Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [212]
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