THE CONSULATE GENERAL of the Republic of Indonesia sat on Columbus Avenue, a few blocks south of the Embarcadero, flanked by Telegraph Hill and Lombard Street and within sight of Alcatraz Island. Clark found a parking spot on Jones Street, one block south of the consulate, and parked their rented Fort Taurus.
“Ever been to Frisco, Jack?” Chavez asked from the backseat.
“When I was a little kid. All I remember is Fisherman’s Wharf, that museum submarine-”
“USS Pampanito,” Clark said.
“Right. And Treasure Island. As my dad tells it, I cried when he told me it wasn’t the same Treasure Island from the book.”
Clark laughed. “Was that before he broke the news about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus?”
Jack laughed in return. “Same day, I think.”
Clark pulled out his cell phone, one of three sanitized pay-as-you-go push-to-talk models they’d picked up at the airport. He dialed a number and said after a moment, “Yes, good morning, is Mr. Nayoan in this morning? Yes, thanks.” Clark hung up. “He’s in. Let’s take a walk, get a lay of the land.”
“What’re we looking for?” Jack asked.
“Nothing and everything,” Clark responded. “The map isn’t the territory, Jack. You’re acclimatizing. Find out where the coffee shops are. ATMs, alleys and side streets, newspaper vendors, pay phones. Where’re the best places to catch taxis or hop a cable car? Learn to feel like you live here.”
“Oh, is that all?”
Chavez answered that one. “No. How do the people move, how do they interact? Do they wait for Walk lights, or do they jaywalk? Do they meet one another’s eyes on the sidewalks or exchange pleasantries? How many cop cars do you see? Check for parking. Is it metered or free? Nail down the BART entrances.”
“Bay Area Rapid Transit,” Clark added before Jack could ask. “Their subway.”
“That’s a lot of shit to absorb.”
“That’s the job,” Clark replied. “Wanna go home?”
“Not on your life.”
“It’s a mind-set, Jack. Change the way you see the landscape. Soldiers look for cover and ambush spots; spooks look for dead drops and surveillance boxes. Two questions you should always be asking: How would I follow somebody here, and how would I lose somebody here?”
“Okay.”
Clark checked his watch. “We’ll take an hour, then meet back at the car and see if Nayoan’s ready for lunch. Jack, you head south; Ding and me will take northeast and northwest.”
“Why that coverage?” Jack asked.
“Gets more residential to the south. At least during the day Nayoan will be on the clock-meetings, lunch, that sort of thing. Use the stroll to acclimatize.”
As instructed, Jack walked south down Jones Street, then west up Lombard, getting a workout on the steep and winding pavement, until he reached the tennis courts at the top of Telegraph Hill, where he turned south again. The houses here were tightly packed and colorfully painted, many with balconies and porches overflowing with flowers. Jack had seen plenty of pictures of the 1906 earthquake here, and it was hard to mentally overlay that with what he was seeing now. The earth’s crust slips along a seam a couple of feet, maybe inches, and a city is ruined. Truly, you do not mess with Mother Nature. Hurricane Katrina had reminded America of that most recently, though nature had only costarred in that one. The rest was bad logistics and inadequate supplies. Made you wonder what things would be like if something worse befell the country, natural or man-made. Were we really ready for something like that? Jack pondered. Better question: Was there such a thing as being truly ready? China and India and Indonesia had been dealing with tsunamis and earthquakes since time immemorial, and still when it happened today the response and recovery looked like barely controlled chaos. Maybe the problem was the definition itself. All systems, whether they be governments or fire departments or police departments, had breaking points where circumstances outdistanced manpower and resources. Come to think of it, humans were probably different, and if so, doesn’t the concept of readiness become a matter of life and death, of survival or extinction? If after the catastrophe you find yourself alive, were you then ready for it?
Mind back in the game, Jack commanded himself.
At the forty-minute mark, he turned back north at the Feusier Octagon House and returned to the car. Clark and Chavez weren’t back yet, so he found a bench across the street under a tree and read the newspaper he’d picked up during his walk.
“Smart not to get back in the car,” Jack heard behind him. Clark and Chavez were standing there. “Why?”
“On a nice day like this? Who’d do that except for cops, detectives, or stalkers?”
“Attaboy. Stand up, come over here. Same principle: Three guys don’t just sit around on a bench together unless they’re waiting for a bus or they’re bums.” Jack joined them under the tree and they stood in a semicircle. “Okay, we’re business schmucks,” Clark said, “standing around talking about the game last night or our asshole boss. So what’d you see?”
“The vibe’s more laid-back than New York or Baltimore,” Jack replied. “People don’t seem to be in as big a hurry. More eye contact and smiles.”
“Good, what else?”
“Good mass-transit system, plenty of stops. Saw five cop cars but no lights and sirens. Just about everyone is wearing or carrying a jacket or sweater. Not a lot of honking. A lot of compact cars and hybrids and bicycles. A lot of little shops and cafés with back entrances.”
“Not bad, Jack,” Chavez said. “Maybe a little spook in the boy’s DNA, huh, John?”
“Could be.”
After ten minutes more of the businessmen routine, Clark said, “Okay, almost lunchtime. Ding, you’re driving. Jack and I’ll roam a bit. Main entrance to the consulate is on Columbus and Jones, but there’s a side entrance, farther south down Jones.”
