“She told me.”
“She could have lied.”
“When you had the gun barrel to her forehead and looked into her eyes on the bluff, were they the eyes of a woman who was lying?”
For a long time, Moses said nothing. Bo could hear the man breathing at his back, could feel the warm breath breaking against his neck.
“Why did they frame you?” Moses asked.
“Because they tried to kill me and couldn’t. They want me dead because I know who they are,” Bo said.
“And that would be?”
“NOMan.”
“NOMan?”
“National Operations Management. It’s a federal government agency, established as an information conduit. Ostensibly. I’m pretty sure that all along it was meant for something else.”
Bo explained what he knew about the organization. When he’d finished, Moses laughed quietly.
“Ever read the Odyssey, Thorsen?”
Bo heard a door open in the far recesses of the church. The pew behind Bo creaked.
“It’s just Otter,” Bo said quickly.
“Bo?” It was Otter’s voice preceding him.
Bo spoke quietly over his shoulder. “Look, Moses, we can work this out together. We both have a stake in what happens.”
Moses didn’t reply. Otter stepped into the dim illumination from the light above the altar, and he looked around. A few moments passed before he saw Bo.
“Sorry that took so long. What are you doing there all alone? Praying?”
Bo slowly turned and looked behind him. Moses was gone.
Otter came down the aisle, carrying a white bag that smelled of the hot gyros inside it.
“I’ve got to go, Otter.”
“Why?”
“Moses was here.”
“The dead guy?”
“He’s not dead.”
Otter’s eyes jumped around the darkened church. “How’d he find you?”
“Because he’s a goddamn genius. He may get it in his head to call the police. Until I figure all this out, I can’t take a chance on getting picked up.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not like I haven’t been on the streets before.”
“This sucks, Spider-Man. What can I do to help?”
“You’ve already done enough.”
Otter handed him the bag of food. “Wait here.” He was gone a few minutes. When he came back he carried a rolled blanket tied with a rope that was looped in such a way that it created a sling to make the bedroll easier to carry over his shoulder.
“It’s a good blanket,” Otter said. “Kept me warm a lot of nights when I didn’t have a roof over my head. And here.” Otter shoved a handful of money at him. “Only forty-seven dollars. It won’t get you to Mexico, but it’ll keep you fed for a few days.”
“I can’t—”
“Take it, Spider-Man. I’ve got food, and a paycheck’s on the way. You’ve got to keep yourself together until things get cleared up. God knows when that’ll be.”
Bo had always been the one offering help. It had been a long time since he’d needed any himself. He found it hard being on the other side of charity, having something as simple as an old blanket and spare change mean so much.
“Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary. Just be careful, okay?”
Bo retrieved his Sig from the church pew and stuffed it into the bedroll. Otter’s final offering was a strong hug, then Bo took his leave.
He walked the streets as the dark of night hardened around him. Clouds rolled in from the west and blotted out the stars. He stopped once, at a convenience store to buy toothpaste and a toothbrush, and to use the phone. Directory assistance was unable to help him. Lorna Channing’s telephone number was unlisted. Bo tried the White House using the code name Peter Parker, but he got nowhere.
When he reached the river, he followed the east bank of the Mississippi, walking along a jogging path that finally ended in the broken concrete of old docks and landings no longer used and fallen into disrepair. Behind him, the towers of the downtown district spiked toward a sky domed with an overcast that reflected the glitter and glare of the city. Ahead of him, high above the river, a row of lit globes slanted down from Cherokee Heights like a broken string of pearls. The High Bridge. Bo passed under the girders and made his way to the place where once, long ago, the old bus had sat on blocks and sheltered his street family. The bus was gone, but the site was still a deserted stretch of riverbank guarded by cottonwoods and cushioned by tall grass. Bo rolled out the blanket and sat down. A muddy smell flowed up from the river, thick as the water itself. He was in a place where eons before, glacial flooding had carved a deep chasm in the layers of sandstone. The houses atop the Heights were set back too far to be seen from the river, and the bluff beneath them was invisible in the dark. The great bridge seemed to connect with nothing at all. Bo recalled that only a couple of days before he’d been on top of the bridge, poised to plunge to his death, to ride into eternity on the current of the black water below.
His body hurt. His feet ached because the shoes Otter had given him were too small. His head was packed with facts and conjectures that whirled round and round and sucked all his thinking into a confusing maelstrom. He tried to sort a few things out.
He was certain now what NOMan’s goal was.
The assassination of the First Lady.
The murder of Kate.
It was possible that with Moses now truly at large and with Bo complicating things, they may have decided to call off the operation, but he knew that these were people accustomed to manipulating events on an enormous scale. The network of NOMan was so tightly woven into the mundane fabric of the legitimate system that it was almost invisible. They’d been operating so long and so effectively that by now they may have considered themselves invulnerable and were still determined to proceed with the killing.
But how? And where? And when?
