3rd Degree (23 page)

CHARLES DANKO STOOD amid the bright lights outside the Palace of the Legion of Honor, and his body jittered with nerves and anticipation. This was his night. He was going to be famous, and so would his brother, William.

Anyone who thought they knew him would have been surprised he was speaking in San Francisco tonight. Jeffrey Stanzer had spent years in a secluded academic life, carefully avoiding the public eye. Hiding from the police.

But tonight he was going to do something far bolder than deliver some boring speech. All the theories and analyses didn't mean anything now. Tonight, he would rewrite history.

Every cop in San Francisco was looking for him, August Spies. And the laugh was, they were letting him in - right through the front door!

A chill cut through him. He clutched his briefcase tightly against his rumpled tuxedo. Inside was his speech, an analy-sis of the effect of invested foreign capital on the labor mar-kets of the Third World. His life's work, some might say. But what did anyone really know about him? Not a thing. Not even his name.

Up ahead, security agents dressed in tuxedos and gowns were poking through the pockets and purses of economists and ambassadors' wives, the kind of self-important, self-involved functionaries who flocked to this sort of thing.

I could kill all of them, he was thinking. And why not? They came to carve up the world, to put their economic thumb-print on those who could not compete, or even fight back. Bloodsuckers, he thought. Ugly, despicable human beings. Every-one here deserves to die. Just like Lightower and Bengosian.

The line made its way past a cast of Rodin's The Thinker. Another flutter of nerves rippled through his limbs. Finally, Danko presented his special VIP invitation to an attractive woman dressed in a black evening dress. Probably FBI. No doubt a Glock was strapped underneath her gown. Chicks with dicks, Danko thought.

“Good evening, sir,” she said and checked his name against a list. “We apologize for any inconvenience, Professor Stanzer, but can I ask you to place your case through security?”

“Of course. It's just my speech, though,” Danko said, handing her his briefcase like any nervous academic. He extended his arms while a security guard waved a metal-detector wand up and down his body.

The security man felt around his jacket. “What's this?” he asked. Danko removed a small plastic canister. There was a pharmaceutical label on it and a prescription made out to him. The canister was another of Stephen Hardaway's masterpieces. Poor dead Stephen. Poor Julia, Robert, and Michelle. Soldiers. Just like him.

“For my asthma,” Danko said. He coughed a little and pointed to his chest. “Proventil. Always need it before a speech. I even have a backup.”

The guard regarded it for a moment. This was good fun, actually. He and Stephen had perfected the canister. Who needed guns and bombs when all the terror in the world was right in the palm of his hand.

William would be proud!

“You can go inside, sir.” The guard finally waved Charles Danko ahead. “Have a good night.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

I GUNNED MY EXPLORER, careening through a red light on Ness heading toward Geary. The Palace of the Legion of Honor was all the way out at Lands End. Even without traffic, I was ten minutes away.

I punched in Molinari's number. His cell phone wasn't accepting.

I tried to get patched through to the Chief. One of his assistants answered and said he was out in the crowd. “The vice president is coming in the room at this very moment,” he said. “There he is.”

“Listen to me!” I shouted as I swerved, siren blaring, through parting traffic. “I want you to find Tracchio or Moli-nari, whomever you see first. Put this phone in their ear. This is a matter of national emergency. I don't care who the hell they're talking with! Go! Now!”

My eyes flashed to the clock on my dash. A bomb could go off at any time. All we had was a thirty-year-old likeness to identify Charles Danko. I wasn't sure if I could pick him out myself.

A minute passed very slowly. Then a voice crackled back over my cell phone. Molinari. Finally.

“Joe,” I said into the phone, “just listen, please. Charles Danko's there! Right now! He's going by the name Jeffrey Stanzer. He's a speaker at the conference. I'll be there in about three minutes. Take him down, Joe!”

Quickly, we argued the pros and cons of emptying the Palace or making some kind of warning announcement using Stanzer's name. Molinari decided against. The first sign of alarm, he might decide to set off whatever he was planning.

