Lethal Measures
Page 24
Above, the helicopter was returning. Its sound drowned out that of the gunfire.
The noise was so loud and near that Jake wondered if the helicopter was going to land.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” a voice commanded over the helicopter’s loudspeaker.
“You’re firing at the old man who was feeding his pigeons.”
The shooting stopped abruptly.
Policemen slowly got to their feet, weapons still drawn, their eyes still scanning the rooftops and open windows across the street.
A young cop cautiously moved to the blown-out side window of Jake’s car.
“Are you hurt, Lieutenant?”
“No. We’re okay.”
“Sir, it might be best for you to get the lady out of here. We’ll have to do a house-to-house search before we can secure the area. And that’s going to take a while.”
“Cover us,” Jake said.
The young cop signaled, and a half dozen policemen trained their weapons on the apartment houses across the street.
“I’ll lift up, and you squirm toward the door,” Jake told Joanna.
Joanna felt slivers of glass cut into her arms as she moved backwards. Her legs were now halfway out the door, so she curled them underneath her. She pressed her body down onto the seat, giving Jake as much room as possible.
In a fraction of a second he was behind the wheel. Keeping his head down, he turned on the ignition and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. They sped away, tires screeching.
Joanna waited until they turned at the intersection before sitting up. She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Her heart was pounding against her chest.
“Jesus! That was so close.”
“Another six inches and we would have been dead,” Jake said. His voice sounded calm, but inwardly he too was shaking. Both he and Joanna had been standing in profile when the shooter opened up. The bastard was aiming for a head shot. He glanced over at Joanna’s arms.
“Your arms are bleeding.”
“I know.” She carefully picked the slivers of glass from her forearms.
There were small cuts everywhere, with blood oozing out. Her linen jacket was badly stained. She took more deep breaths and tried to swallow away her panic.
“You think it was them?”
“It had to be.”
“I guess,” Joanna said, looking in the visor mirror for facial cuts. There weren’t any.
“But this is a very tough neighborhood. Maybe some gang banger decided to try his luck.”
“No way,” Jake said firmly.
“They may shoot at one cop or one cop car, but they’re not going to take on an army of police. They’re not that stupid. And besides, they didn’t open up until you and I stepped out. Those bullets were meant for us.”
Joanna nodded slowly. She tilted her head back against the seat and took more deep breaths.
“All because they think we’re getting too close. They must really be worried.”
Jake reached for a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply. He glanced over at Joanna, again thinking how close the shots had been to them.
“It might be a good idea for Kate and Jean-Claude to move into a hotel.”
Joanna’s brow went up.
“You think they’re going to try again?”
“They might,” Jake said.
“And that could put Kate and her little boy in real danger. Remember, they kill anybody who gets in their way. Old men, young cops, sleeping babies. It doesn’t bother them a damn.”
“I’ll move them to a small motel away from Memorial,” Joanna said, wondering if it might not be best to send Kate and Jean Claude to Disneyland for the weekend.
She shivered, now thinking how easy it would be for the terrorists to wipe out the entire Blalock line.
“Where should I stay?”
“At your condominium.”
“Are you serious?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Joanna looked at him oddly.
“But won’t they come after me there?”
“I hope they do,” Jake said hoarsely.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to be in your living room waiting for them.”
Monday, April 12, 2=00 p.m. Washington, D.C.
In the control room of the Secret Service, senior personnel gathered around a circular table to study an enlarged map of West Los Angeles. The routes the President would take during his visit were highlighted in red.
“So most of the trip from Santa Monica will be on the freeway, right?” asked Jack Youngblood, the agent in charge of the team that traveled with the President.
“That’s correct,” Mary Beth Curtis said as she retraced the scheduled route with a wooden pointer. Her eyes quickly scanned the surface streets between Loew’s Hotel and the freeway. There were five intersections with traffic lights. The motorcycle escorts would have them blocked off.
POT US will leave his hotel at seven forty-five a.m.,” she went on, using the Secret Service’s abbreviated name for the President of the United States, “then proceed to the Santa Monica Freeway. He will travel east, exiting at Overland, then onto surface streets to Pico Boulevard, reaching Century City at eight a.m.”
“The California Highway Patrol has been notified, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Did they bitch about closing down one of their busiest freeways during rush hour?”
“I didn’t ask how they felt about it. I just told them what was required.”
Youngblood smiled. He liked Mary Beth Curtis, a thin, middle-aged black woman who had worked her way up through the ranks over the past ten years. Originally with the Counterfeit Division, she was now in the protective branch of the Secret Service. Every time the President left the White House, Curtis had planned far in advance every street
the limousine would take, every corner it would turn, every intersection it would pass through. And when. She also planned the escape routes in case of an attack on rhr presidential limousine.
Curtis tapped her pointer against a street called the Avenue of the Stars.
