by Peter Ponzo
"We have less than a week before Memorial Day. There will be a thousand police and army personnel and over three hundred plainclothes officers in the crowd. Every building roof will have marksmen with telescopic sights. Every one of our people will be checked out and have special badges issued the morning of the speech. Anyone without a badge won't be allowed beyond the fences. Reporters will be issued badges just minutes before the governor appears on stage. Everyone will be in radio contact. Our communication center will monitor the images from a hundred TV monitors placed around the square. If anybody in the crowd looks suspicious we can have a man on him within ten seconds."
Clayton went over the preparations as though he needed the recitation to convince himself that no stone had been left unturned. He was new to this job, and he was very nervous.
"Ten seconds, just enough time to kill the governor," grunted Tony.
Clayton put down his pencil and stared at Tony Shugart.
"Yes ... enough time to kill the governor. But that will require a weapon and everybody will enter the square through gates. The gates have been fitted with metal detectors."
"Sounds good to me."
"No! I don't want you to find the precautions adequate. I want you to find them inadequate!" Clayton leaned forward and stared at Tony. "If you wanted to assassinate the governor how would you do it?"
"Look Clayton, don't expect me to think like a criminal. I'm a -"
"If you can't think like the enemy then you shouldn't be in security!"
Tony Shugart leaned back and took a long drag on his cigarette.
"Okay. I drive up to the gates in a white truck. I'm with city sanitation and my men intend to clean the square before the big day. We tamper with the metal detectors, at the gates, just enough to make them ineffective but not enough to show, visually."
"No good. The guards require identification. Besides, sanitation has been turned over to the army. City staff is out of this."
"Hmm ... I rent an apartment, top floor. I did this six months ago. I have a rifle with sights. The apartment has a window with a view of the square, and the stage."
"Nope. All residents within rifle range have been thoroughly checked out, especially ones who moved in recently, and six months is recent. Besides, windows which look onto the square will be scanned by people with telescopes placed on every rooftop. You wouldn't be able to poke a fork out the window without getting your hand blown off."
"Okay, I fly over the square with my private plane and -"
"C'mon, Tony. You know very well that nothing will be allowed to fly over. Every pigeon is suspect."
"I give up. How would you assassinate the governor?"
"Keep going Tony. I've already asked myself that question and have plugged every loophole, so I wouldn't succeed. Now I need another mind working on this. Keep going."
"I still like the idea of a rifle in a room with a view of the square. If I poked a fork out the window I'd get my hand blown off. That's what you said. But I don't need to poke anything out the window. I could pick him off from inside the room. I just need a window with a view."
"But we've already checked out everybody who lives in the area."
"Fine. I break into one of these apartments or hotel rooms, into a room with someone you've already checked out, I bump the guy off and use his window."
"Yes ... you could do that I suppose." Clayton picked up his pencil and scribbled something in his notebook. "Suppose we restrict access to the hotels and apartment buildings. We can do that starting today. Memorial Day is still a week off and if you wanted to break into a room you'd do it just before the day of the speech. Right? If you broke in and killed the tenant too early then somebody is bound to get suspicious and you would want to avoid that. Good. Have every tenant checked in and out of the buildings around the square, starting immediately."
Clayton put down his pencil and got up from his desk. When Tony left he sat down again and ran his hand back and forth across the top of his head; he was almost bald, with thin sandy hair running close cut around the back of his head, from ear to ear. Maybe premature baldness went with the job. He was also putting on weight. Maybe that went with the job, too.
He was having dinner with his brother tonight. He would ask Gordon the same question:
How would you assassinate the governor?
*****
"Assassinate the governor? How the hell would I know?"
"Let's hear it, Gordon. Go ahead. Tell me how you'd do it. You're a math professor. You should have some ideas. I'd like to have your input. Christ, you're a lousy cook. Maybe you're better at assassination."
