by Kirk Russell
“But it’s not like the best days,” Jace said. “It’s not sitting legs hanging out of a helicopter bay flying somewhere to kick some ass.”
“Right, he can’t have that feeling again. But he’s still living on the edge and making great money doing it. It’s a temporary partnership and he knows it, so he’s trying every trick in the book to monitor Corti. It’s risky with the FBI close by, and then there’s Croft. Farue gave up the church of Croft but Corti didn’t, so Corti may be relaying back home that Farue is helping. If Farue is helping Corti, then maybe Croft can overlook the way Farue left the Brigade.”
“That’s buying into ‘you can never quit.’”
“I guess it is,” I said. “I’m going to jump to Montana. Have you talked with Farue about his cabin there?”
“He brings it up,” she said. “It’s where he wants to finish his days.”
“He told me something like that too. Let’s say we find Corti, he surrenders, and we tell him how much his buddy Gary Farue has helped us so we can work them against each other. Word of Farue’s betrayal gets back to Croft. Corti, after learning Farue betrayed him, takes revenge and implicates him in the cell-tower shootings, which are now deemed terror-related crimes. I’m saying, Corti says to us, this is how Farue helped me. At that point it’s all over for Farue. No more consulting business, no Montana retirement cabin, nothing but a long prison sentence. That’s got to keep Farue up at night.”
“And he knows we’re looking at him.”
I nodded. He does know. “So we’re back to where we started with him,” I said. “Why would he play both sides?”
Jace was quiet then said, “I like the money angle most. It fits with what I get from him, but I agree with what you said about the thrill. Juggling it all while making the money. Pretty sweet but scary, and scary in a way he’s addicted to. He gets something he needs.”
I looked at her thinking it through, taking in her face as well, a strong, honest face with a gleam in the eyes.
Julia turned and looked our way. “Jacob’s back,” she said. “And doing something big today. He’s telling me it’s bad, so what he means is it’s violent. If he’s thinking that way, I want to stop him. Can I type I want to meet with him?”
“No,” I said.
“What if he asks?”
“If the conditions are safe, we’ll—”
Julia said, “He just asked.”
55
Julia wrote Corti back, and as we waited for his answer, Jace and I went over the four short-term rentals in San Francisco where Corti had made deposits. Jace took us through it, as I got restless. A city map on her screen showed Corti’s rentals with green dots and Farue’s with red. She expanded the map and took us down to street view and still kept the identifying dot, a skill I don’t have. I’ll age out, I thought. That’s what’ll happen. Computer skills like this will become ordinary, and that’ll be the end of agents like me.
“Metro cell towers aren’t always obvious or easy to access, so if he’s renting to be near them, where’s he getting his information?” she asked.
“From his buddy Farue. Check on Farue again, let’s see where he’s at.”
She switched screens. The GPS tracker showed Farue’s vehicle south of Santa Rosa on 101 heading this way. We’d called him twice today, and the calls had gone to voice mail. I figured we’d try him again in half an hour. He could be heading here.
Jace took the map back to city view. At the other end of the table, Julia typed. When she saw me looking her way, she gave me a blank stare.
“Mission District. Nob Hill. Hunters Point. Glen Park,” Jace said and then made a good case for four two-agent surveillance teams at the four spots rented.
“If any team spots Corti, the others converge and SWAT rolls from the SF field office. SFPD is backup. Game over. Corti in custody,” she said. “What do you think?”
“If he’s there, we bring an army.”
I glanced at Julia again. Brow furrowed. Typing fast. Something she’d read she didn’t like.
“If we look for towers related to those areas we get some targets but nothing spectacular. We know he’s gathered base signal data, but his metro problem has been finding the cell towers. We’re speculating he may get that from Farue. But when I switch to substations, take a look.”
“Hunters Point has one, so does the Mission, the Larkin substation isn’t far from Nob Hill, and Glen Park isn’t far from the Bayshore. At least two of these are backbone substations, and each of his four rentals has two things in common: good lines of sight and parking. But I’m not saying he’ll take the shots from the rental. Nob Hill has an underground garage with an owner pass. The garage has cameras, but he’ll be careful. Take a look at Hunters Point, where the house is isolated. Look at the line of sight from the deck to the substation. That’s an easy shot for him.” She added, “I’m not off the wall with this substation idea.”
Yes, you are, I thought.
“You’re trying to make it all fit, Jace. I’ve made the same mistake myself many times.”
Before Jace could respond Julia said, “Take a look. It’s bad.”
Both Jace and I walked down to Julia’s end of the table.
L-Z-9-9-O&O: Hey, PG, bad day, struggling. No meet up today. I’ve done things I don’t regret but wish I’d never done. It’s the way life came. Did my best. No going back.
Julia had written back, Remember how we said, never too late.
L-Z-9-9-O&O: Too far along now, PG.
Lay down your gun forever.
L-Z-9-9-O&O: Suicide if I do.
Let’s still meet up. Where are u?
L-Z-9-9-O&O: Wish I’d met you a long time ago.
Way too young for you. Eighteen!
L-Z-9-9-O&O: I know. Friend told me.
