He didn’t understand it and knew he never would. Why did they keep sacrificing themselves for their Allah. He didn’t believe in god, any god. It was much simpler to live that way.
He returned to his computer, where he had been making sure there were no messages he needed to respond to. Suddenly the phone started flashing to announce an incoming call.
“I thought you might like to know,” a voice said without a greeting, “there’s a “be on the lookout” alarm out on your young jihadi.”
Walker recognized the voice of his cartel contact, the man who had arranged the drive-by attempt by MS-13 on the interfering attorney from Oregon.
“When was it issued?” he asked. “And by whom?”
“Our source within the San Francisco Police Department said it went out fifteen minutes ago. It’s for a 2012 Suzuki Hayabusa registered to a Saleem Canaan.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Why would we know? We work with Hezbollah from time to time, but we don’t keep track of their men. They attract too much attention.”
“Thank you for this courtesy,” Walker said. “It helps to make amends for your choice of MS-13 last week.”
He smiled to himself when he heard the man end the call without another word. He did appreciate the information, but it wasn’t time yet to let the cartel off the hook for the botched assassination and the money it had cost him to arrange it.
The man was right, though. Although Hezbollah was a well-trained and well-funded terrorist organization, with the recent publicity about them being more dangerous than al-Qaeda and setting up camp right across the border in Tijuana, they were attracting more attention than he liked.
Perhaps it was time to eliminate the last person who could tie him to the worm they had planted at EIS.
He took out his encrypted cell phone and called Saleem Canaan.
“Saleem,” he said, “there’s been a change of plans. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to dispose of Congressman Sanchez. It needs to be done right now. Tonight. Return here and take the body to his yacht at the San Francisco Yacht Club. Take it out into the bay and set it on fire. There’s a dingy you can use to get back to shore.”
“Why can’t one of your men do it?”
“I have them doing other things. I gave you the pleasure of killing him. Now I want you take care of getting rid of the evidence. I’ll expect you within the hour. He’s in the back of a van in my garage.”
Walker ended the call before Canaan had time to argue with him.
He took out a phone directory and looked up the number for the San Francisco Police Department. As soon as the dispatcher answered, he said, “I hear that you’re looking for someone on a motorcycle by the name of Saleem Canaan. You’ll find him later tonight at the slip of Congressman Sanchez at the San Francisco Yacht Club.”
Walker closed the burner phone he’d used. Let the police honor the promise the young jihadi had made not to be taken alive.
Chapter 63
Standing well out of the way, Drake and Strobel were watching the EIS rapid response team at work. Bradford’s four analysts were seated around a cluttered table with four open laptops on it, feverishly studying lines of code on the screens. Energy drinks and half-eaten slices of pizza lay abandoned as they focused on finding a hole in the worm that they could exploit.
“Bradford’s not sounding very hopeful,” Liz whispered to Drake.
“I know,” he whispered back. “And I can’t think of anything we can do to help.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m going to have to notify the Secretary and let him decide how to proceed. This is going to be a disaster, even if everyone knows it’s coming. The FAA can make sure the airports know they’ll lose power, but grounding all flights for who knows how long will ruin the airlines. Canceling Amtrak and every subway or light rail in the country will keep people from getting to work and even if they got there, they couldn’t work without electricity.” She shook her head. “I can’t even imagine the financial cost of a blackout.”
“And think about the loss of life,” he said. “Most people aren’t prepared to go without food and water for more than a couple of days, even if they’ve stocked up a little. We sneer at the so-called preppers, but we’ll all wish we’d followed their lead if we don’t prevent this.” He stepped away. “I’m going to get some coffee in the break room. You want something?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Drake left the work floor and walked down the hall to find the hot coffee Bradford had promised would be there if they didn’t want any of the abundant supply of Red Bull he provided for his employees. After filling his Styrofoam cup with real coffee, he sat down at one of the round tables to think. It was clear in his mind that someone had cleverly planned to attack the energy grid. Going after individual utilities, even if you used the Internet to launch a phishing expedition to gain access to them, would require a massive effort involving a host of hackers. China could pull that off, he knew, but why would they? It would be much easier to infect the software that was being provided to all the utilities on a government-sponsored grant by a company like EIS.
It wasn’t a question of why, he thought as he took another sip, not why all the jihadi groups around the world would love to cripple the Great Satan. It was a question of who. Who had the means and the opportunity to slip a plant into EIS and supply that person with a powerful variant of the Stuxnet worm? Whoever they were, he had to admit, they were proving to be a worthy adversary.
When he finished his coffee, he started back to find Strobel and ask her if DHS had made any progress with the interviews of government employees who had access to the Stuxnet worm. As he came to the door, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
“We just got an anonymous tip that your man will be at the San Francisco Yacht Club later tonight,” Detective Cabrillo said. “You know what he looks like. Wanna ride along?”
“You mean someone just called and said this is where he’ll be?” Drake couldn’t help sounding skeptical. “How did this someone even know we were looking for him?”