Gordon Chaplain looked carefully at his brother. Clayton had recently been promoted to the position of Chief of Security and this was his first big job. It was clear that he was a little nervous, and deadly serious.
It was rare to have Clayton ask Gordon for an opinion. Since they were children Clayton had been the silent one, wise and silent. He would stand no nonsense, could tolerate no deviation from the topic under discussion. He often regarded Gordon as somewhat backward and a good deal less than serious in every situation. He thought it his duty to protect his younger brother from the dangers of the world, and Clayton saw danger everywhere. The bullies who lived on the next block, the winter winds which roared across the back lot, the teachers at school who stayed behind closed doors to hide their secret deliberations. But Gordon was a dreamer, oblivious of any danger lurking in the shadows, living in a world of his imagination. It was no surprise when Clayton joined the Department of National Security. It was more surprising that Gordon accepted an invitation to teach mathematics after graduation from university. Perhaps mathematics lent itself to flights of imagination. Perhaps the inventive Gordon was attracted to the mysteries of algebra and functional analysis and the very characteristics of a dreamer that often frustrated Clayton were necessary to a fruitful study of mathematics.
But somehow they had grown closer as the years passed and Clayton no longer saw his younger brother as an irrational and erratic youth. Well, not always.
"Okay, let's see," Gordon began, looking as serious as he could, even though he thought it was a useless exercise. "We'll do this logically. I wouldn't try to get near Memorial Square with a weapon; too many of your men about. That also leaves out planting some timed device, a bomb. I'm sure that your guys will have checked every nook and cranny and you'd find a bomb. That means I'd have to do it, with some weapon, from a distance. A window looking onto the square is no good. Too close. You'd have checked out all nearby buildings. A weapon that could be fired from a great distance. What's that? A shell maybe, fired from a cannon? How to fire a cannon without attracting attention? It's not something I could hide in my pocket." Gordon grinned, scratched his chin. "On Memorial Day there's a military parade, with armored vehicles and tanks and probably mobile rocket launchers. The parade starts ... where?"
"In Holland Field, about three miles from the square. Keep going Gordon. You're doing great."
"Okay. I'd arrange to have one of my people, an evil colleague, in the army, on a mobile launcher. The rocket would be armed. I understand that you can hit a beer can from ten miles away with one of those laser guided rockets. That's what I'd do, except it would be from three miles and the target would be center stage in Memorial Square."
Clayton smiled and finished the last gulp of his wine.
"Not bad, baby brother. Of course you'd have some problems getting one of your people on a mobile launcher. All the army personnel will be checked out thoroughly and the rockets won't be armed with explosive warheads."
"Then I'd hire somebody from the World of Sharlain who would materialize right on the launcher, complete with rocket. He'd just walk through the Door of Monash and -"
"What in God's name are you talking about? World of Sharlain? Door of Monash? Let's be serious." Clayton didn't think it was funny, even though his brother was grinning. Protecting the governor was an importan
t task that warranted a serious discussion.
Gordon was glad to have changed the subject. There was little he could contribute to the security of the governor, but a discussion of the imminent invasion by the Lord of Darkness might be of some interest to his brother. He had to make it sound plausible. That wasn't going to be easy. Even when they were kids Clayton never liked stories which involved ghosts or dragons or wizardry. Gordon would sit for hours, enraptured, listening to his mother read tales of knights and elves and magic potions. Clayton would fall asleep. Realizing this, their father would tell the tales of Alexander the Great, of the Mongol hordes, of the Roman conquests. Clayton would listen intently. Gordon would fall asleep.
