images by scrolling through them, then held a thumb up to the mayor.
The photographer and Shepard left the two politicians alone in her office.
The mayor lifted the morning’s San Francisco Chronicle off her desk with both hands and read the front page headline aloud. “Mission Accomplished! DHS Secretary Wounded on Front Line as ’Gate Bomber Siege Ends.” Unsmiling, she shook her head. “Well, you found yourself a pony in this manure pile, Art.”
The soon-to-be-confirmed DHS Secretary wrinkled his forehead at his old friend. Seven years before they had shared not only party affiliation and a business-to-politics career path, but side-by-side broom-closet freshman House of Representatives offices. “Why the long face, Mo? The manure’s not stuck on you. Six counties run that bridge.”
“There are nineteen directors on the board of the Golden Gate Bridge, Highway and Transportation District. Nine of ’em are from the city and county of San Francisco. I’m the only mayor in the six counties who gets to appoint a director. Did you read the subhead?” The mayor of San Francisco brandished the paper. “‘Local Preparedness Questioned.’ Local government can’t do very many things that outrage average voters, Art. Screwing with their commute is one of them. If this thing goes to more shit, don’t tell me where it won’t stick!”
Arthur shrugged out of the sling and raised his palms. “Okay! What do you want from me?”
“First, tell me why DHS is ‘confident’ this psycho acted alone. I want the truth and I want details. Not the crap you’re peddling the morning shows.”
Arthur shifted in his chair as he pulled the mental string in his neck and unleashed the knowledge that Shepard had briefed to him during the drive to city hall.
Arthur Petrie was not a stupid man. He learned quickly and perfectly anything that interested him. However, the only thing that interested him was himself. Fortunately, Shepard seemed to realize this, and his briefings transferred his knowledge to Arthur with an easily regurgitated clarity that made Petrie wonder how the man had been dumb enough to have gotten himself blown up.
Arthur said to Maureen Dunn, “Pretty good. Seriously.”
“Why?”
He corkscrewed his face. He had a jet to catch. “The DNA they collected from what was left of him in the house matches DNA on bomb fragments embedded in the bridge structure. He was an EOD tech, so he knew enough to build a bomb this fancy without help.”
“And he got it up under the bridge without help?”
“They found fragments of coveralls in the house debris that match the ones that one of the district’s maintenance contractors issues its workers. And pieces of melted nylon rope with those little metal climbing thingies attached.” Arthur shrugged. “Stealing laundry and an ID badge doesn’t take a conspiracy. The explosive was commercial blasting gelatin. It’s plastic, like military C-4, so it can be molded into a shaped charge. It’s waterproof, it’s cheap, and obviously it was powerful enough to do this job. Most importantly, because it’s commercial it’s easier to get.”
“ID badge or no badge, he couldn’t just carry a bomb onto the bridge.”
“No piece of the bomb as we reconstruct it was too big to be carried past any checkpoint inside a good-sized toolbox, then hidden. Then all of the pieces could have been reassembled. Some of the bridge employees remember his face. He appeared briefly in some surveillance video from the bridge, and he graduated from the army mountaineering school, so he could have emplaced the device. And he had night time access.”
“But the phone. Wasn’t that so somebody could call and alert him Colibri was on the way?”
Arthur shook his head. “The short answer is NSA says the cell phone towers around the bridge were turned on, but there were no calls or texts in or out on that phone during the relevant interval. And the only calls in or out on the phone since he bought it were routine stuff and to his therapist at the VA about appointments. And the suicide note.”
“Then how did he know when Colibri was coming?”
“The shortest drive between Colibri’s office downtown and his home in Marin County is across the Golden Gate. Colibri’s administrative assistant said he normally worked ’til ten thirty, seven nights a week like clockwork, climbed into his car parked in a secure garage, then drove himself home alone by randomly alternating routes. Except, of course, for the bridge, for which there was no practical secure alternative. When he got home, he pulled into another secure garage. His admin’s recollection matches the records of Colibri’s movements that night based on recordings from building cameras and the swipes of his company ID.
“The pre-race publicity warned that outbound bridge traffic would be squeezed into only the curb lane after ten p.m. Apparently one thing the army teaches morons like this guy is set your ambush where the terrain channelizes the target. And this target was a one-of-a-kind prototype car. So this guy didn’t need coconspirators. All he needed was patience and the ability to recognize a tangerine metallic orange electric car that looked like nothing else on the road.”
“Then why did he keep the phone on him?”
“He wanted to get noticed, but he didn’t want to get caught and imprisoned. I mean, if I was suicidal the last thing I’d want is to wind up alive and facing a lifetime of prison food and sex with men. The psych people say it’s all consistent with the vanilla suicide note he texted, and why he kept the phone with him.”
