Mirror Image

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Paul Hood was sitting in a lounge beside the hotel pool. He had his pager and cellular phone by his side, and his Panama hat pulled low so that he wouldn't be recognized. He didn't feel like chewing the fat with old constituents just now. Except for the conspicuously absent tan, he probably looked the part of the modern, self-absorbed, independent film producer.

The truth was, even with Sharon and the kids frolicking a few yards away, in the deep end of the pool, he felt melancholy and strangely alone. He had his Walkman on, listening to an all-news channel as he waited for the President's address to the nation. It had been a long time since he'd followed a breaking news story as a citizen and not a public official, and he didn't like it. He didn't like the sense of helplessness, at not being able to share his grief with the press, with other officials. He wanted to contribute to the healing or the sense of outrage or even the vengeance.

He was just a man on a rubber chair waiting for news like everyone else.

No, not quite like everyone else, he knew. He was waiting for Mike Rodgers to call. Even though the line wasn't secure, Rodgers would find a way to tell him something. Assuming there was something to be told.

As he waited, his thoughts returned to the bombing. The target didn't have to be the tunnel. It could just as well have been this hotel's lobby, with its Asian tourists and businesspeople, filmmakers from Italy, Spain, South America, and even Russia. Scare them away and damage the local economy, from limousine services to restaurants. When Hood was the Mayor of Los Angeles, he had participated in a number of seminars about terrorists. Though they'd all had their own methods and reasons for doing what they did, they also had one thing in common. They struck at places people had to use, whether it was a military command center or a means of transportation or an office building. That was how they brought governments to the bargaining table, despite public posturing to the contrary.

He also thought about Bob Herbert, who had lost his legs and his wife in a terrorist bombing. He couldn't imagine how this was affecting him.

A bleached-blond young waiter stopped by Hood's chair and asked him if he wanted a beverage. He ordered a club soda. When the waiter returned, he looked at Hood for a moment.

"You're him, aren't you?"

Hood unhooked his Walkman. "Excuse me?"

"You're Mayor Hood."

"Yes," he smiled up, and nodded.

"Cool," said the young man. "I had Boris Karloff's daughter here yesterday." He set the glass on a wobbly metal table. "Pretty unbelievable about New York, isn't it? It's the kind of thing you don't want to think about, yet you can't not think about."

"True," said Hood.

The waiter leaned closer as he poured the sparkling water. "You'll appreciate this. Or maybe you won't. I heard Manager Mosura tell the house detective that our insurance company wants us to offer daily evacuation drills, like they do on luxury liners. Just so people can't sue the chain if we get blown up."

"Protect your guests and your assets," Hood said.

"Exactamundo," said the waiter.

Hood signed the bill and thanked the waiter as his phone chirped. He answered quickly.

"How are you, Mike?" he asked. He picked up the phone and began walking toward a shady corner, where there were no other guests.

"Same as everyone," Rodgers said. "Sick and mad."

"What can you tell me?" Hood asked.

"I'm heading to the office after meeting with the boss," he said. "A lot's happened. For one thing, the perpetrator called. Gave up. We've got him."

"Just like that?" Hood asked.

"There were some strings attached," Rodgers said. "We have to stay out of some business he says is going down overseas. Old Red zone. Otherwise, we get more of the same."

"Is this big business?" Hood asked.

"We're not sure. Army business, it appears.

"From the new President?" Hood asked.

"We don't think so," Rodgers said. "It appears to be a reaction to him and not necessarily his doing."

"I see," said Hood.

"In fact, we think the okay for all this came from that TV studio we've been tuned in to. Got a pretty solid paper trail. The boss has authorized us to have a look see, pending all the paperwork. I've put Lowell on it."

Hood stopped walking under a palm tree. The President had authorized a Striker excursion into St. Petersburg, and Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey II was going to seek approval from the Congressional Oversight Intelligence Committee. That was heavy-duty.

Hood looked at his watch. "Mike, I'm going to try and catch a red-eye back there."

"Don't," said Rodgers. "We've got some time on this. When things start to hop, I can chopper you up to Sacramento and you can hitch a ride from March."

Hood looked back at the kids. They were all supposed to take the Magna Studio tour in the morning. And Rodgers had a point. It would be a half-hour hop up to the Air Force base, then less than a five-hour ride back to D.C. But he had taken an oath to do a job, and it was a job— more accurately, a burden, a responsibility, which he didn't want to put on anyone else's shoulders.

His heart was beating fast. Hood knew what it wanted to do. It was already getting the blood to his legs so he could make the plane.

"Let me talk to Sharon," he said to Rodgers.

She's going to kill you," Rodgers said. "Take a deep breath and a jog around the parking lot. We can handle this."

"Thanks," Hood said, "but I'll let you know what I'm doing. I appreciate the update. I'll talk to you later."

"Sure," Rodgers said glumly.

Hood clicked off and folded up the phone. He swatted it gently in his open palm.

Sharon would kill him, and the kids would be crushed. Alexander had been looking forward to doing the virtual reality Teknophage attraction with him.

Jesus, why can't anything ever be simple? he asked himself as he walked toward the pool. "Because then there would be no dynamics between people," he said under his breath, "and life would be boring."

Though he had to admit that a little boredom would be good right now. It was what he'd come back to Los Angeles in the hopes of finding.

"Dad, you comin' in?" his daughter, Harleigh, yelled as he approached.

"No, cheesehead," said Alexander. "Can't you see he's got his phone?"

"I can't see that far without my glasses, dorko," she replied.

Sharon had stopped squirt-gunning their son and was swimming in place. From her expression, he could tell that she knew what was coming.

"Gather round," Sharon said as her husband squatted by the side of the pool. "I think Dad's got something to tell us."

Hood said simply, "I have to go back. What happened today— we have to respond."

"They need Dad to kick ass," Alexander said.

"Hush," Hood said. "Remember, loose lips—"

"Sink ships," said the ten-year-old. "Ex-squeeze me," he said as he went under.

His twelve-year-old sister went to hold him there, but Alexander darted away.

Sharon just glared at her husband. "This response," she asked quietly. "It can't possibly be made without you?"

"It can."

"Then let it."

"I can't," Hood said. He looked down, then off to the side. Anywhere but in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll call you later."

Hood got up and called out to the kids, who interrupted their chase long enough to wave. "Get me a T-shirt at Teknophage," he said.

"We will!" Alexander said.

He turned to walk away.

"Paul?" Sharon said.

He stopped and looked back.

"I know this is difficult," she said, "and I'm not making it any easier. But we need you too. Especially Alexander. He's going to be, 'Oh, Dad would have loved this' and 'Dad would have loved that' all day tomorrow. Sometime real soon, you're going to have to start 'responding' to not being around enough."

"You don't think this kills me?" Hood asked.

"Not enough," Sharon said as she pushed off the side. "Not as much as being away from your electric trains in D.C. Think about it, Paul."

He would, he promised himself.

In the meantime, he had a plane to catch.