Although they differed significantly in personality they did have one thing in common: they were both bachelors. For Clayton it meant freedom to pursue his goal of becoming Chief of Security. For Gordon it meant freedom to travel and study strange cultures. Although they saw each other often, they really had little in common, little to talk about. Clayton was always serious, down-to-earth, speaking of the problems of security, always concerned with worst-case scenarios. Gordon was a dreamer, speaking of the untapped powers of the human mind and man's ignorance of the true nature of the universe. In spite of the differences they were both bachelors and they were brothers (and both prematurely bald) and somehow that kept them together and provided a strong bond. That bond had been strengthened since the sudden death of their parents in an automobile accident more than five years ago. Gordon had been shattered, but Clayton had taken it calmly, without a tear. Nevertheless Clayton visited the cemetery each year on the anniversary of their death whereas Gordon refused, claiming that only the bones were buried there, not his parents. Clayton never understood the comment.
*****
Gordon walked to the wall and flicked some switches. The dining area lighting was dimmed and the living room lights were brightened. Clayton smiled, walked over to a large leather chair in the living room area and sat down. It was clear that Gordon and his imagination were about to be given free reign. That might be a welcome relief. His stomach had been in knots for over a week. He needed some one to take his mind off the security of the governor and Gordon was clearly the best person for the job. His brother had a wild imagination which would normally disgust Clayton, but Gordon had a way with words which made even the nonsensical seem fascinating.
"Several weeks ago, at our weekly poker game, I hypnotized Dan Woller. He insisted that I couldn't, so I did. While he was in a trance he muttered the words Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan. He denied having uttered those words, but when I later talked to his wife she knew the words too. In fact I made an intentional error in pronunciation, to both Dan and later, to his wife Kathy, and in each case they corrected the error. Then, a day or two after that, I was listening to the 11 o'clock news." Gordon leaned forward and gazed at his brother, lowering his voice for effect. "An old man had been picked up in an alley, drunk, sick. The old man had been preaching the end of the world to anyone who would listen. One of the phrases this old guy used in his preaching was ... guess what?"
"Borgo-nom achewan. No-nopawno agerwan," mumbled Clayton. "Yes, I remember hearing something about that on the news."
Gordon grinned and leaned back in his chair. Clayton knew the phrase, word for word. It was a delight to speak to someone who had a memory as keen as his own. It was also a sign that Clayton was paying attention.
"Right! A day or two later I visited this old guy in the hospital. Guess what his name was?"
"How many guesses do I get?"
"His name was Woller. I asked him -"
"Woller? As in Dan Woller?"
"Precisely. So I asked him if he was related to Dan Woller. The old guy became very nervous, agitated. He then told me that Daniel was the Prince of Woller, a servant of the Dark Lord, that Daniel came through the Door of Monash from the World of Sharlain, that the Dark Lord would invade our world with his armies, soon."
"My God, Gordon. I hope you're not taking this seriously. You talk now just as you did when you were ten years old. I can still remember when Dad told you that story about -"
"Clayton, remember," whispered Gordon. "Dan Woller denied having uttered that phrase, yet the whole community heard the same phrase on the 11 o'clock news. Dan must realize this. That phrase ties Dan to the old man, somehow. Another thing that ties the two together is the common name: Woller. That also is now known to the whole community and Dan must realize that too"
"And what does Dan have to say about all this?"
"Dan is gone. His house had been closed down, boarded up, he hasn't shown up to work for over a week."
Clayton frowned. "And his wife? Kathy, didn't you say? Is she gone too?"
"Yes, both gone, vanished, Kathy and Dan. I checked the airlines and trains, through a friend of mine on the police force. No one by the name of Woller bought a ticket out of town. The police found Dan's car, abandoned, empty, out on Peel Road. Dan's house, although boarded up, still has all the contents, apparently untouched: clothes, dishes, furniture, etc.."
"The old man in the hospital, Woller. What about him?"
Gordon whispered. "Dead."
Clayton got out of his chair. He walked around the room, thinking. Gordon was pleased. It had been a long time that his brother had taken him seriously. "Dead? Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?"
"Cross my fart," said Gordon, "and hope to fry." It was a phrase they had used as children. It always evoked a laugh, at least a smile. Clayton stopped and grinned.
"Do you know how the old man died?" he asked, leaning over the back of his chair, his grin changing to a frown.
