Taking care of Greene inside his home looked like it would pose some difficulties. Perhaps because of all the enemies he'd made, Greene had spent what looked like a good deal of money making the place safe: floodlights, good locks, and what looked, through binoculars, like a state-of-the-art alarm system.
The Grocer's Boy was a killer, not a burglar. He had acquired a few housebreaking tricks along the way, but he didn't trust his skills sufficiently to test them against Greene's little fortress. Anyway, a fortress only protects you as long as you're inside it.
There were too many people around here to risk popping Greene as he came out with his mail, and the traffic in this part of town moved too slowly for a quick run to the nearest Interstate ramp. He would tail Greene unobtrusively and wait for him to stop in the right sort of place.
Then the killer could put on the big hat and sunglasses he'd brought with him, and get out of the car with the paper bag that contained the silenced pistol. He'd walk up to Greene, take out the gun, and put two bullets into him (one each in head and heart, if possible). Then he would replace the gun in the bag and keep walking to where he'd parked.
If Greene went straight home from here, there was always tomorrow, and the day after. Sooner or later, Nestor Greene would put himself within The Grocer's Boy's delivery area.
It was a good fifteen minutes before Greene appeared again, carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper. The killer watched him return to the Jag and get in, then started his own car, prepared to follow. Come on, Nestor, take yourself out to dinner. You deserve it. Find a nice, quiet restaurant, maybe on a side street somewhere. Have a good meal in your stomach when you die.
But Greene didn't start up the Jag immediately. It looked like he was fiddling with something in his lap - probably the package he'd brought out with him. Maybe Mom had sent cookies, and Greene couldn't wait to try one.
Don't eat too many, Nestor. Wouldn't want you to spoil your appetite for dinner.
The explosion when it came wasn't very loud - certainly nothing like your typical car bomb. The Jaguar didn't blow apart. But the inside of the car lit up immediately with the bright glare of something that was burning very fast, and very hot.
The Grocer's Boy watched with professional interest. He could see Greene frantically thrashing around inside the car, and he could hear the screaming from where he sat, even with the windows closed. He was not moved to run over and offer assistance. A couple of local heroes did give it a try, but the intensity of the blaze drove them back. In time, the awful screaming stopped, and the bright fire seemed to be dying down.
He could hear sirens in the distance now. No point in hanging around. He didn't know who hated Nestor Greene enough to burn him alive, and didn't really care. The job was done, even if somebody else did it.
The Grocer's Boy left town with his reputation intact.
Chapter 41
"We have a lot working against us," Quincey Morris said. "What we're going to do is, in effect, abduct a candidate for the Presidency of the United States, under the noses of what is probably -" he nodded toward Arkasian "- the best security team in the world, get him somewhere secure, and maintain that security long enough for Marty to conduct an exorcism - that takes approximately how long, Marty? I have some experience there, but I'd like to hear your estimate."
"The answer," Father Martin Finlay told the group, "depends on whether you're talking about how long it takes to complete the ritual, or how long to drive out the demon. And the reason those times are different is that it doesn't always work the first time."
"So, you could be at it for a while," Jerry Arkasian said.
"Yes, I could. The process itself, if conducted strictly by the book - the Ritual of Exorcism, I'm talking about - without interruption, takes about an hour. Forty-five minutes to an hour."
"Maybe you ought to explain what you mean when you say, 'strictly by the book,'" Morris said.
"The book is the ritual," Finlay said. "But it was never intended to be set in stone. There's room for what, in a less serious matter, I might call improvisation. There are certain prayers that I sometimes use, even though they're not part of the ritual per se. I use them because they've been helpful to me in the past. That's all."
"I want to see if I can establish some parameters of what's possible, versus what's likely," Ellie said. "I'm not sure how much help the Sisterhood will be in this endeavor, but we'll do whatever we can. So when I ask about statistics, Father, understand that I mean no disrespect. I'm not treating the sacred ritual like baseball cards. But the numbers may be important."