“You were a prosecutor,” Cabrillo answered. “You’ve worked with law enforcement. What do you think?”
“I think Mr. Anonymous has a source in your department. The question is why he wants us to catch Capelli.”
“His name isn’t Capelli. The bike’s registered to one Saleem Canaan from San Diego.”
“The name Saleem sounds Muslim,” Drake said. “Detective, this is getting more interesting by the minute. I’ll meet you at the yacht club. I’m driving a black Audi TTS. Flash the lights in the car you’re in a couple of times and I’ll join you.”
He found Strobel standing with her smart phone to her ear, listening and watching the rapid response team at the same time. She signaled for him to give her a minute. Then, when Bradford walked over, he told him about the anonymous tip that had been called in on Anthony Capelli, aka Saleem Canaan.
“So who the hell is this guy?” Bradford asked.
“We think he’s someone we’ve been hearing about in San Diego,” Strobel said as she joined them. “He was a student at UC San Diego and has a master’s in computer science. But the rumor on the street is that he’s Hezbollah operating out of Tijuana. His father is Lebanese, mother, Mexican, and he belonged to a radical mosque in San Diego that we’ve been watching.”
“And Hezbollah is Iran’s pawn,” Drake said, “so the intel about an Iranian attack on our power grid is true.”
“We don’t know that for sure yet,” she responded, “but it’s possible. One of the analysts at Fort Meade who worked on the Stuxnet project our investigators wanted to interview is missing. He could have stolen a copy of the worm. Or it could have been re-gifted, if you will, from Iran. We don’t know how big this is or who’s responsible, but we’re getting closer.”
“Maybe I can help
,” Drake told them. “Detective Cabrillo called while I was in the break room and asked me to join him on a stakeout for Canaan. Someone called in an anonymous tip that he would be at the San Francisco Yacht Club later tonight. I’m headed there now. If we catch him, we might find out who he’s been working for.”
“I’ll go with you,” Strobel said.
“No, Liz. You stay here and coordinate what Bill’s team is doing with your people in Washington. Cabrillo can handle it. I’m just going along to identify Canaan. If he shows up.”
Strobel put a hand on his forearm as he turned to go. “Be careful, Adam. If Canaan is Hezbollah, he’s dangerous.”
“So am I, when necessary.”
Chapter 64
Drake set the Audi’s GPS for the San Francisco Yacht Club and drove north from Hunter’s Point on El Camino Real through the city and onto the Golden Gate Bridge. The San Francisco Yacht Club, the oldest yacht club west of the Mississippi, was located across the Bay on Belvedere Cove near Tiburon. It was not far from Bill Bradford’s home on Corinthian Island, where he’d had dinner a little over a week ago.
A lot had happened in that week. Bradford’s young manager, Nick Kawasaki, had been murdered, and it now appeared he had been killed so that he could be replaced by Saleem Canaan, a Hezbollah terrorist, so he could plant one of the most destructive cyber weapons that had ever been developed.
Then he (Drake) had been standing next to the young Latina mother who had been gunned down in a drive-by shooting. That near miss still didn’t make any sense, and he had learned to be suspicious of coincidences. While he didn’t see a connection, he knew there probably was one.
And then there were those two dead solar CEO’s in Lake Tahoe, plus what he thought now was probably a phony suicide note that said they were responsible for the cyber attack on the power grid. If he hadn’t seen Canaan, or whatever his name turned out to be, racing away on his motorcycle, he might have believed the note.
But not now. Now there was too much happening that suggested this was bigger than just two rich boys who might have been trying to demonstrate that solar power was the future of America. What was going on now smacked of terrorism. And if Hezbollah was involved in any way, Drake was sure of it.
The thought of terrorist involvement made him acutely aware that he was unarmed and headed for a possible encounter with a terrorist. California’s strict gun laws and its refusal to honor Oregon’s concealed carry permit meant that he had traveled to San Francisco without a weapon. He was trained in unarmed combat, but it was always nice to have a little firepower when the opposition favored AK-47’s and Uzis.
At least, he knew, the police would be armed. He’d just have to make sure he stayed out of their line of fire if the situation went from green to red.
Past Marin City, Drake turned onto Tiburon Boulevard and drove south to Belvedere Cove. The GPS screen showed the yacht club on the east side of the Tiburon peninsula on Beach Road. He drove slowly as he approached the yacht club. The clubhouse was well-lit, but the parking lot near it was empty. Beyond the clubhouse a long parking lot ran to the south along the club’s docks. There were a dozen or more cars scattered down the length of the lot, but he didn’t see anyone in any of them, or anyone standing around, either. There were lights on a few of the yachts, but most of the berths had unoccupied sailboats with rigging gently slapping against their masts.
He pulled into a parking space near the north end of the lot and turned off the Audi’s lights. The designated parking spaces ran down the center of the long lot and adjacent to the three docks marked Dock 100, Dock 200, and Dock 300. Halfway down on the west side of the lot, a single black Chevy Tahoe was parked next to a row of palm trees that were silhouetted against the lights of San Francisco across the Bay. When its headlights flashed once, Drake started the Audi again and drove slowly toward it. He pulled behind the Tahoe, stopped the Audi, and quietly got out and joined Detective Cabrillo.