POT US she continued, “will breakfast at the Centuiv Plaza Hotel, entering and leaving via the service entrance.”
Youngblood shivered. Every time he heard the words “service entrance” he thought about Robert Kennedy walking through the kitchen area of the Ambassador Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. Security had been virtually nil. Sirhan Sirhan had had a clear shot at the senator’s head. Youngblood felt his jaw tightening. His greatest fear was that the President would be assassinated on his watch. Just the thought of it caused Youngblood to sweat.
“At nine-fifteen sharp,” Mary Beth Curtis was saying, POT US leaves the hotel and travels surface streets, Pico to Westwood Boulevard and then to the medical center. He should arrive at the John Edgar Wales Institute at nine-thirty. The dedication—” “Whoa!” Youngblood interrupted.
POT US decided to skip the dedication.
Remember?”
“Well, POT US has changed his mind,” she said.
“He now wants to attend it. We got a direct order on that an hour ago.”
“Christ,” Youngblood growled.
“If you want to go and try to talk him out of it, we’ll wait here while you do.”
Youngblood sighed heavily. He didn’t like the change in plans and he didn’t like the President going anywhere near Memorial Hospital. Too damn risky. If it had been up to Youngblood, he would have canceled the entire trip to Los Angeles. He looked over at Thomas Harrington, director of the Secret Service.
“Sir, with all due respect, I think the President is making a mistake.”
POT US was informed of the advance agent’s recommendation,” Harrington said.
“I
was standing in the Oval Office when he read the report. I expressed my concern as forcefully as I could.” Harrington was about to give more details of the conversation but decided not to.
“The short of it is the Presiden
t does not want the public to have the impression that a group of violent individuals will dictate what the President of the United States does and does not do. The President and his advisers have considered the matter carefully, and they feel the
risks can be minimized.” Not when you’re dealing with crazy, goddamn terrorists, Youngbloodwas thinking.
“Sir, do they know these bombers have struck twice already?”
“They do.”
“And do they know that April nineteenth is the projected date for the next terrorist act?”
“They do.”
Youngblood tried to hold his temper. He was a large, broad-shouldered man with a squared-off jaw and a crew cut. His face rarely showed what he was feeling.
“Our first advance agent thought Memorial Hospital was a potentially dangerous place for the President to be. And he underlined the word dangerous twice.”
“And for that reason the President will not visit the pediatric ward at Memorial Hospital, as previously planned,” Harrington said.
“He will limit his brief stay to the new institute, which is two blocks away from the hospital.”
“I still don’t like it,” Youngblood said frankly.
Nor does anyone else in the Secret Service, Harrington wanted to say. But he held his tongue.
“The institute is a brand-new building and has no occupants. It will remain that way until after POT US visit. The building will be sealed off for forty-eight hours prior to the President’s arrival. Another team of agents is on their way to Los Angeles at this moment. Their sole function is to keep that building clean. Over the weekend, nobody goes in and nobody comes out. And I mean nobody.”
Youngblood took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, resigning himself to the decision the President had made.
“The list of dignitaries attending the dedication will have to be carefully scrutinized.”
“That’s being done now.”
“They’ll be given a specific time to arrive,” Youngblood went on.
“Anyone arriving after eight-thirty a.m. will not be admitted. All limousines will be instructed to park a minimum of two blocks away.”
“Good, good,” Harrington said approvingly.
“Of course, metal detectors will be set up, and everyone will be required to pass through them. And we should have dogs sniff out the building every six hours.”
Youngblood thought back to the design of the new institute he’d seen a week ago.
It had four floors, each with an area of 12,500 square feet.
“Which dogs would you like us to use?” “Our Belgian Malinois,” Harrington said.
“They can detect explosives a hundred yards away.”
“I’ll need four of them.”
“They’ll be on the plane tonight,” Harrington said, then turned to Curtis.
“I
want at least two routes the President can take away from the institute.”
“That won’t be possible,” she responded.
“The institute is located on a dead-end street.”
“I see,” Harrington said, fuming inside but not showing it. He should have been given that piece of information earlier.
“Double-check and see if there’s a driveway or alley that can be used as an exit.”
“Will do,” she said and reached for a phone.
“I’ll have our advance agent fax me an aerial view of that street.”
“Get back to me when you have it,” Harrington said and turned to leave.
“Come on, Jack. Walk me to the elevator.”
At the watercooler Harrington stopped and leaned over for a paper cup. He glanced back, making sure they were out of earshot, then spoke in a low voice.
“If there’s even a hint of trouble, Jack— I mean just a whiff—you get POT US ass out of there pronto and back onto Air Force One. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Tuesday, April 13, 11”25 p.m.
Sliva showed Rudy around the spacious living room of their new house. The room was bare except for a mattress shoved up against the wall.