Was he the guy who bogus wrote me pretending to be you?
L-Z-9-9-O&O: Hope he didn’t.
Think he did. Someone did.
L-Z-9-9-O&O: Still wish we’d met.
Still can.
L-Z-9-9-O&O: Later, PG
Don’t go. Want to meet up. No violence. Other ways to get there. Call me.
I read that and saw at the end of her message Julia had typed in her new phone number.
“He signed out,” Julia said. “What he wrote bums me out. I’m going to get out and take a walk along the water.”
Julia headed for the waterfront and I said to Jace, “Let’s go see these areas you’re talking about.”
I also wanted to see Union Square, where the president would talk. Jace drove. Hunters Point was the farthest out, so we saved it for last. We got on 101 south, looped around to the Glen Park house, then back over the hill and down to the Mission Street condo, and from there back across Market Street to Union Square. Jace pulled into a yellow zone and parked.
Carpenters worked on a wooden stage for the president that looked like something out of the past. A lot of prep was underway. The streets were already closed off. It was a pretty big buildup for a half hour speech at sunset, but that’s my opinion.
“Orient me,” I said. “Where from here is the Nob Hill unit he’s rented? That’s the first rental, the one that starts tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, and I think it’s the one we can see, but it’s back several buildings and up.”
“And that’s still Nob Hill?”
“Nob Hill area.”
She pointed then guided me until I had it using the small binoculars she’d given me from her purse.
“I called the owner,” she said, “and verified it starts tomorrow.”
“Let’s drive by it when we leave here,” I said.
Once back in the car, Jace returned to the idea of Corti flipping to substation shootings. “Like Metcalf,” she said. “Look how effective that was. He can get off the shots, break down, and be gone in no time.”
“Substations are a big step up from what he’s been doing,” I said. “It’s the kind of shooting that could lead to cordoned-off streets and a
manhunt. I’m looking for why he’d take that kind of risk.”
“To go out big like he’s suggesting to Julia.”
“He is saying that, isn’t he?”
“That’s the Nob Hill building straight ahead,” she said like she’d just changed the channel.
“What’s the unit number?” I asked, “And do you know which direction it faces?”
“No.”
She looked at me and then in the direction from which we’d just come.
“The rental doesn’t start until tomorrow, but good point,” she said. “Let’s double back on that. I’ll give the owner a call. She said call anytime, so good chance she’ll get back to us pretty quick.”
She called, and I heard a phone ringing just before a voice-mail greeting. Jace left a message that included the question of the orientation of the unit, but we still went into the building, found a manager, and checked. It was a corner unit on the sixth floor. It did have a view of Union Square.
As we got back in the car, our world changed a little as I got a text from Carol Mann in the cyber division at headquarters. A rush of elation ran through me. I handed my phone to Jace.
“Read this before we drive away.”
At 2:07 p.m. Carol had written, We found them and we’re way into them. They’re toast! C
“The cyberattacks?” Jace asked.
“Yes, and she would know.”
Jace smiled in a big way. It leaked into the media within an hour that a condo high up in a new Dubai tower loaded with computers and servers was found some time in the last week and breached by the NSA, which then tapped in. Once in, it linked to servers in nine buildings in seven countries that ricocheted signals around the world. I don’t know how it works at that point. I don’t know how you track down the origin with signals bouncing all over the world, but I’d had enough conversations with Carol in the last year to know she wouldn’t send this unless it was a done deal.
Jace and I picked up the Corti conversation again on the way back to the FBI office. I texted Julia as we bought a couple of sandwiches, but she’d eaten at the Ferry Building and had walked along the water down to China Basin and the Giants stadium, so we went back to work.
Then the Nob Hill condo owner called. I read the alarm on Jace’s face.
She got off the phone and said, “Corti added a day. He took possession at three this afternoon. I’m going to get my supervisor and we’ll get a SWAT team with us. I’ll be right back.”
56
As Jace left the room, I got a three-word text from Mara.
We got him.
I turned on the TV in the conference room, and the scene was a Shell station and mini-mart. A driverless white van at one island had a pump nozzle in its filler neck. Tracy Police and CHP cars had blocked it front and back. Other cars at the islands were also empty. Police were visible inside the mini-mart, but no customers. The CNN reporter said, “We’ve got a developing situation with a suspect locked in a bathroom.”
We weren’t on scene yet, except for two FBI agents diverted from their return to the Sacramento office. The man inside the restroom was believed to be John Daniels, aka Danny John. It was unclear whether he could detonate the van from where he was, so everyone inside was taking a very real risk. But good chance they knew something we weren’t seeing.
As I watched, paramedics arrived, and now you could see through the windows and catch movement. They’d unlocked the bathroom door and gone in to find Daniels incoherent. He was lying in front of the toilet on his back with his arms splayed and his eyes dilated.
I called Mara and said, “I’m watching it on TV. He must have holed up somewhere and was bringing the bomb in today. Whatever hospital they take him to they need to know what his head injuries came from. It could be a blood clot, something like that. We’re hoping he makes it.”
“Why?”
“He’s got a whole lot of information that could help us.”