"Ask what you want, Ellie, and I'll answer what I can. God knows -"
"Aaaah." Ashley had given vent to a short, sharp scream and was now hunched over in her chair, hands clasped tightly over her ears. After a few seconds she straightened up, her face wet with tears. "Well, turnabout is fair play, I guess" she said.
"Ashley, I'm sorry if I -"
"No, it's okay, it's not your fault. I should have realized the obvious - that you can't discuss this subject without using... that name. But it shouldn't surprise you, Marty that hearing it - well you just saw what happens."
Ashley stood up. "I wouldn't ask you to refrain from saying it, Marty. Even if you tried, it would be only minutes before you forgot yourself and said it again. Therefore," she said, heading towards the door," I am going for a walk."
Libby was frowning. "Does this mean you're abandoning the... whatever this is... the operation?"
"No, it doesn't, Libby. It just means I'm going for a walk. What we're doing is too important for me to bail out now."
She turned to Peters, "When you want me back, just say, out loud, 'Ashley, please.' I'll be here immediately. Okay?"
"Yeah, sure," Peters said carefully. "I'll do that."
Ashley glanced around the room. "I can't really say that it's been nice meeting all you folks, but I will say it's been interesting. I'll see you in a bit."
Then she was through the door and gone.
"If I had any doubts about what she is," Finlay said, "which I most certainly don't, that would clinch it for me. During exorcism, demons often can't stand to hear the name of God, or that of Our Savior Jesus Christ, or any other holy name."
"Let's get back to it, shall we?" Morris said. "Although Ashley's reaction, and the understandable reaction earlier of you and Jerry here, is giving me the beginnings of an idea. I'll tell you all about it later, if it makes sense."
"You were asking about my experience expressed statistically, Ellie," Finlay said. "This will have to be off-the-cuff, since I've never sat down with a calculator and tried to figure this stuff out."
"I understand," Ellie said. "Now, have you ever succeeded in an exorcism with the first attempt?"
"Yes, I have."
"Can you give us an idea, just approximate, of what percentage of your exorcisms worked the first time?"
Finlay's brow furrowed. "I'd say about a quarter of the time - yeah about twenty-five percent."
"What was the greatest number of times you've had to go through the ritual, in a single case?"
"Successfully, you mean? Hmmm. I'd say it was nine, over several days. Exorcism is exhausting - I don't think there's a priest alive who could do nine back to back without rest. And don't forget, this is a religious ritual - it must be treated with reverence."
"You said 'successfully,' a minute ago," Peters said. "Does that mean sometimes you've failed?"
"Yes, sad to say, it does."
"I don't mean to seem obsessed with this," Ellie said, "but how many times did you not succeed?"
"I can remember four cases where I was unable to bring deliverance to the possessed," Finlay said. "And before you ask, Ellie, I believe that I've performed a total of sixty-four exorcisms, although I could be off by a couple either way."
"So, there's no guarantee," Arkasian said bleakly. "We could risk everything, and it might all be worth diddly-squat."
"Yes, Jerry, I'm afraid so," Finla
y said.
"I think I remember an old David Bromberg song," Arkasian said, "that goes, 'A man should never wager more than he can afford to lose.'"
"Good advice," Morris said.
"Yeah," Arkasian said. "Too bad we can't follow it."
After Leffingwell called for a break, the senior campaign staff and their aides were standing around the room in groups of two or three, chatting quietly. The phone rang, and a nearby staff aide named Patrick Connor picked it up. He listened for a moment, said, "Yes sir, I'll get him."
Connor had seen Leffingwell go into the bathroom. The door was partly ajar, so he called out toward the gap, "Senator! Phone for you! It's O'Brian, from your Senate office. He says it's urgent."
He heard Leffingwell's voice say, "I'll be right there." A few seconds later, he heard sounds from the same source that alarmed him - spitting, gagging, choking sounds. He dashed toward the bathroom door and whatever awaited him on the other side.