“He kept the phone with him to communicate with coconspirators. Or he and the conspirators used separate, burner phones. Most of the drug dealers in this city use burners every day. That’s what the talking heads will say it’s consistent with. That’s what every cabbie and bartender in San Francisco will say it’s consistent with.”
“Well, if they’re right it’s a murder conspiracy, not a terrorist conspiracy, Mo. There’s no ongoing threat to the public at large.”
The mayor dropped her jaw. “DHS is declaring victory and blowing town? That’s where I was afraid you were going.”
Arthur knew where he was going, but resisted the urge to glance at his watch.
A brief window had opened in the weather so his jet had been flown closer, to San Francisco International. The C-37B, now catered as lavishly as the Gulfstream executive jet it actually was, beckoned.
Arthur wanted to take his victory lap live and uncut on the evening network news shows from D.C. Because back there some Beltway-centric reporter would undoubtedly ask whether Petrie had considered the possibility that a stalemated convention might turn to him. And Arthur could say he was too busy keeping America safe to think about politics. To realize that springboard moment, Arthur had to wrap up with Maureen and get outta Dodge before the thunderstorms grounded him.
“Art, at the very least, we need wreckage and a body for closure. Otherwise I’m gonna be dealing with comparisons to Amelia Earhart and the Kennedy assassination for the next three election cycles.”
“You want a visible DHS presence?” Arthur stopped short of saying, “So there’s another place for any shit to stick?”
The mayor of San Francisco nodded. “Better for both of us.”
Arthur nodded back. More likely only better for Mo. But Arthur was late to his rendezvous with destiny already. And if this thing took a turn for the better, somehow, he wanted a piece of the cheese. What he needed in order to have it both ways was what everybody in Washington always kept in their back pockets. A visible minion loyal enough to fall on his sword, or expendable enough to be thrown on it, if things did turn back to shit.
Arthur said, “The guy who I came in here with? Shepard? How about he stays? He can stand behind you at the pressers as DHS liaison.”
Mayor Dunn snorted. “Your gofer with the mangled hand?”
“He’s smart enough. He looks strong and handsome. He’s a vet, so he follows orders and keeps his mouth shut. Christ, Mo. I’m offering him as a decoration, not a typist.”
The mayor crossed her arms, half nodded. “If he’s the most I’m gonna get. The most Manuel Colibri is gonna get.”
“Your heartfelt empathy for the world’s richest dead guy touches me.” Arthur snuck a glance at his watch, then at the mayor’s stony face. “Maureen, back in Washington we have real terrorism problems to deal with. The briefing tablet they hand me every morning would scare the crap out of you. Our real pros are chasing real terrorists. This really, truly isn’t DHS business.”
The mayor stared at him, silent and still disgruntled. As usual in politics, speaking the truth wasn’t worth the time it took to tell it. When the truth failed to set you free, a last resort was to argue that the problem just didn’t matter. Arthur said, “Besides, Colibri’s grieving widow’s not crying out for justice on the cable shows. The guy was a damn recluse.”
The mayor frowned. “Well, I had a personal phone call from one guy who does want justice.”
“So does Batman. Why’s this guy entitled to it?”
“Because he’s David Powell.”
Arthur whistled. Then he cocked his head. “Why does he care?”
“Don’t all you tycoons get nervous every time people see how easy it is to kill one of you?” The mayor finally smiled.
Arthur frowned. He had noticed that, for some reason, contemplating his death often evoked that reaction in people.
The mayor said, “But why does David Powell care about Colibri? David told me he and Colibri got friendly when David recruited him to join the Powell Charities Coalition’s Board last year. For as long as I’ve known him, David’s been introducing new money to philanthropy like AA has been introducing drunks to coffee.”
Arthur nodded. “Everybody knows how much David Powell gives to cancer research.” He waved a hand. “For all I know, he just eradicated toe fungus in Zimbabwe, too. What I don’t know is how much does your Batman give us?”
“Plenty. Piss off David and his PACs today, kiss off California next November.” The mayor raised her palm. “I’m one hundred percent serious about that, Art. I’ve seen the numbers.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Well, all right then. What does this fine citizen want for himself? And how much will it cost us?”
Maureen Dunn rolled her eyes to her office’s high ceiling. “What David wants from us isn’t really even for himself. But even so he says he’ll pay all the bills himself.”
“Mo, even I know that’s illegal.”
The mayor shook her head. “Not if I appoint a special investigator. I have discretion to bless independently funded blue ribbon inquiries.”
Arthur nodded. There was no better excuse for doing jack squat about a problem than saying you were waiting for a blue ribbon investigation to complete its work independent of government pressure that could compromise its integrity. “You’re telling me Powell is the last Boy Scout?”
The mayor shrugged. “Art, just because we’re ambitious, self-absorbed pricks doesn’t mean everybody else is.”
Arthur Petrie sighed. “At least we know his checks won’t bounce.”