“Keep the Venetian blinds shut,” she told him.
“And turn the lights on for a few hours in the evening. That way nobody will get suspicious.”
“What if someone rings the doorbell?”
“Ignore it.”
She led the way into a narrow hallway. There were bedrooms and bathrooms and a small den off to the side. Near the kitchen was a half-opened door that had a dead bolt lock on it.
Rudy peered in. All he saw were steps down and darkness beyond.
“What’s in here?”
“A basement.”
“Is there a way out?”
Eva shook her head.
“There’s a small window up high, but it’s got iron bars across it.”
They entered a large, freshly painted kitchen that had a refrigerator, freezer and stove. Atop a Formica counter were cans of food and soft drinks and plastic bottles of water. And next to them were detonators and wires and two bricks of C-four.
Rudy parted the Venetian blinds and looked out. He saw a small, neglected garden on one side, a garage on the other. Between them were trees and a tall hedge.
“Who lives on the other side of the forest?” Rudy asked.
“An old couple that’s hard of hearing.”
“Any dogs?”
“A toy poodle that barks once before it runs away.” Rudy nodded, pleased with the house and its setup. The escape route through the hedge was perfect. Anyone chasing them would have to come through the tangled bushes. They’d be an easy target.
“This place is perfect.
How did you find it so fast?”
“Just luck,” Eva said. But it wasn’t luck, and she hadn’t found it fast. She had rented the house and the one in West Hollywood at the same time. The second house was a backup in case things went wrong, like Rudy being stupid enough to get himself caught and deciding to talk to save his skin.
Rudy studied a mattress on the floor by the pantry and went over. He plopped down on it, testing out its softness.
“You going to sleep here?”
“Yeah,” Eva said and watched Rudy lie back.
“Why don’t we sleep in here together?” he asked, grinning seductively.
“Because I want you to guard the front door while I’m guarding the back.”
“It’s not that far to the front door from here.”
“What do you figure? Three, four seconds?”
“At the most.”
“That’s plenty time enough for someone to break down the front door and blow your head off.”
Rudy stared at Eva, undressing her with his eyes. She had such a small waist and great ass. He envisioned himself fucking her until she begged him to stop.
“You’re not even a little interested, huh?”
“Now is not the right time.” Eva glanced at the bulge in the crotch of Rudy’s tight-fitting jeans. It did nothing for her. She looked away.
“Well, if you change your mind …”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
The cell phone in Eva’s coat pocket rang. She reached for it quickly.
“Yes?”
“We’ve got trouble.”
Eva instantly recognized the voice of her contact at Memorial Hospital.
“Where are you?”
“My outside number.”
“Stay put.” Eva folded up her cell phone and looked over at Rudy.
“I have to leave for a little while. I want you to remain inside the house until I get back.”
Rudy studied her face, trying to read her expression. It was a blank.
“Is anything wrong?” “Lock the door after me, and don’t answer it for anyone.”
Eva put on a baseball cap with a ponytail wig attached to it. She adjusted the bill so that it covered most of her forehead, then picked up her sunglasses. She studied herself briefly in the bathroom mirror before walking out into a bright spring day.
Otherwise the contact wouldn’t have called her on her cellular line during the day. He’d been told never to do that. Never, never. Except in cases of real emergency. What could it be? What?
She took a deep breath and considered the two worst-case scenarios. The first possibility was that the bomb plot had been uncovered. Unlikely, she quickly decided. If that had happened, the contact wouldn’t be talking on the phone.
He’d be under arrest. The second possibility was that the dedication plans for the institute had been changed or canceled. That would be disastrous. All of their work and effort wasted. The perfect plan gone up in smoke.
At the corner Eva turned into a small shopping mall. She went to a pay phone just past a beauty salon and picked up the phone book. As she flipped pages, her eyes scanned the mall and the intersection beyond. A black-and-white police car was stopped at the traffic light. Eva waited for the car to move on, then lifted the receiver, inserted two quarters and began dialing.
“Yes?” the contact answered.
“Is Mr. Right there?” Eva asked in code.
“He’s on vacation,” the contact responded correctly.
Eva glanced around the small shopping mall once more.
“What is it?”
“The police know someone at the institute is involved. They’re going over this place with a fine-tooth comb and questioning everyone again.”
“They’re just guessing.”
“It’s more than that,” the contact said worriedly.
“They know someone here leaked information on Ramon Gonzalez.”
They found the body, Eva thought, wondering again if Maria Gonzalez had told them all she knew.
“And to make matters worse, the Secret Service wants to talk with all
of us as well.” “They’re still guessing,” Eva said calmly.
“If they really knew anything, they’d be making arrests, not talking.”
“But they’re going to dig, and they’ll find out my sister was one of the people killed by the FBI at the Idaho compound. And when they do, they’ll make the connection right back to me.”