He contemplated the wisdom of calling the field office in Minneapolis and telling them everything he knew and everything he suspected. Several considerations held him back. In the first place, there was the time a call like that would take. They’d have him located in a matter of moments, and they’d descend on him with extreme prejudice. If they took him into custody, NOMan would know exactly where he was. Bo wasn’t eager to become a stationary target for an organization that may well have infiltrated the Secret Service in the way it had other agencies. He could easily be killed before he had a chance to state his case. He’d end up just one more incident discussed by conspiracy theorists on the Internet.
He considered spilling the whole story to the newspapers. Again, no guarantee his allegations would make it into print. He had no proof of anything. If Tom Jorgenson didn’t offer supporting testimony and if NOMan called off the hit and nothing happened, he’d be labeled loonier than ever.
The most hopeful strategy would be to anticipate their move and intercept them. This ran contrary to all his training and to the protective doctrine of the Secret Service, which was to cover the protectee and evacuate. But evacuate where? Under assault by an organization as ubiquitous, invisible, and determined as NOMan, was any place safe?
Bo was exhausted. He lay back on the blanket, looked up at the empty night sky, and thought about Kate. He wondered what she must think of him now. Probably, she was thinking he was insane and she was lucky that he hadn’t gone berserk when they’d been alone together.
The sound of thunder came from far away, but Bo didn’t see any lightning. A few drops hit him in the face. Great. On top of everything else, it was going to rain.
chapter
forty-three
President Daniel Clay Dixon was somewhere over North Carolina. Sitting alone in his private compartment aboard Air Force One, he took a moment to look up from the White House news summary and appreciate the color of the evening sky. It looked like a great fire was burning somewhere beyond the Blue Ridge. Then he too
k another moment to sit back and close his eyes.
He was feeling good. The Pan-American summit had gone well, ended with a signing of a good-faith agreement by all the heads of state in attendance. The president had been accorded the honor of giving the closing address, and his words had been received with a standing ovation. He felt that something significant had been accomplished. In his presidency thus far, that had been a rare feeling.
He was about to return to reading the news summary, a document prepared for him four times daily, when his phone rang.
“Mr. President, Lorna Channing is on the line.”
“Go ahead,” Dixon said. “Lorna, what’s up?”
“Have you read your news summary?”
“I’m just doing it now. Something I should know?”
“Page three.”
Dixon thumbed the summary and saw what concerned Lorna.
A brief article reported that Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru, head of the Minneapolis field office of the Secret Service, had been found shot to death in her St. Paul home. Authorities were searching for Special Agent Bo Thorsen, who was wanted for questioning in the shooting death. Thorsen’s car was found at the victim’s home, and neighbors reported that a man matching Thorsen’s description had been observed in the area just prior to the time of death. Earlier in the day, Thorsen reportedly instigated an altercation involving Ishimaru. Thorsen was currently under suspension from his duties pending a formal inquiry into the events surrounding the attempted assassination of the First Lady at her family home in Minnesota.
“Christ, what’s going on?” Dixon said.
“If you believe the reports, our man’s gone postal.”
“Has he contacted you?
“Not a word. I didn’t even know he’d left D.C. I’ve talked with Stanton. He’ll be here when you arrive. I thought it would be best if we were briefed together.” She was talking about Gerald Stanton, director of the Secret Service.
“Good.” The president glanced out the window again, at the sky that seemed to reflect a distant fire.
“John Llewellyn’s got a burr under his saddle,” Lorna said. “He’s talking resignation.”
“Maybe that won’t be necessary.”
“No?”
“Maybe I’ll just fire him.”
Stanton was a big, strong-looking man with a wide face, gray hair, and a glare that he wielded like a stone ax. A veteran of more than a quarter century with the Secret Service, he had, among other assignments, headed the POTUS detail for two presidents. While he was always respectful of the office of the chief executive, he’d seen too much of the human side of the presidency to be intimidated by the man who occupied the Oval Office.
Stanton sat in a wing chair and Channing in another. The president sat on the sofa opposite them.
“What have you got?” Dixon asked.
“From the beginning,” Stanton said. “One. Wednesday afternoon, Agent Thorsen tried to get into Wildwood. When he was denied access—”
“Denied?”
“His actions at Wildwood before and during the recent attack on the First Lady are the subject of a formal investigation. In addition to certain procedural irregularities, there have been accusations of dereliction of duty lodged by Special Agent Christopher Manning. It’s all spelled out in this memo I’ve prepared.”
Stanton handed the president a folder.
“Because the First Lady and several of the family members will be called as witnesses in the inquiry, any contact with Thorsen at this point is out of the question.
“Two. Thorsen entered the field office Wednesday afternoon and engaged in a verbal altercation with his superior, Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru. According to eyewitnesses, Thorsen left in an agitated state. Later that evening, he was seen leaving a bar in St. Paul, reportedly so drunk he could barely stand. According to Ishimaru’s neighbors, a man fitting Thorsen’s description pounded on their door at one A.M. looking for Ishimaru. He appeared to be quite inebriated. The neighbor directed him to Ishimaru’s home. At one-thirty-seven, this same neighbor heard shots fired next door and called the police. The officers who responded discovered Ishimaru dead from a gunshot wound to the head. Thorsen’s clothing was found in the home. His car was parked—badly—on the street in front of the house.