"Poison. The coroner can't identify the kind of poison, but she's sure that it is poison. Okay big brother, answer the following question for me: If you wanted to invade this world, how would you do it?"
Clayton sat down, slowly. "So, you're getting back at me with these questions of security. Let's see ... I'd start by killing the heads of state, starting with, with -"
"The governor?" volunteered Gordon.
"Jesus Christ," muttered Clayton under his breath. They were silent for some time, then Clayton began to smile, slowly at first, then a wide grin. "Look, Gordon, you almost had me sucked into this scenario you've created. How could I let you do that? I should know better. For years I've listened to your tales of fantasy. That's all it is, fantasy. The World of Sharlain? Rubbish."
"Suppose it is true. Just suppose an attempt on the governor's life will be made on Memorial Day, by forces from another world. How would you protect him. You're Chief of Security. You can't dismiss this out of hand."
"I can, and I w-w-will."
Clayton got up. He didn't say a word, but it was clear that he would leave. Gordon followed him to the door. It was a warm night and they both walked down the driveway to Clayton's car. Gordon watched his brother slide into the car, back out of the driveway then disappear around the corner. There was hardly a word spoken but Clayton had taken this threat seriously.
He had stuttered for the first time in years.
*****
The newspapers had been filled with articles describing the unusual precautions which security had taken to avoid any incident. Reporters complained bitterly of the restricted access they had to Memorial Square. Even the army complained that their personnel were being questioned and the vehicles inspected, more than once. Clayton Chaplain had refused to give interviews to the press or to explain why the precautions were more extensive than in the past. On the morning of Memorial Day, a hundred security officers had gone over the army vehicles once again. When the procession of vehicles started to leave Holland Field, security officers checked them one last time.
"What about the fence patrol?" Tony Shugart sat in the communication van, still providing Clayton with input even to the last minute. Tony was a short, stocky man with wiry hair and square chin and swarthy complexion. He seemed to have unlimited energy, never seeming
to tire of details or long hours or filling out forms, and he smoked almost constantly, the cigarette hanging precariously from his lip.
"What about it?" responded Clayton.
"You know how easy it is to incite a riot. Just a few crazy nuts could get the crowd so excited that they'd break through the fence and surge forward, toward the stage. Then some nut with a gun -"
"Okay, I see what you mean. Can you put extra men on fence patrol? And put a double fence along the square in front of the stage area."
The phone rang. A technician was sitting in the communication van with Clayton and Tony, checking the instruments. He answered it, then handed the phone to Clayton. Clayton listened without speaking. When he put down the phone he looked worried.
"Tony, let's go. They've found a bomb in the trunk of a car, three blocks from the square."
*****
There were still several hours before the parade would start, but the streets were already crowded. When they reached the car, the bomb demolition squad had already arrived.
"Mr. Chaplain, good morning. I'm Frank Harris, head of the bomb squad. The bomb is the work of amateurs. Stupid. It wouldn't have worked anyway. Some people can't do anything right." The head of the bomb squad frowned and shook his head. He loved bombs and thought every one should know how to build a functional explosive device.
"Take it out," Clayton barked. "Don't take any chances. And whatever you do, don't let the reporters get this story." Tony peered into the trunk of the car. Clayton was looking up the street toward Memorial Square.
"Tony, what good is a bomb back here? Even if it did go off it wouldn't do any damage, kill anybody, except maybe a few pedestrians. Curious, wouldn't you say?"
Clayton walked slowly toward Memorial Square, stopping occasionally to look intently at the buildings on either side of the street, then he looked back at the car.
"A diversion," he muttered. "Just a diversion. There's another piece to this."
"Beg pardon, Clay?"
Tony started to follow Clayton, trying to hear his comments. A crowd began to gather around the area. People began to point in the direction of the car with its open trunk. Clayton stopped and looked up at an open window. Somebody was peering out, then disappeared.