Red Right Hand

22.

SARAH KLINGENBERG POLISHED off a can of Red Bull-her third today-and chucked it into a trash bin as she trotted across the bustling pier. Yesterday, Pier 80 had been just a barren stretch of weed-cracked pavement in San Francisco’s Central Waterfront jutting six hundred yards into San Francisco Bay. Now it was the base of operations for one of the biggest Bureau manhunts in history.

The Port of San Francisco was primarily designed for break-bulk cargo, the sorts of things that had to be unloaded individually, such as wooden barrels, steel girders, and industrial-size paper reels. The advent of containerization had sounded San Francisco’s death knell as a shipping hub because the port’s old-fashioned piers were ill suited for unloading container ships, and there was little real estate to expand them. As a consequence, the majority of cargo shipped to the Bay Area headed to Oakland instead, and many of San Francisco’s piers sat vacant.

Today, though, Pier 80 was crowded with armored SWAT vehicles and police helicopters, cop cars and unmarked government sedans. Police boats came and went in a steady stream. Inside the command trailer, dispatchers studied maps and blueprints and coordinated with the tactical units in the field.

The Bureau had learned a lot about the True Islamic Caliphate in the last twenty-three hours. They were part of Sunni Islam’s ultraconservative Salafi Jihadist sect, mostly operating out of Syria’s lawless southeastern region, and their hatred of the West was second only to their violent opposition to the Assad regime. What the Bureau didn’t yet know was why they’d suddenly decided to execute an attack on American soil, where they’d staged it from, or what they intended to strike next.

The Bureau had, however, identified three men associated with the group who’d entered the United States on student visas in the past six months. They’d soon apprehend them, Klingenberg thought, provided her boss-James to his wife and friends, Jimmy to the president, and Assistant Director Osterman to those who worked beneath him in the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division-stopped saddling her with bullshit assignments when there was real work to do.

She reached the unmarked sedan the San Francisco office had provided her-a nondescript Ford something-or-other, its once-glossy black faded by years of sun and salt air-and ducked inside. When she closed the door, the relentless din of the command center receded. Then she opened Osterman’s e-mail on her phone and clicked the number he’d provided.

Osterman had instructed her to call the CEO of Bellum Industries, Harrison Wentworth, and update him on the investigation. Why, she had no idea. Wentworth was a former three-star general who’d served as the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency under the prior administration, and his son, Trip, headed up the Senate’s Appropriations Subcommittee on Homeland Security, so he had a lot of juice inside the Beltway. Lately, he’d been using that juice to lobby for more domestic contracts for his corporation, citing Bellum’s successful peacekeeping efforts in New Jersey after Hurricane Sandy hit and in Baltimore during the recent racial tensions. But, to Klingenberg’s relief, the widespread privatization of domestic security had proved a nonstarter on the Hill. As far as she was concerned, profit margins had no place in law enforcement, and even if they did, there were half a dozen other firms better suited for the gig; Bellum’s reputation overseas was less than stellar.

Wentworth’s receptionist answered-icy, competent. Klingenberg explained who she was and why she was calling. The woman put her on hold, no company but the hiss of the open line. Klingenberg had expected better from the private sector. They didn’t even have the decency to pipe in music or tell her how much her call mattered.

She remained on hold for eleven minutes. Eleven minutes, as it turned out, was long enough for her to crash, for adrenaline and caffeine to abandon her. As she languished on hold, her thoughts wandered, and her eyes began to close.

“Wentworth here.”

His authoritative baritone startled her awake. She dropped her phone and had to scrabble to pick it up. “Hello, sir. This is Special Agent Sarah Klingenberg. My AD instructed me to update you on the status of the investigation.”

“Yes. I gathered as much from my girl.”

His girl, she thought. Jesus. “Okay, then. What specifically would you like to know?”

“Specifically,” he said, “I’d like to know the status of the investigation.”

“We’re currently pursuing a number of leads in parallel.”

“I’m certain you are,” he said. “Perhaps you could indulge me by walking me through each of them.”

Klingenberg sighed. “State’s identified three known associates of the TIC who entered the country separately on student visas in the past six months. We believe they’re responsible for executing the attack, although their whereabouts are currently unknown. We’re attempting to reconstruct a timeline of their movements now, working forward from their points of entry.”

“A sensible approach,” he said. “I assume you’re pursuing leads nearer to the attack as well?”