I didn’t say anything about the situation here yet. We didn’t know for sure. I didn’t want to get into that. We ended the call as I watched paramedics bring him out on a stretcher. I couldn’t tell it was Daniels, but it had been confirmed via two IDs he was carrying that Danny John was John Daniels, as Knowles had told me.
Jace came back in and said, “My supervisor and ASAC will be here in five minutes. We’re a go.”
I stood but didn’t turn the TV off. I pointed at it.
“He told Julia this was his biggest bomb. He called it the mother of all bombs.” I looked at her and added, “This is a very big break. It’s lucky.”
Her assistant special agent in charge walked in first. I muted the TV and shook her hand.
57
JULIA
May 10th
Julia stood near the Willie Mays statue and reread a text from a number she didn’t recognize. It was JC. He’d changed his mind and wanted to meet after all. He’d sent an address on Bush Street with an elevator code, 6327, and condo number, 607, and wrote, Knock on the door or use code 02290. She had never seen a door with a code, but who cares about that? It just felt funny that the meeting wasn’t at a place where they could get a coffee or something. Not the way she pictured meeting.
She texted him back, What about meeting for coffee?
No worries. Can’t leave here right now, but I understand. Another time.
Are u okay?
Not really, but dealing.
Might come there.
No, I get it.
See you soon. Coming there.
She got an Uber. If she changed her mind on the drive, she could text him and go back to the FBI office or wherever. The Uber driver was not much older than she was and wanted to talk, and then took her by to see the crowd gathering in Union Square. He turned around and said, “They caught that guy.”
“What guy?”
“The guy in the van with the bomb.”
The driver dropped her off, and Julia went into the building. She was ready to enter the code when the elevator dinged and the doors started to open. She turned away but was aware of a man hurrying out. He went toward the doors to the street as she stepped into the elevator. She hit 6 and as the doors started to close, the man turned back.
He called, “Hold the elevator,” but she didn’t. She didn’t want anyone else riding up with her. It was already spooky enough. UG would be all over her case for doing this, but she had to. Besides, the guy tried to get his fingers in and get the doors to open in the last second. Old elevator. Didn’t work for him.
The doors opened on floor 6, and she hurried down the corridor to 607. Her hands shook as she reread the code number, 02290. She knocked twice, waited, then entered the code. She pushed the door open, then closed it quickly and went down a hallway to a big open room with a kitchen and a deck with a chest-high metal platform near a half-open sliding door. She saw a man on the floor on his side with blood around his head. Near him on neatly folded towels were what looked like parts of a gun.
She heard a soft knock, maybe a neighbor at the door. It stopped, but she didn’t move. She froze for a moment, then texted UG,
JC wanted to meet at a building on Bush Street. If it’s him he’s dead.
A call came from UG. “We’re almost there. Don’t touch anything.”
“I haven’t. How did you know to come here?”
“Julia, can you see his face?”
“Half of it.”
“Can you tell if it’s Jacob Corti?”
“I’m not positive. I’m pretty sure it is. There are gun parts everywhere like he broke his gun down like you do when you clean yours. The pieces are spread out on folded towels.”
“How did you get in?”
“He sent me a code.”
“Do you see a weapon anywhere near him that may have fallen if he shot himself?”
“No, but there’s a metal stand. He was going to shoot from in here.”
“Take a photo of the stand and of him and send them to me. Then go downstairs. There�
��s an FBI SWAT team and San Francisco police on the way.”
“I’m afraid to leave. There was a man who wanted to get in the elevator with me when I got here. The elevator doors closed before he could get in, but then there was a knock on the door here after.”
“Okay, stay where you are, and when the police get there you’ll hear plenty of noise. It’ll be loud. It won’t just be one person knocking. You’ll know. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll tell them you’re there and that you’ll wait by the door.”
In the background she heard Jace talking fast, relaying what she’d just said to other FBI agents.
“I’ll take the photos right now,” she said.
As she hung up, she heard sirens coming. She took the photos and sent them, then turned back to the man on the floor and thought about him as the JC who sometimes made her laugh so much. He was lean and long. He lay on his right side with blood dried on his neck. His dark hair moved with the wind through the open door. It was slick where he had been shot in his left temple. She saw his hands, and the boots that he wrote her about.
It was Jacob. She was sure it was Jacob, and waves of sadness came through her. She knelt and touched his arm and cheek, though she knew she shouldn’t. She had to. She stepped back and looked again at the gun pieces so exactly laid out. The parts arranged on the towels with the bullets lined up must mean something. His phone must be here but she didn’t see it. She felt nauseated and stepped out on the deck and saw in the distance the little rectangle that was Union Square. The crowd had spilled off the square into the street.
“You were going to shoot the president,” she said, and just then she heard knocking, then pounding on the door, voices yelling. She hurried to the door. “Police. Open up!”
She opened the door with her heart pounding and saw the man from the elevator she’d seen earlier. He grabbed her and pushed a gun against her head.
“Do exactly as I say or you’re dead.”
He half dragged her down the hall. They went down the elevator and out the lobby. He lowered his gun but still held her, though not tightly anymore.