Ever since he quit smoking two years ago, Bob Leffingwell had marveled at how sensitive his taste buds had become. That meant that good food tasted better than it used to - and, of course, bad food was worse than before.
Leffingwell knew what the liquid antacid labeled Gaviscon tasted like - it had a slight minty flavor. What he had just poured into his mouth did not taste like mint, or like Gaviscon, or like anything he wanted in there one instant longer.
Without even thinking about it, Leffingwell spit the liquid out violently. Most of it went into the sink, although some hit the mirror, and a little more ended up on the bathroom counter. Leffingwell had never tasted something so vile in his life, and he continued to gag even after his mouth was empty.
One of the aides, Patrick something, burst in, a panicked look on his face. "Sir, are you all right? Senator?"
Leffingwell, incapable of speech for the moment, held out a reassuring hand. He took the glass of water he'd set down nearby and used it to rinse his mouth out, thoroughly. By then Ron Messmer, one of the Secret Service agents, was at the door, shouldering young Patrick aside.
"What's happened, sir? Can you talk?"
Leffingwell could now, even though some of that awful taste remained in his mouth. "I came in here to take some antacid. It's the same brand I always use. Hell, I've used about half this bottle already. But I haven't had any in a couple of weeks, I guess, and the stuff's gone bad - in a big way." Leffingwell spat into the sink again. "I didn't think antacid was supposed to do that."
"I've never heard of that either, sir. Is this the bottle?"
"Yeah."
"Mind if I take a look?"
"Go ahead. Keep it, for all I care. I sure don't want any more of that crap."
Messmer held the bottle to his nose and sniffed. Then he got a little of the contents on one finger. He touched the finger to his tongue and immediately made a face.
"Ugh! I see what you mean, Senator. Antacid shouldn't taste like this, ever."
"Hell, Tom, nothing should taste like that!"
"I agree. Did you swallow any of this stuff, sir? Any at all?"
"No, I'm sure I didn't. As soon as that awful taste hit my tongue, I was spitting it out. None too carefully, as you can see. I made quite a mess."
"I think that may be just as well, sir. That you spit it out, I mean." Agent Messmer capped the bottle. "I'm going to have this sent to the FBI lab for analysis, Senator. You never know."
"You think someone tried to poison me?"
"I guess we won't know that until we find out whether it's poison, sir."
Mary Margaret Doyle walked into the living room of yet another hotel suite. I've got good news and bad news," she said.
Sargatanas looked up from the briefing paper he was studying. "Don't play stupid word games with me. If you've got something to say, say it."
"All right. I just saw in the online edition of the Washington Times that Nestor Greene, one-time political mercenary and dirty-tricks expert, was killed when a thermite bomb went off in his car, while he was parked outside the post office in Annandale, which is where he lives - lived."
"So our little surprise worked. Good. Pity I couldn't have seen his face, in those last few seconds before the pain took him. And what were you characterizing as 'bad news'?"
"Simply the fact that, unlike Greene, Bob Leffingwell is still very much among the living. If he hasn't taken the drug by now, I think the odds are he never will."
Sargatanas put the briefing paper down and sat back in his chair. "Do you think Greene betrayed us - kept the money and never hired anyone to poison Leffingwell?"
"No way of knowing - especially now."
"Did he give you the name of the supposed 'professional' he hired?"
"No - he just said it was someone who was highly recommended."
"Recommended by his grandmother, most likely. Well, this leaves us in an awkward position. Leffingwell's got a few more delegates pledged to him than we do, and the convention is the week after next. That means there will be what your politicians so charmingly call a 'floor fight.' Can we win?"
"Garrett says we can."
"Garrett is paid to be optimistic. Martinez hasn't returned your phone call yet, has he?"
"No, I've heard nothing from him, at either of the numbers I gave his people."
