Countdown to Mecca by Michael Savage Page B

the images on the computer screen before them. Miwa and Ritu heard her, too, and came over from the sofa where they had been flipping through magazines. Personal cell phone use was not permitted, in case they were being monitored. Eddie, who had been sleeping between them, remained there.
    â€œYes,” said Miwa. “That is him.”
    Ric studied the face of the Asian girl before turning back to the computer screen. They had been at this all day while Ana’s escorts had been down in the public safe house, occasionally advising, but mostly listening to the life stories of the occupants of the halfway house. Ritu, the more sensitive of the pair, had needed some coffee breaks to have a cry, while Miwa had become noticeably more contemplative. Earlier in the day, Ric overheard the girls talking how horrible it was to be a hooker by necessity, not by choice.
    Sort of like being forced into a life of crime instead of choosing it , he thought, reflecting on his own life. Ric had been a ball collector at a golf club where Sol was a member. The gangster saw him swing a club in anger one day and offered him a new line of work—using the same club. Ric rose quickly through the ranks, becoming the mobster’s trusted driver.
    They were now all looking at Sammy’s screen where the image from a San Francisco online newspaper’s society page showed One-Star General Montgomery Morton, his wife, Cynthia, and their two lovely children—Thomas, five, and Brook, seven—at San Francisco’s Flower & Garden Show, held annually at the San Mateo Event Center.
    â€œNice going,” Ric exclaimed, clapping Sammy on the shoulder.
    â€œThanks,” Sammy said, grinning with pride.
    One of the reasons they had been going at this all day was that the U.S. military had become extremely cautious and particularly secretive since September 11, 2001. Finding personal information on army officers outside specifically chosen public relations representatives or high-ranking political appointees had become increasingly difficult. It had been Sammy’s idea to scour horticultural sources simply from Ana’s mentioning that Morton had smiled at a vase in the suite after Ric had her recount her experiences in as much detail as she could remember. She could, it turned out, remember a lot.
    â€œSo we’ve got a name and we have a face,” Ana said. “What now?”
    â€œWe also know his immediate family,” Miwa said.
    â€œYou’re both right,” Ric said. “But none of that is important at the moment. Let me tell you what happens when the cops nail a wise guy. The first thing they do is look into ‘known associates.’”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Ritu asked.
    â€œIt means we start looking out who his pals are,” Sammy said, his fingers already moving across the keyboard. “For instance, who served in the special forces, who’s been mustered out, who lives or recently arrived in San Francisco.”
    With that lead, more information came quickly. One of the first things they found was Morton’s name in the West Point yearbook. Once they knew he had graduated from that august academy, they trolled the yearbook pages, seeking out any clubs he frequented.
    â€œThere!” Ritu suddenly cried, pointing. “There!” They all looked to where she was pointing. It was a picture of the archery team, where Morton had been an advisor.
    â€œWhoa!” Miwa said.
    â€œWhat?” Sammy asked.
    â€œThere,” Miwa said, wagging her finger. “The gold medal winner. Isn’t that the ‘Kid’?”
    They all looked closer. “It could very well be,” Ana concluded.
    â€œOkay,” Ric enthused. “Looks like we’re on the right track.” He checked the names in the caption. “Andrew Taylor,” he read. “Let’s see where his name leads us.”
    Within minutes, Sammy leaned back, his eyes widening.