Finally I spun onto Thirty-fourth, into the park, then up the hill to the Legion of Honor. The park was banded by demonstrators. Barricades blocked the way.

Patrolmen were checking IDs. I lowered the driver's win-dow and held out my shield - pounding the horn as hard as I could.

I was finally able to maneuver through the narrow lane of stretch limos and police cars that led up to the main circle of the Palace. I ditched the Explorer in front of the arced, columned gate. Started to run. I kept bumping into Feds transmitting on radios - flashing my badge. “Let me through!”

At last I pushed my way inside the main building. The halls were packed - statesmen, dignitaries.

I spotted Molinari, giving orders into a handheld radio. I rushed up to him. “He's here,” he said. “His name's checked off on the guest list. He's already inside.”

THERE WERE AMBASSADORS, cabinet members, business leaders everywhere, chatting in crowds, sipping champagne. Any second a bomb could go off. The vice president was being moved to safety. But Charles Danko could be any-where. What he had in mind, God only knew. We didn't even know what the bastard looked like now!

Molinari handed me a walkie-talkie dialed to his fre-quency. “I've got the wanted sheet. I'll go left. Keep in touch with me, Lindsay. No heroes tonight.” I started to weave through the crowd. In my mind I drew an image of Charles Danko thirty years ago and transposed it onto every face I saw. I wished I'd asked the dean at Reed for some kind of current description. Everything had happened too fast. It still was going too fast.

Where are you, Danko, you son of a bitch?

“I'm searching the main room,” I spoke into the walkie-talkie. “I don't see him.”

“I'm here in the annex,” Molinari replied. “Nothing so far. But he's here.”

I was staring intently at every face. Our only advantage was that he didn't know we knew. A few Feds were quietly escorting people toward the exits. We couldn't cause a panic and give ourselves away.

But I didn't see him anywhere. Where was Danko? What was he planning tonight? It had to be big - he was here himself.

“I'm heading in to the Rodins,” I told Molinari. There were large, recognizable bronzes on marble pedestals all around me, and people sipping champagne. I came upon a crowd gathered near one of the statues.

“What's going on here?” I asked a woman in a black gown.

“The vice president,” she said. “He's scheduled here any moment.” The vice president had been whisked away, but no one had been told. These people were milling around for an introduction. Would Danko be here, too?

I scanned the line, face to face.

I saw a tall, thin man, balding on top. He had a high brow. Close, narrow eyes. A hand in his jacket pocket. I felt a cold spot near the center of my chest.

I could see the resemblance to the picture from thirty years ago. There were people milling about, blocking my view. But there was no mistaking it - Charles Danko was the image of his father.

I turned my head away and spoke into my walkie-talkie. “I found him! Joe, he's here.”

Danko was in line to meet the vice president. My heart was beating furiously. His left hand was still in his jacket pocket. Was he holding some kind of detonator? How could he get it in here?

“I'm in the room with the Rodins. Joe, I'm looking right at him.”

Molinari said, “Stay there. I'm coming. Don't take any chances.”

Suddenly Danko's gaze drifted to me. I didn't know if he'd seen me on TV as part of the investigation, or if I had “cop” written on my face. Somehow he seemed to know. Our eyes locked.

I saw him get out of the line he was standing in. He kept his eyes on me.

I took a step toward him. Opened my jacket for my gun. At least a dozen people were blocking my way. I had to get through. I lost sight of Danko for just a second. No more than that.

When the opening cleared again, Danko was no longer there.

The white rabbit was gone again.

I PUSHED MY WAY UP to where he'd been standing seconds ago. Gone! I scanned the room. “I lost him,” I spat into the walkie-talkie. “He must've ducked into the crowd. Son of a bitch!” For no good reason, I was mad at myself.

I didn't see Charles Danko anywhere. All the men were wearing tuxedos, looking the same. And all those people were exposed to danger, maybe even death.

I badged my way through a barricade and ran down a long corridor that led to the closed-off section of the museum. Still no sign of Danko. I ran back to the main ballroom and bumped into Molinari.

“He's here. I know he is, Joe. This is his moment.”

