by Cuba (lit)
of the oldest cigar companies for beaucoup bucks.
Rear Admiral Jake Grafton was now an
assistant to some bigwig in the Pentagon,
Commander Toad Tarkington went with him as an aide,
and Toad's wife, the newly promoted Commander
Rita Moravia, was the exec-
utive officer of a fighter squadron. Hector
Sedano was doing an enviable job running Cuba, and
some fighter pilot nobody ever heard of named
Carlos Corrado had been promoted to general and
put in charge of the Cuban Air Force.
.life goes on.
Most of the seats on the bus to Boulder were occupied.
The sun coming through the windows and the motion of the bus were very
pleasant, and many people dozed. The seat beside
Carmellini was empty, so he relaxed
las
grip on the backpack and closed his eyes.
He was awake when the bus crossed Davidson
Mesa into Boulder, roaring down the turnpike at
seventy-five. He marveled at the upthrust
granite slabs of the Flatirons which formed a
spectacular backdrop behind the town.
As the bus cruised by the university on its way
downtown, Tommy Carmellini walked to the door
by the driver and waited. He got off at the next
stop and stood looking at the red stone buildings of the
university as the bus accelerated away in
a cloud of diesel exhaust.
He had a map in his hip pocket, but he had
studied it so much he didn't need to refer to it today.
He strolled along, readily recognized the
student union, and went from there.
The buildings were built all of. a pattern, and with
throngs of students coming and going, seemed to proclaim
the glory of man's quest for knowledge in the bright
November sunshine.
Carmellini glanced at his watch a time or two,
then strolled along with his hands in his pockets. He
found the building he wanted, opened the door, and
went in. He took the stairs up to the top
floor.
The hallway was lined with doors, lots of doors.
He walked along, examining them. Each door
bore the name of a faculty member, and most had a
small card advertising the faculty member's
office hours taped to the frosted glass.
He found the one he wanted, checked the hours. He
was early, by ten minutes.
He knocked.
No answer.
Should he wait here in the hallway, or ... perhaps the
library? The hallway was empty, but
someone could come along at any moment.
Of course the professor might not come at all.
Carmellini recalled his own college days: a
student could spend weeks trying to waylay a tenured
associate professor in his office.
Well, if this didn't work he would try something
else. Just what, he didn't know.
He decided on the library. He turned and started
down the hall. He had taken three or disfour
steps when disthe door opened behind him and a man in his
sixties stuck his head out.
"Did you knock?". "Yes."
"Got a watch? Can you read? Office hours
don't start for ten minutes."
"Yes, but"
"Oh, come on in."
Carmellini carefully closed the door behind him. The
office was tiny, merely a cubbyhole with a desk and
computer for the professor and one extra chair.
Bookshelves filled with books lined both side
walls. A shelf under the window behind the professor
was piled willy-nilly with papers, manuscripts,
files. The glass in the window didn't look as
if it had been cleaned in years.
"If this is about your thesis, we're going
to need more time than I have available today, so"
"You're Professor Svenson, right?"
"That's right."...The professor had seated himself behind his
desk. He looked up into Carmellini's face and
adjusted his glasses. His features twisted into a
frown.
"Your face doesn't... You're ...?"
"Your name is Olaf Svenson?"
"What do you want?"
Tommy Carmellini unzipped the backpack,
pulled out
the pistol with the silencer. He thumbed off the
safety.
A look of terror crossed Svenson's face.
"The government has no evidenceea"...he said. "They
decided not to prosecute. They"
Tommy Carmellini shot Olaf Svenson in the
center of the forehead from a distance of four feet.
Svenson collapsed in his chair, his head tilted
back.
Carmellini stepped around the desk, put the muzzle
of the silencer against the side of the professor's head
and pulled the trigger twice more. Two little pops.
He bent down, retrieved the spent cartridges that
had been ejected from the pistol, pocketed
them, then safetied the weapon and returned it to his
backpack.
He had touched only the doorknob. He
extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the
interior knob carefully, then pulled the door
open. He pushed the little button to lock the door,
then stepped into the hallway and pulled it shut. One
hard twist of the cotton handkerchief on the outside
knob, then he was walking away down the hallway and
no one could ever prove he had been there.
Surrounded by young adults strolling, laughing, and
visiting with each other on the sun-dappled grass,
Tommy Carmellini walked across the campus with his
head down, the backpack over his shoulder, thinking of
Cuba.
Visiting the former British province, Admiral
Jake Grafton becomes embroiled in a
volatile conspiracy that will threaten the fate of a
nation, the security of the free world, and the future of his
own family . . .
HONG KONG
By Stephen Coonts
After a series of political murders shakes
Hong Kong's establishment to its core, paranoid
government forces shut down a faltering
bank. Subsequent riots trigger brutal
military crackdowns, leaving China's position in
the coveted province anything but certain.
When shadowy conspirators abduct his wife,
Admiral Grafton must throw himself headlong into the
swirling intrigue that has engulfed the city. Only
by allying with Tommy Carmellinithe CIA
super-sleuth from CUBA-AND with a clandestine army of
Chinese patriots, can Grafton fight to the
shores of totalitarianism's last bastion . . .
and hope to ever again see the woman he loves.
HONG KONG
The explosive new thriller from Stephen
Coonts. Look for it in hardcover this September
from St. Martin's Press.
HK3/00
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