The Arctic Event by James H. Cobb Read Free Book Online Page B

careful with her memories, the cold-sweat nights would return.
    From the concourse windows, she watched as the elderly Ilyushin jetliner climbed away from the airport on the final leg of Sun Chok’s last journey. Returning to her seat, she waited for the next Cathay Pacific flight to come in and unload before making her call.
    “Mr. Danforth. This is Tanya Stewart out at Capital. Mr. Bellerman wasn’t on his flight. What should I do now, sir?”
    Translation from agent doublespeak: the package has been successfully delivered.
    Danforth sighed theatrically. “Los Angeles strikes again! I’ll look into it, Tanya. In the meantime you’d best get back here. Something’s come up.”
    “What is it, sir?”
    “They need you back in the States as soon as possible. At the Seattle office.”
    Randi frowned. The States as soon as possible? This was a deviation, and a radical one. Upon completion of this assignment she was supposed to ease out of China over a period of days, maintaining her businesswoman’s cover. And what the hell was in Seattle?
    “I’m already setting up your travel arrangements,” Danforth continued. “You’ll be flying out this evening on Asiana to Seoul, and from there by JAL. There will be a reservation waiting for you at the SeaTac Doubletree.”
    “I see, Mr. Danforth. Should I swing by the office?”
    “Yes. I’ll have your tickets, and we can go over the outlines of this new project. You’ll be met by a Mr. Smith in Seattle. He’s with one of our associate firms, and you’ll be working with him on a joint venture.”
    Randi frowned. Mr. Smith? The Agency would never use a cover name like that. It must be the real thing.
    Her frown deepened. It couldn’t be. Not again.

Chapter Six
    San Francisco Bay
    The diseased mind known in the Bay Area as the “BART rapist” settled back in his seat and luxuriated in the contemplation of the next woman he would destroy. The big Bay Transit Authority SuperCat passenger ferry was just backing away from the Market Street terminal, and he would have a full fifty minutes for his contemplation before their arrival in Vallejo. It pleased him that she was already his possession but still totally unaware of it.
    The Bay Area’s public transport systems were his private stalking ground, and as with all his previous half-dozen assaults, this one would be a work of art, in its inception and execution and in his evasion of the police, a thing of great beauty. The actual debasement of his prey would merely be the delicious frosting applied to a master baker’s cake.
    He never used the same persona twice. For this act he would be a cross-bay business commuter, recently moved from the city to the wine country north of the bay. His falsified identification would support the cover story, as would his assumed appropriate appearance: graying temples and wire-framed glasses, sweater and slacks and an expensive tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, Birkenstocks and dark socks. It would all match the image conjured in the mind of any stupid policeman or security guard who might question him.
    Even the contents of the paper bag he carried primly on his knees would be justifiable to any random police check: two pint tins of interior enamel paint, a selection of small paintbrushes, a few cards of hardware screws and cupboard hooks—all things a new DIY home owner would be justified in possessing—complete with a purchasing slip drawn on a downtown San Francisco decorating store.
    In such company, the roll of duct tape and the box cutter would be totally unremarkable.
    He had taken equal care with his past assaults. In the last, he had been the grimy mentally deficient street person, and in the one before that, the slovenly truck driver, and so on. The police didn’t have a clue whom they were truly pursuing.
    A pity, in a way, that he could not be admired for his artistry and his genius.
    Riding the thunder of its hydrojet drives, the SuperCat cut northeastward across