“Three. Agent Thorsen has disappeared.”
“And that’s where things stand now?”
“No. There’s more. Thorsen contacted the Minneapolis field office this evening, claiming that Tom Jorgenson was the target of another assassination plot. The agent who spoke with him said he sounded like a man gone over the edge. A short time later, Thorsen showed up at a gas station next to the hospital where Jorgenson was recuperating. He threatened the clerk and a customer with a gun. As much as I hate to say this, it appears more and more likely that Agent Thorsen is under severe emotional strain. At this point, we consider him extremely dangerous.”
Dixon nodded and sat back.
Stanton said, “Sir, it’s my understanding that Thorsen was involved in an investigation here in Washington just a few days ago. At your request.”
“I asked Thorsen to do me an unofficial favor.”
“A favor? I have reason to believe the investigation was of a very serious nature.”
“I asked him to look into a few matters concerning Robert Lee’s death.”
“Were you worried about your own safety?”
“When I’m ready to share my concerns with you, Director Stanton, I will.”
Stanton’s face grew perceptibly stonier. “Sir, I would like nothing more than to be able to clear Agent Thorsen and to remove this dark cloud that’s hanging over the Secret Service. Can you tell me anything that might help me do that?”
“No.” He and the director locked eyes a moment. It was Stanton who finally broke. The president said, “I expect to be updated on everything that occurs in your investigation of Thorsen. Thank you for coming, Director Stanton. We’ll remain in touch.”
After the director left, Dixon turned to Lorna Channing. “What do you think? Has Thorsen gone over the edge?”
“It certainly appears so.”
“I’m thinking that nothing anymore is the way it appears.”
“It’s hard to imagine this has all been orchestrated. And to what end?”
“I don’t know, Lorna. But I’m sure my father’s hand is behind all this. I don’t know how he’s done it, but it’s him all right. I can feel it.”
He walked to the middle of the room where presidents before him had stood and had faced the crises that made them great or marked them to be all but forgotten. He felt the weight of history on his shoulders. The burden was his. Not Carpathian’s or Llewellyn’s or William Dixon’s. It was his call, the way everything would go from that moment forward. It was a daunting realization, but he wasn’t afraid. In fact, he felt the tremble of an old excitement flowing through him, the kind that had been so familiar on the playing field.
“Lorna, get our people together, all of them, here. We have work to do. And get my father here first thing in the morning.”
“What do I tell him?”
Dixon thought for a moment. “Tell him it’s fourth and long. And his son has decided to go for it.”
chapter
forty-four
Bo had breakfast at a small greasy spoon on West Seventh called Oscar’s, not far from the river. It was full of people who shopped the Salvation Army regularly, guys who’d hustled enough change to cover the $1.99 two eggs, hash browns, toast, and coffee special. Bo fit right in. He could have used a shower, a shave, and a clean change of clothes. However, all things considered, he was in good spirits because beyond a few drops, it hadn’t actually rained the night before, and he was still a free man. The coffee tasted as if it had been made from mud scooped off the bottom of the Mississippi, and the egg yolks were like clay. Bo ate every last bite and sat for a while at the counter, bent over his coffee mug, trying to figure out what to do ne
xt.
In his possession was the weapon that had killed Diana Ishimaru. He’d argued with her at the field office in front of witnesses. And there’d been witnesses, too, who had placed him at the murder scene, apparently drunk. That was plenty for a good prosecuting attorney. Probably even a bad one. What did he have for a defense? A pathetically paranoid-sounding tale of conspiracy for which he had not a single shred of solid evidence.
He was pretty well screwed.
NOMan’s desire to assassinate Kate was a greater concern to him, but he was stumped. Wildwood was so tight now a snake couldn’t crawl in without being detected. Moses had told him about the sniper rifle. If that was the way they’d go, where would they try the hit? The buildings at Wildwood were protected by orchards. The wooded hills along the highway to Wildwood offered a number of good opportunities, but the First Lady’s car was armored and nothing short of a direct missile hit could penetrate it.
Bo noticed a sudden rippling and exodus among the clientele of Oscar’s. Several hard-looking customers dropped money on the counter or their tables and left. Within a couple of minutes, the place was half empty.
“What’s up?” Bo asked the man at the grill behind the counter.
The guy wore a shirt that may have been white once. His belly hung over his belt, obscuring his buckle. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fry his own fat along with the bacon. He was in worse need of a shave than Bo. “Cops,” he said, scraping a layer of grease off the griddle. “Come in here every morning at eight-twenty-five. Like clockwork. The cockroaches take a hike, come back around nine when the boys in blue are gone.”
Bo dropped three bucks on the counter, picked up his bedroll, and slid off the stool. The guy at the grill gave a short laugh and shook his head.
The cruiser pulled up as Bo stepped outside. He turned and walked away from Oscar’s at an easy pace.
Like clockwork.
He took the corner and hunkered in the shadow cast by a video store advertising “the finest erotic collection in the Twin Cities.” An old woman passed him by, pushing a grocery cart full of discarded aluminum cans. Bo stared at the big smokestacks of the Minnesota Brewing Company a few blocks down West Seventh.
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