“Of course,” Klingenberg replied, tetchiness creeping into her voice. “As I’m sure you’re aware, all commercial and recreational boating in San Francisco Bay has been suspended. The Coast Guard is in the process of inspecting any vessels already on the water and clearing them to dock at designated locations. It’s been an arduous, time-consuming operation, and by their own estimates, they’re only halfway through.”

“Have they found anything yet?”

“A party boat full of hookers and hedge-fund managers. A pot shipment coming down the coast from Humboldt County. A few commercial vessels with expired paperwork. Some workers with lapsed visas.”

“Are you searching the waterfront as well?”

“Yes. But there’s over eight miles of urban waterfront in San Francisco alone, which adds up to a lot of boats and buildings. Washington’s pitched in with dedicated satellite coverage and fast-tracked warrants, but boots on the ground are still a limiting factor, and we can’t rule out the possibility that the tug might have originated from Oakland or Sausalito.”

“Have you the manpower to search nearby municipalities?”

“We’ve enlisted local PDs, and we’ve got FBI SWAT on standby, should anybody find anything.” She looked through the car’s side window at the helicopters lined up at the far end of the pier, dark and sleek, and the armed men milling anxiously around them, all itching for the go order.

“That sounds like a no, which explains the debacle in Alameda.”

“The neighbor’s tip sounded credible at the time,” she snapped.

“The dentist whose apartment you raided has adopted a less charitable view of the situation. He’s been crying racial profiling to anybody with a microphone, and I understand he’s enlisted the assistance of the ACLU.”

“With all due respect, sir, we’re doing the best we can with the resources we have.”

“What about the threat of additional attacks? I heard something on the news about a gunman in San Mateo.”

“False alarm,” Klingenberg replied. “Some poor bastard with a BB gun attempting suicide by cop. Truth is, our sources have been quiet. But then, they didn’t see the first attack coming either.”

“No one did,” he replied. “I assume you’re in San Francisco now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how long’s it been since you last slept?”

“I don’t know. Since before the bomb went off, I guess.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. Tell me, Klingenberg, do you have a room in town yet?”

“Uh, no?” In Klingenberg’s confusion, it came out more a question than a statement.

“Then I’ll have my girl book you one straightaway. I know some people swear by the Ritz-Carlton, but I’ve always been partial to the St. Regis. It’s where I stay whenever I’m in San Francisco.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate-and anyway, the gesture would be wasted; I’m too busy to have much use for a room.”

“Not anymore,” he said.

“Come again?”

“Didn’t your director tell you? Oh, never mind-how could he have? You were on hold for me when last we spoke.”

Klingenberg’s stomach went all fluttery. It felt like something more than hunger, exhaustion, and Red Bull. It felt like that moment on a roller coaster where the bottom drops out. “Didn’t tell me what?”

“Bellum will be taking command of the investigation from here on out.”

There it was. The reason for the call. Klingenberg was being benched-by a goddamn private contractor, of all things. “I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?”

“Of course not. Under the circumstances, your performance has been exemplary. But, thanks to Bellum’s efforts to secure Iraq’s northwest border, we’re well acquainted with this group and their methods, which affords us a tactical advantage you simply do not have.”

“Then read me in,” she said, her words hollow, reflexive, because she knew how he’d respond.

“Much as I’d like to, I’m afraid you don’t have the clearance. It’s nothing personal.”

“But-”

“Listen,” Wentworth said, “I understand how this must seem to you, but in the end you and I both want the same thing. Bellum just happens to be better suited to the task at hand. We’re nimbler. More knowledgeable. Less encumbered by red tape. And we have equipment at our disposal that, frankly, the government can’t afford. Obviously, your AD and the president agree-they’re pushing the proper authorization through Congress as we speak. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure they both know you did outstanding work. If you ask me, you deserve a break. Take a bath. Get some rest. Order up some room service, if you like, courtesy of your friends at Bellum. I’m sure your AD won’t mind; he and I are old friends.”

Klingenberg’s face burned with anger and shame, but she was too good an agent to let it show in her voice. “Thank you, Mr. Wentworth,” she choked out around the lump forming in her throat.

“Think nothing of it,” he said.

Wentworth hung up. Klingenberg sat in stunned silence for a long while. Then some sort of commotion at the pier’s guard booth caught her attention. An argument, it sounded like. She opened the car door and stood so she could see what was going on, but by the time she did, the argument was over, and the gate arm had been raised.

Sarah Klingenberg looked on in disbelief as thirty Bellum Humvees rolled, one by one, onto the pier-and she wondered how the hell they’d gotten here so fast.