“Our current plan is almost as good,” Eva said.
“Just let them hold the ceremony inside so the President can bend over and get a close look at Josiah Wales’s new prosthesis. Then, from a distance, you can detonate the C-four that’s packed into the prosthesis.”
Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Joanna pressed her ear even closer to the door, trying to overhear more details.
Bremmer was asking, “And you’re double sure that the explosive-sniffing dogs can’t detect the C-four in the prosthesis?”
“I’m positive,” Eva said. “We did two test runs. As long as the C-four is incorporated between the layers of laminated plastic, no aroma gets out. Not even a trace. The dogs gave the plastic a quick sniff and moved on.”
“Excellent.”
Joanna heard footsteps passing the door, the voices now low and muffled. Then the front door opened and closed.
Joanna hurried down the steps and signaled to Kate, waving her down from the table.
Kate scrambled off the table and came over.
“What did you hear?”
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Try me.”
“They’re going to assassinate the President of the United States,” Joanna said darkly.
“They’re going to blow him up.”
“Oh, my lord!”
“And they’ve got a perfect plan to carry it out.” Sunday, April 18,4=25 p.m.
Agent Jack Youngblood leaned over in his seat and looked down at the golden plains of Kansas, thirty-five thousand feet below. It was where he had been born and raised and lived until he left to join the Marines. He could still remember standing in the cornfields of his father’s farm, watching planes fly overhead, wondering where they were going and wishing that one day he would be riding in them. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine himself aboard Air Force One, the lead agent in charge of protecting the President of the United States.
Youngblood leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, listening to the steady hum of the jet engines. For the next two hours he would have no worries or concerns, because everyone and everything aboard had been carefully screened and controlled. There was no threat from within or without. On Air Force One the Secret Service agents guarding the President could relax.
Youngblood heard someone approaching and opened his eyes. In an instant he was on his feet.
The President waved him down.
“Keep your seat, Jack.”
“Yes, sir,” Youngblood said, but he continued standing. He couldn’t sit while the President stood. He just couldn’t.
“You don’t listen to me anymore, Jack,” the President jested.
“I tell you to sit and you keep standing.”
“Yes, sir,” Youngblood said and remained standing.
The President moved about the cabin, limping noticeably on his left leg. He was a tall, good-looking man in his midfifties, with sharp patrician features and thick gray hair that was turning white at the temples. He was now well into his second term of office, and his
approval rating in the polls was an astonishing 78 percent. The President walked around in a circle, trying to shake the stiffness from his knee. He had injured it while playing football for Stanford in the big game against California, which they’d won. At the time he thought it was worth it.
But now he didn’t. The knee bothered him just about every day. He glanced over at the Secret Service agent.
“Jack, did you ever do something in your youth that you later wished to hell had never happened?”
“Yes, sir,” Youngblood answered.
“But you’d rather not talk about it, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jack, you really must do something with your vocabulary. You seem to be stuck on ‘yes, sir.”
” “Yes, sir.”
“Jesus.” The President chuckled.
“Jack, I’m going to give you a direct order.
Don’t say ‘yes, sir’ again.”
Youngblood hesitated.
“Okay, sir.”
The President laughed aloud, his knee less bothersome now.
“I understand you’ll be leaving us soon.”
“In another month, sir.”
“We’re going to miss you, Jack. You’ve done a solid job for us.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You sound like you’re kind of anxious to leave us.”
“No, sir,” Youngblood said truthfully. He considered guarding the President an honor and a privilege, and if it had been left up to him, he would have done it forever. But the Secret Service would not allow that. Agents were assigned to guard the President for only six months. The reason was the Secret Service didn’t want them to become too familiar or too accustomed to guarding the President. They didn’t want the agents to lose their focus.
The President gave Youngblood a long look.
“You’re still unhappy about me going to Los Angeles, aren’t you?”
“No, sir.”
The President held up an index finger and waved it at the agent.
“I don’t want your standard answer. I want the truth.”
“It could be dangerous, sir.”
The President shook his head.
“That’s not the real danger, Jack. The real danger is running scared because of a bunch of goddamn terrorists. The minute you let them dictate is the minute we begin to lose all of our freedoms.” The President took a deep breath and firmly set his jaw.
“Now tell me, Jack, how does this sound to you? There are some terrorists blowing up people and buildings in Los Angeles.