"That spic cocksucker. I bet he's returning Leffingwell's phone calls. If Martinez were to, say, fall off a bridge tomorrow, what happens to his delegates?"
"They'd be free to go wherever they wished. But - you're not thinking of doing something to Martinez, are you?"
"Cold feet, Mary Margaret? It really is a little late for that."
"No, I just meant it would be hard to get to him on such short notice and still preserve our own deniability. Especially now that we don't have Greene as an intermediary."
He looked at her in a way that she had learned to dread. "You're not by any chance questioning my decision to get rid of Greene, are you?"
"No - no, of course not."
"Because if you were, that would be insolent. And what happens to insolent little girls, hmm?"
"T-they are punished. Severely."
He held her in his basilisk gaze a little longer, then said, "Get out of my sight. I have some thinking to so."
She got.
Chapter 42
"I don't mean to be all gloom and doom," Quincey Morris told those assembled in the suite at the Best Western. "We do have certain things going for us - and they may just be enough to bring us through, successfully and in one piece."
"God willing," Finlay muttered solemnly.
"A consummation devoutly to be wished," Peters said, with a crooked grin.
"Fuckin' A," Libby Chastain added, with a grin of her own.
"Let me run it down for you, and then I'll tell you the idea Libby and I have cooked up to make the most effective use of it."
"We have three essential advantages," Morris said. "I'll start with the smallest and work up to the biggest one. The smallest one is surprise - neither Sargatanas, nor any of the people guarding him, have any idea that we're in the game, or what we're planning to do. And the aggressor always has the advantage."
"It's less of an advantage here than it would be in other situations," Arkasian said. "That's because you're planning to surprise the U.S. Secret Service. I'm not saying that because it's my team, rah-rah. But Secret Service agents are trained to react to surprises. Every six weeks, an agent rotates back to the academy for two weeks of testing, weapons requalification, and simulated attacks on a protectee. If you do security work for a long time, and nothing happens, you get soft and slow and complacent. The training is designed to counteract that. In fact, I'm due to rotate through the academy the week of the Republican convention, so I won't even be there when all this goes down." He gave them a sour expression. "Well, at least it gives me an alibi, if I need one."
"Jerry had described for me the intense training the agents receive so they'll react fast in emergencies," Morris said. "That's why I listed surp
rise on the low end of our advantages. Still, we get to choose when to strike, and how. Even though the agents may well respond very, very quickly, we still get to make the first move. And even Secret Service agents don't train to deal with the kind of stuff they'll be facing in Madison Square Garden this time. And speaking of the Garden, I'll let Jerry discuss our second advantage."
"The next element in our favor is, well, me," Arkasian said. "In other circumstances, I guess you could say that I'd be acting as a mole who is betraying one of our leaders to our nation's enemies. It just so happens that in this case, I know that the country's biggest enemy is the guy who wants to be our leader."
"Still, that must be a lot of cognitive dissonance for you to deal with," Finlay said.
"Not as much as you might think, Marty. Okay, so one of the big plusses of having me in this group is that I can tell you with almost 100 per cent certainty how Secret Service agents will react in a given situation. We all get the same training, apart from specialists like snipers. All I have to do is ask myself what I'd do, and I can apply it to the other agents as well."
Arkasian stepped over to the nearest wall, where a rolled bundle of poster-size documents was leaning.
"Mal," Morris said, "you wanna help me move this table into the center, please?"
Peters and Morris picked up the low coffee table and brought it into the middle of the oval created by the chairs. Arkasian pulled rubber bands off the bundle and unrolled it onto the table. He and the others found small, heavy objects in the room to place on the corners, to keep the thing from rolling up again.
"It wasn't easy to copy these with nobody else being the wiser," Arkasian said. "I had to do it over several evenings when I could come up with a plausible reason to be alone in the document room. As you folks might imagine, this stuff is classified - just Confidential, though. If it was Top Secret I'd never get near it without two other agents with automatic weapons standing over me every second."
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