“Evening, Counselor. Glad you could join us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Cabrillo gave him a narrow smile. “Our tipster said Canaan would be at Congressman Sanchez’s yacht sometime later tonight. Sanchez’s yacht is near the end of Dock 200 on the south side. There’s another pair of night vision binoculars in the back seat, if you want them. I have six men at locations around Dock 200. Four in unmarked cars and two out of sight on the other two docks. I have another four men in unmarked patrol cars out on Beach Road for backup. So far, there’s been no sign of Canaan or his motorcycle.”
“What’s the connection with the congressman?” Drake asked as he reached over the seat to pick up the night vision binoculars. He saw there were two sets of night vision goggles on the seat, too.
“As far as I know,” Cabrillo was saying, “his yacht is just some place Canaan will be. My guess is our good congressman is involved somehow. We haven’t been able to pin anything on Sanchez, but we’ve sure tried. He was a union organizer for our farm workers before he got into state politics. He still has strong ties to the workers that we think extends to the Mexican cartels as well.”
“Any reason to believe he would get in bed with terrorists?”
“Take a look at his yacht. Before he got into politics, he was just another union organizer. Now he’s one of our wealthier citizens. I think he’d get in bed with just about anyone if the price was right.”
“And I thought I was the cynical one.”
“Don’t get me started, Counselor. I’ve had to work with and around enough dirty politicians to last a lifetime. Sanchez is just the latest.” Cabrillo raised his binoculars to watch a dark-colored Ford commercial van enter the north end of the parking lot.
Drake also focused his binoculars on the van and watched the familiar night-vision green scene develop a hundred yards away. The van pulled into a space half-way between Dock 200 and Dock 300. The interior lights in the van went on for a second when the driver’s door opened, but when the driver got out he walked north toward Dock 200. He was facing away from Cabrillo’s Tahoe, so all Drake could see was the back of a short, slender man wearing a dark hoodie and carrying what appeared to be a small mechanic’s tool box.
“Could that be Canaan?” Cabrillo asked.
“He’s the right size,” Drake said, “but I can’t see enough of him to tell. Looks like he might be here to work on someone’s boat.”
“Let’s see if it’s Congressman Sanchez’s boat.”
The man walked to Dock 200 and stopped for a moment at the security gate. He seemed to have trouble finding the right key, but then he opened the gate and started down the long dock.
“Stay alert, everyone,” Cabrillo said into the speaker of the tactical bone conduction headset he was using. “Wait for my command to move in. Let’s see if he goes to the Congressman’s yacht.”
The man took his time walking down the dock, stopping to check the slip numbers of several large yachts. When he neared the end of the dock, he stepped to his right and prepared to board a yacht two slips away from Congressman Sanchez’s yacht.
“Not our guy,” Cabrillo told his team. “Looks like we’re here for a little longer.”
Drake glanced at his watch and saw that it was ten-thirty. “When was Canaan supposed to be here?”
“The tip was that he would be here sometime later tonight. Relax. The night is young.”
Chapter 65
But Drake couldn’t relax. There was something about the mechanic that just wasn’t right, and when he focused his night vision binoculars on the yacht the man had boarded, he didn’t see him. There were no lights showing anywhere on the yacht.
“Cabrillo, can any of your men see where that mechanic is?”
“Do we have eyes on that mechanic,” Cabrillo asked his men.
Drake heard a small outboard motor start somewhere near the end of Dock 200. He swung his binoculars in that
direction and saw a small dinghy pull away from the rear of the congressman’s yacht and move along the breakwater that protected the marina.
The man sitting in the dinghy with his hand on the tiller handle of a small outboard motor was wearing a dark hoodie.
“That’s gotta be him,” Drake said. “The guy in the dinghy. He’s heading out into the bay. He must have jumped onto the congressman’s yacht when we weren’t looking. He’s gonna get away unless you do something.”
“The only thing we could do is shoot him,” Cabrillo said, “and I can’t do that. It will take too long to get a chopper here to follow him. I’m sorry.”
Drake opened his door and started to get out. “Have your men keep an eye on him for as long as you can. I know where there’s a boat nearby I can use and that dinghy can’t be that fast. Lend me a pair of those night vision goggles and call me on my cell phone and tell me where he’s headed.”
“Here,” Cabrillo said as he reached down and took his backup gun out of its ankle holster. “Take my Glock in case you catch him. Ten rounds in the mag.”
Drake reached for the gun, then jumped into the Audi and tore out of the parking lot. Bill Bradford’s place was on the other side of Belvedere Cove. He had seen a Zodiac Bayrunner tied up next to the racing yacht when he’d been there for dinner.
Racing along Beach Road, he slapped his smart phone in the mount on the center console and hit the speed dial for Bradford’s number.
Dark Trojan (The Adam Drake series Book 3) Page 19
