The Assassin tc-3

by Stephen Coonts

  I showered and shaved, then dressed in my rented tux that the agency had flown up from Washington. There was a rental place near my apartment where I always rented a monkey suit when I needed one, so the guy had all my sizes. He even got the right size of patent leather shoes, although they weren’t very comfortable.

  I checked the Colt — loaded, cocked and locked — and put it in my waistband in the small of my back. The strap of the cumberbund helped hold it in place.

  At six o’clock sharp I knocked on the door to the Petrou suite. Isolde opened it. She was dressed to the nines, but Marisa was still in her slip dabbing makeup. Her slip plunged almost to her navel, leaving very little to the imagination. Of course she wasn’t wearing a bra. She barely acknowledged my presence.

  I could tell by looking at each woman that neither had a concealed weapon under her clothes. Just to be sure, I helped myself to their purses and stirred through them as Isolde watched with narrowed eyes.

  “You are very forward, young man.”

  “I’m aging quickly,” I replied. “At this rate I’ll probably be old enough for Social Security next year.” I handed her back her purse. I could see that Isolde didn’t like my attitude. “They behave better in France, don’t they?” I said.

  I could see Marisa glancing at me in the mirror as she put on lipstick. I met her gaze. There was something going on there, but damned if I knew what.

  Isolde went into the other bedroom, leaving us alone.

  Marisa went into the walk-in closet to dress. She came out in a full-skirted gown that above her waist barely covered the slip, and a set of three-inch high heels. Just looking at her made my heart go pitty pat.

  She needed help putting on her necklace. I stood behind her and did the clasp. “Tommy …” Marisa began, watching me in the mirror. I didn’t say anything.

  “I meant what I said the other night, about wishing it were different.” “I wish it were, too.” We left it there.

  Jake Grafton was dressed and waiting on his wife when the telephone rang. It was Sal Molina. “He wants to see you.” Sal gave him the room number.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” Jake told Callie and kissed her.

  She seized him by both arms and looked into his eyes. “You’ve done the best you could, you know.”

  “I do know.”

  “However this works out is how it works out.”

  “I know that, but still… I don’t want the president dead. Not on my watch.”

  “Jake!”

  “Hey. Being your husband has been an adventure, lady. I just want you to know that.” He kissed her gently on the forehead.

  She bit her lip and watched him leave the room, pull the door closed behind him.

  She knew that Jake Grafton was perfectly capable of stepping in front of the president to stop a bullet meant for him. And he had just said good-bye.

  Wilkins was in the presidential bedroom with the Secret Service’s Goldman, the secretary of Homeland Security, the director of the FBI and Sal Molina. They were standing around with their hands in their pockets, looking glum, when Grafton was ushered in by a Secret Service agent. The president was sitting in an easy chair. The first lady was in the bathroom, still dressing.

  Grafton took a letter from his coat pocket and passed it to Wilkins. “Just in case,” he said.

  Wilkins knew what it was — Grafton’s letter of resignation — and pocketed it with a nod.

  Goldman was arguing that the president shouldn’t appear this evening. He glanced at Grafton, then summed up. “This whole thing is an unnecessary risk. We’ll announce that you are indisposed, and Molina here can make his first public appearance since his high school graduation. He can shake hands, tell lies, pretend he is somebody, and we’ll catch this son of a bitch Qasim.”

  “If he shows up,” the director of the FBI added. “I’m betting that he won’t. This whole thing is a half-baked, half-assed, cockamamie load of bullshit, if you ask me.”

  The president looked from face to face. This argument had obviously been going on for a while before Grafton arrived, and these were the final love pats.

  “Admiral?” the president said.

  “If we knew what he looked like, we could go down there and drag him out, but we don’t know.”

  “That Petrou woman knows,” Wilkins said sourly.

  “She should be able to recognize him, regardless of how he is disguised,” Goldman said. “Grafton says she thinks she can, and I certainly hope so. If he’s in that room, we’ve got him. That’s the logical, safe way to do this.”

  They all fell silent. Everyone had had his say. The president got out of his chair so that he could look everyone in the eyes. “I don’t want another 9/11. I don’t want any more spectacular terrorist attacks on American soil, and our allies don’t want any on their soil. Abu Qasim is the most capable terrorist alive — I believe he could pull off something like that.”

  “If the bastard kills the president of the United States,” Goldman shot back, “that would be the biggest coup of all.”

  “Enough,” the president said. “We’ve got soldiers who go in harm’s way every single day, and I’m the guy who sent them there. I’ll be damned if I’m going to run and hide. We are going to do this just the way it’s planned.”

  He reached for Grafton’s hand, shook it, then shook the hand of everyone in the room and shooed them out.

  Isolde Petrou, Marisa and I took the elevator to the lobby and walked past a phalanx of police to the ballroom entrance. As Grafton said, the women had to pass through a metal detector. My pass got me a detour around it. I wondered if Abu Qasim had a nifty pass like mine. I didn’t see the Geiger counters, but I had no doubt they were there.

  Inside, the maftre d’ checked the master list, then a uniformed helper wearing a different-colored pass escorted us to our table, which was on one side of the room about five rows back. Jack Yocke was already sitting there, and he had a date.