Molinari nodded and radioed that no one, under any cir-cumstance, was to leave the building. I was thinking that if any kind of device went off in there, with all those people, it would be a total disaster. I'd die, too. And Molinari. It would be worse than the Rincon Center.

Where are you, Danko?

Then I caught a glimpse of him again. I thought so any-way. I pointed toward a tall balding man. He was circling away from us, ducking in and out of the crowd. “That's him!”

“Danko!” I yelled, pulling my Glock from its shoulder holster. “Danko! Stop!”

The crowd parted enough for me to see him remove a hand from his jacket pocket. He caught my eyes again - and then he smiled at me. What the hell did he have?

“Police!” Molinari shouted. “Everybody down!”

Charles Danko's fingers were wrapped around something. I couldn't tell if it was a gun, or maybe a detonator.

Then I saw it - a plastic canister in his hand. What the hell was it? He raised his arm and I charged. There was no other choice.

Seconds later I crashed into Charles Danko, grabbing at his arm, hoping the canister would break free. I latched on to his hand, desperately trying to pry the canister free. I couldn't budge it.

I heard him grunt in pain, saw him twisting the canister toward me. Right at my face.

Molinari was on the other side of Danko, trying to wrestle him down, too. “Get away from him!” I heard him yell at me. The canister turned again - toward Molinari. Everything was happening fast, in just a few seconds.

I held on to Danko's arm. I had some leverage. I was try-ing to break his arm.

He turned toward me, and our eyes met. I'd never felt such hatred, such coldness. “Bastard!” I yelled in his face.

“Remember Jill!”

In that second, I squeezed the canister.

Spray shot into his face. Very close in. Danko coughed, gasped. His face twisted into a horrified mask. Other agents had him now. They pulled him away from me.

Danko was breathing heavily. He was still coughing, as if he could spit back the poison from his lungs.

“It's over,” I gasped. “You're over. You're done. You lost, asshole.”

His eyes smiled vacantly. He motioned me closer. “It will never be over, you fool. There's always another soldier.”

That's when I heard shots, and understood that I was a fool.

WE RUSHED OUT to the courtyard, where the shots had come from. Joe Molinari and I pushed our way through the crowd. People were gasping, a few had started to weep.

I couldn't see what had happened, and then I could. And I wished that I hadn't.

Eldridge Neal was on his back, a crimson stain widening across his white shirt. Someone had shot the vice president of the United States. My God, not another American tragedy like this.

A woman was being held down by Secret Service agents; she couldn't have been much older than eighteen or nine-teen. Frizzy red hair. She was screaming at the vice president, rambling on about babies being sold into slavery in the Sudan; AIDS killing millions in Africa; corporate war crimes in Iraq and Syria. She must have been waiting for Neal as he was moved out of the main hall.

Suddenly I recognized the girl. I'd seen her before, in Roger Lemouz's office. The girl who'd given me the finger when I told her to leave. Hell, she was just a kid.

Joe Molinari let go of my arm and went to the aid of the vice president. The cursing, screaming girl was pulled away. Meanwhile, an ambulance drove right into the courtyard. EMS medics jumped out and began to tend to Vice President Neal.

Had Charles Danko planned this?

Had he known we were on to him?

Was this a setup? Knowing that chaos would reign if we caught up with him? What had he said? There's always another soldier.

That was the scariest thing of all. I knew that Danko was right.

I WAS SUPPOSED TO GO to the hospital to be examined, but I wouldn't do it. Not yet. Joe Molinari and I went with the red-haired girl back to the Hall. We interrogated Annette Breiling for several hours, and then this revolutionary, this terrorist, this person who could shoot the vice president in cold blood, she cracked.

Annette Breiling told us everything we needed to know, and more, about the plot at the Palace of the Legion of Honor.

It was four in the morning when we arrived in an upscale neighborhood in Kensington, a couple of towns over from Berkeley. There were at least half a dozen patrol cars there and everybody was heavily armed. The street was in the hills and had a view of the San Pablo Reservoir. Very pretty, sur-prisingly posh. It didn't look as if anything bad could happen here.