“Saw a vending delivery truck pull up there during our walk,” Chavez said. “And a couple staff outside there smoking.”
“Good. Let’s move.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack was on the phone: “Got him. Coming out the main entrance. On foot, heading south down Columbus.”
“Ding, stay put. Jack, stay on him, twenty yards back at least. I’m a block east of you, coming up on Taylor.”
“Roger.” A minute later: “Passing the Motor Coach Inn. About thirty seconds from the corner of Taylor.”
“I’m there, heading south,” Clark replied. “No matter what he does at the corner, cross the street and head west down Chestnut. I’ll pick him up.”
“Gotcha. He’s at the corner now. Turning north up Taylor.”
“I see him. Break off, keep going.”
Jack strolled through the crosswalk to Chestnut and kept going. In the corner of his eye he could see Nayoan. “Losing him… now,” Jack called.
Clark: “He’s heading right at me. Stand by.” A moment later, Clark’s voice changed. “No, no, I’m telling ya, their pitching roster is for shit. They got no depth. Man, you’re wrong. Ten bucks they tank the first game…” A few seconds passed. “Just passed me. He’s stepping into a restaurant-Pat’s Café, east side of the street. Jack, let’s have some lunch. I’ll get us a table.”
Ding chimed in: “I’ll take a pastrami on wheat.”
Jack turned north at the corner of Chestnut and Mason, then north again to Taylor. He found Clark at a table near the door, facing the window. The place was getting busy, catching the early lunch crowd. Jack sat down.
“At the counter,” Clark said. “Third from the end.”
“Yep, saw him.”
“Who’s sitting on either side of him?”
“What?”
“Keeping track of your principal is only half the battle, Jack. He talk to anybody while you were on him, make any stops?”
“No, and no close passes, either.”
Clark shrugged. “Even mutts gotta eat.”
Jack ordered a tuna fish on rye, Clark a BLT and a doggie bag for Ding. “He’s finishing up,” Clark said. “I’ll get the tab. We shake hands at the door, say, ‘See you next month,’ then you head back to the car. I’ll take our boy home, then meet you at the Starbucks on Bay.”
Thirty minutes later they were sharing three cups of Gold Coast dark roast at a booth near the window. Outside, pedestrians and cars slipped by in the bright sunlight. On the TV mounted in the corner, Jack Ryan Sr. was standing behind a podium speaking. The sound was muted, but all three of them knew what was going on. So did the rest of the customers and the baristas, most of whom were either staring at the set or catching glimpses of the news ticker as they went about their business.
“Man, he’s really doing it,” Chavez said. “Your dad’s got some brass ones, Jack.”
Jack nodded.
Clark asked, “He told you about it, I assume?”
Another nod. “I don’t think he’s overjoyed at the whole idea, but it’s the call of duty, you know? To whom much is given, much is asked.”
“Well, he’s given a lot already. Okay, to business: What’d we learn?”
Jack took a sip of coffee, then said, “Nayoan likes pea soup, and he’s a bad tipper.”
“Huh?” Chavez said.
“He had pea soup and a club sandwich. Twelve bucks, give or take, according to the menu. He left a few quarters. Besides that, I’m not sure what we learned.”
“Not much,” Clark agreed. “Didn’t expect much. If he’s in the bag for the URC, it could be a once-in-a-while thing. The odds of us catching him dirty in one day were nil.”
“So what next?”
“According to the consulate website, they’ve got a reception at the Holiday Inn Express tonight. Some kind of joint benefit party with the Polish consulate.”
“Left my tux at home,” Chavez said.
“Not going to need it. Point is, we know where Nayoan’s going to be tonight, and it ain’t at home.”
Eight thousand miles away, the engineer emerged from the tent’s changing room and used a rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck. On wobbly legs, he walked to a nearby stool and sat down.
“Well?” Musa asked.
“It’s done.”
“And the yield?”
“Seven to eight kilotons. Smallish by today’s standards-for example, the Hiroshima bomb was fifteen kilotons-but it will be more than sufficient for what you’re planning. It should give you, say, fifteen pounds per square inch out to a distance of five hundred meters.”
“That doesn’t sound like much.”
The engineer smiled wearily. “Fifteen psi is enough to demolish reinforced concrete. You said the floor is mostly earthen?”
“That’s correct. With some underground hardened structures.”
“Then you have no worries, my friend. This enclosed space you’ve mentioned… You’re certain of its volume?”
“Yes.”
“And the overstructure? What’s its composition?”
“I’m told it is something called ignimbrite. It is-”
“Yes, I’m familiar with it. Also called volcanic pyroclastic or welded tuff-essentially, compacted layers of volcanic rock. That’s good. Providing the overstructure is thick enough, the shock wave should be directed downward with minimal attenuation. The penetration requirements you gave me will be met.”
“I’ll take your word for that. Is it ready for transport?”
“Of course. It has a relatively low output signature, so passive detection measures won’t be your worry. Active measures are a different story altogether. I assume you’ve taken steps to-”
“Yes, we have.”
“Then I’ll leave it in your good hands,” the engineer said, then stood up and headed toward the office at the rear of the warehouse. “I’m going to sleep now. I trust the remainder of my fee will be deposited by morning.”