  “Hey, Yocke. I didn’t know you gave money to politicians.”

  In answer, he lifted his pass, which was also on a chain around his neck, so that I got a good look. It was a different color than mine. “Working press,” he said, then introduced his lady to the Petrous and me — a different woman than the lady he brought to dinner at the Graftons’. She, too, had a press pass dangling from her neck.

  I looked at the name tags on the table and maneuvered the women so we were all in the right seats. Isolde was on my left, sort of facing the head table, and Marisa was on my right. Marisa and I had our backs to the wall and were facing the bulk of the room.

  It took a while for the room to fill, what with the security at the door and the seating protocol. A half-dozen Secret Service agents were stationed behind the speaker’s table, and two knots of three in front. Another dozen or so were scattered throughout the room, standing and moving around in small areas. New York cops in uniform were at every entrance and fire exit.

  I listened to Isolde and Marisa make small talk with the two reporters and another couple that arrived toward the end, a car dealer and his wife from Indiana. The car dealer was full of enthusiasm for meeting the president. “One of my heroes,” he said frankly.

  I decided the guy was an idiot and dismissed him. Jake Grafton was my hero, not some politician. Not any politician.

  I kept the eyes moving. Saw Winchester and Simon Cairnes come in with Jerry Hay Smith, who looked to be wearing a typical guest pass. Guess his press credentials were getting rusty. I recognized some prominent industrialists, some actors, more politicians and a couple of high-powered lawyers. Most of the people were, of course, strangers to me.

  The seater led Winchester and his pals to a table where the two Grafton women were seated. The table was at least fifty feet from ours.

  There was an empty seat at that table, and I supposed it was for the admiral, who was nowhere in sight.

  I glanced at Marisa to see if she was watching all this. She wasn’t. She was listening intent
ly to Isolde, almost as if… as if she were her daughter.

  That thought jolted me. Where had it come from? More important, where had it been?

  My eyes kept searching for Grafton. I wondered if he had had that thought. Probably, I decided. He was always miles ahead of me, which is why he was the boss.

  I glanced at the car dealer and saw that he was looking me over. “Got any openings for salesmen at your dealership?” I asked.

  “Dealerships. We have four.”

  “Always nice to meet a successful capitalist.”

  “We can always use another good man. In car sales, the sky is the limit.” He tossed that off without thought, then he engaged the brain. “What does the color of your pass mean?”

  “I’m a licensed killer.”

  That comment jolted him. “You mean like Double-O Seven?”

  “Oh, yeah. Me and James Bond. Same deal.”

  Yocke chuckled and told the guy, “Tommy’s with the government. Housing, I think.”

  “Bureaucrat,” I said. “I’m bored to tears. Been thinking about a job change.”

  Abu Qasim couldn’t believe how many people were there, and how many security men and women, in and out of uniform. They weren’t running low profile, either. They stood beside the doors, manned the metal detector, and scrutinized driver’s licenses and invitations.

  This was the hurdle that Qasim had worried about and planned for four years to get over. He had his hand in his pocket on his driver’s license, which was genuine. He concentrated on controlling his breathing. If he didn’t hyperventilate, he wouldn’t overperspire or look flushed, both of which would be signals for the security people. ‘

  The man in front of Qasim couldn’t find his invitation. While he searched his pockets and his wife looked embarrassed, the officer beside him motioned to Qasim.

  He stepped around and passed him the invitation and his driver’s license.

  “Mr. Rothstein?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your birthday, Mr. Rothstein?”

  “July 8, 1958.”

  After matching Qasim’s face to the photo on the license, the officer handed him back the invitation and license and motioned toward the metal detector.

  Beside him, the man without the invitation was trying to talk his way in. “You people must have a list, and I know I’m on it. Why don’t you look?”

  Qasim handed his cell phone, watch, keys and digital camera to the officer with a basket beside the detector and walked on through. Nothing beeped. The officer put his things under a fluoroscope, examined them, then handed them back to him.

  He was in.

  “Right this way, sir,” one of the ushers said and checked his invitation against a list. “Follow me, please.”

  Everyone was seated and the ballroom doors were closed, only twenty minutes behind schedule, when the president and other party heavies came marching in to the strains of “Hail to the Chief” over the PA system, cutting off the banter. Spotlights came on, illuminating the president and official party. There were two television cameras mounted on platforms in the rear of the room, and the big spotlights hung from the ceiling. The rest of the room was well lit, however; the Secret Service had insisted upon it.

  Jake Grafton was two people back from the Big Kahuna, all decked out in a tux, but he sort of hung back, a bit out of the way. We all got to our feet and applauded. The Petrous and the reporters and I applauded politely, but the car dealer and his wife really slammed hands. The dealer started to climb on his chair, then thought better of it. Someday this guy was going to be the deputy assistant secretary of something or other.

  When everyone was finally seated and the popping flashbulbs slowed to something reasonable, the master of ceremonies welcomed us, then someone — I don’t know who — led us in the Pledge of Allegiance. I glanced around to see if anyone nearby was faking it. Apparently not. A prominent local preacher then offered up a prayer, pretty much a generic prayer, acceptable to all religions, inoffensive and tepid. When that was over, the designated senator started in on a fire-eating speech. This party and this president were good for the country, and deserved the support of every true American, and so on. You or I could have written it. Overwrought and theatrical, it was artificially passionate and uninspiring. Apparently no one cared.

  “You taking notes?” I asked Yocke, who wasn’t. He ignored me.

  Marisa had finally taken an interest in who else was in attendance. She was looking around, not ostentatiously, but looking. I found myself watching her.

  When the senator finished, the master of ceremonies made a few more remarks and said, “Enjoy your dinner.”

  That was the signal for an army of waiters to come marching out of the kitchen area bearing salads and wine bottles. They left a bottle of white and a bottle of red at each table. At our table the car dealer took it upon himself to do the pouring. Since I thought it possible I might need a wit or two at some point, I stuck with water. Marisa and Isolde took a glass of white. Isolde sipped and made a face. California wine, apparently.

  I was watching the head table. I figured if I kept my eyes on the president, I would see whatever was coming. If anything. He was on his feet now, shaking hands up and down the head table. Two Secret Service types who looked as if they could place in a Mr. America contest stood immediately behind him. Grafton was beside them, his hands at his sides, scrutinizing faces in the crowd.

  I wondered what the admiral was thinking. If the president got popped here tonight… Just the thought gave me goose bumps. I had read books and watched television shows about the Kennedy assassination from the time I was old enough to toddle; if the president went down tonight, Jake Grafton and I were going to be cussed, discussed and dissected by the press and conspiracy theorists until the coming of the next ice age. It was not a pleasant prospect.

  When the president finished pumping hands at the head table, he went around the near end of the table into the crowd and began shaking hands and greeting people at each table. The spotlights stayed on him. The two Secret Service types and Jake Grafton accompanied him, just a little behind. Meanwhile the waiters were completing the salad and wine service and accumulating plates on side tables, preparing to serve them to the seated multitude.

  I eyed those tables. Of course, no one knew who was getting which plate. Then I saw that the head table was being served directly out of the kitchen by guys and gals who looked suspiciously like Secret Service. They were leaving nothing to chance.

  The president’s progress was slow. It seemed that he knew a lot of these folks, or pretended he did. He took his time at each table, and someone was always standing up to take a picture or two. Grip, smile sincerely, pose, say a few polite words, then do it all over again. Obviously this was going to take a while.

  He was finished with the first row and starting on the second when the waiters began serving the main course. He was going to shake hands all through dinner. I guess he didn’t like Chicken Cordon Bleu any more than I did.

  I slurped water and watched the crowd and the president, trying to take it all in.

  Soon, Qasim thought, and tried to concentrate on what the lady on his left was saying. Something about her daughter who was attending Smith College. “These young ladies at Smith … they talk about a ‘third sex,’ and wear tails sticking out of their clothes, date each other and just do what all. Of course, my daughter would never do such nonsense.”

  Qasim didn’t know what to say. He glanced at the president, who was shaking hands twenty-five feet away.

  He was rescued by the woman on his right, who leaned around and spoke to the Smith mother. “They didn’t behave like that when I attended Smith,” she declared. “So much bad behavior, nowadays. These young women — what can they be thinking?”

  “An excellent question,” Qasim murmured, but the ladies paid no attention.

  A half hour or so into this production, I was aware that Marisa, seated on my right, had stiffened. She was staring.
>
  I glanced at her face, which was a mask of concentration. Her attention was focused on a table in the middle of the room.

  I looked that way. There were a dozen tables that she might be looking at.

  “Marisa,” I whispered, to get her attention. “What do you see?”

  She didn’t take her eyes off whatever she was looking at, nor did she answer me. My stomach tried to turn over. My instincts said this is it, yet I saw nothing out of the ordinary. People, just a sea of people …

  She pushed back her chair and stood, walked behind my chair and started for the middle of the room. “Excuse me,” she said mechanically to the folks around us and started off.

  I got a glimpse of a pistol butt in her right hand, partially concealed in the folds of her dress. Holy damn! Where had that come from? Adrenaline whacked me in the heart. I uncoiled from my chair and started after her.

  The Secret Service agents standing here and there gave us a glance. One or two shifted nervously, but then they saw the red tag dangling from my neck and relaxed. They were really focused on the president and the people around him; they were still fifty feet away to our right.

  Marisa crossed into the center of the room, threading her way between tables.

  Me — I was so damn worried I almost peed my pants. If she pointed that shooter at the president, I was going to break her neck before she pulled the trigger.

  I was surveying the tables ahead as she walked. Of course, just when I was near panic, she turned ninety degrees to the right and headed for a table beside the one the president was standing at.

  “When I shake hands with the president,” Qasim asked the Smith mother, “would you take my picture?”

  “Of course,” she said, looking at the camera. “Is it on?” “Oh, yes. Just aim and push that button right there.” “My daughter has a camera like this. I can manage.” Satisfied, Qasim took another look at the president at the next table, then glanced around, one last time. To his horror, he saw Marisa walking toward him. Tommy Carmellini was right behind her.