Accordingly, the President of the United States will cancel his visit to the country’s second largest city.” The President’s jaw tightened even further.
“Let me tell you what message that sends to the people of Los Angeles. You stay put and hope for the best and, by the way, the President isn’t coming here because he might get hurt. You and your children may get blown up, but don’t worry. The President will be watching from a safe distance. How does that sound, Jack?”
Youngblood said nothing.
“Answer me.”
“But, sir, you’re the commander in chief.”
“You’re goddamn right I am,” the President said stonily.
“And I’m not about to let some terrorists tell me what to do and when to do it.”
Youngblood watched the President leave the cabin, then slumped back into his seat, hoping he had all the bases covered. The usual number of agents for a presidential visit had been doubled. The new institute was now secure, all agents in place and no one except the bomb-sniffing dogs and their handlers allowed in or out. The metal detectors had been set up and their sensitivity raised to a level that would detect car keys.
In his mind’s eye, Youngblood quickly went over the details of the visit to the institute. They would enter through the front door and spend a few minutes in the atrium, where the President would greet the invited dignitaries, all of whom had been carefully screened. Then the President would take a brief tour of the institute, accompanied by five people: the governor of California, the mayor of Los Angeles, the senior senator from California, the director of the institute, and the clean of the medical center. They would be in and out in less than thirty minutes.
Everything seemed secure.
But Youngblood knew it took only one mistake and the President was gone. Like in Dallas when President Kennedy ordered the Secret Service agents not to stand on the rear bumper of his limousine. He wanted everybody to see him. And everybody did, including Lee Harvey Oswald, who would have never gotten a shot off had the agents been on the rear bumper.
Youngblood envisioned the famous frame on the Zapruder film, the one showing JFK’s head exploding with blood and bone flying into the air
and onto Mrs. Kennedy. It was the Secret Service’s biggest failure and worst nightmare. And every agent guarding the President dreaded even the thought of it happening again.
Youngblood closed his eyes and silently said the prayer he’d said a hundred times before.
Dear God! Don’t let it happen on my watch. Monday, April 19, 6=20 a.m.
-From the front seat of his car Jake watched the dawn breaking. Red streaks were spreading across the dark gray sky, the full moon overhead fading fast. Again he glanced at his watch. Only five minutes had passed since he checked it last. It was 6:20 A.M. He looked over at Farelli, who had his head resting back against the seat, eyes closed.
“Are you awake?” Jake asked.
“Some,” Farelli said.
“You got anything?”
“I got nothing.”
Farelli curled up against the morning chill, his head now down on his chest.
They were parked at the curb outside the Koppelman home, waiting for the family to return. Despite an intensive search, no trace of the Koppelmans could be found. An all-points bulletin for the entire state had failed to turn up their Chevy van. And every hotel and motel in Palm Springs and the surrounding desert had been checked. And again there was nothing. The Koppelmans had vanished, Jake lit a cigarette, now wondering if the Koppelmans had been killed and dumped somewhere out in the desert. That was the most likely scenario. If it was true, any chance of finding Joanna had died with them. Jake inhaled deeply on his cigarette and began coughing loudly, phlegm rattling in his lungs.
“You’re going to kill yourself with those damn cigarettes,” Farelli said.
“I know,” Jake rasped, his throat raw from the pack he’d smoked since midnight.
” But the nicotine is the only thing keeping me awake.” He took another drag and said, more to himself than to Farelli, “Got to stay
awake. Got to find her.” Farelli opened an eye.
“The doc is dead, Jake. You may as well face up to it.”
“There’s still a chance,” Jake persisted.
Farelli shook his head.
“Forget it. Even if the Koppelmans lead us right to her, all we’re going to find is dead bodies.”
Jake nodded somberly, knowing that Farelli was right. The chance that Joanna was still alive was one in a thousand at best. And the odds were even greater against the Koppelmans being somehow involved with the terrorists and able to lead the police to them. A background check on Lewis Koppelman revealed that he was a Holocaust survivor who had come to America as a boy, worked his way through college and become a self-made millionaire. And he was a staunch Republican. His profile was exactly opposite that of a terrorist.
The car radio suddenly came to life.
“Lights coming your way!” In an instant Jake and Farelli were out of their car, crouched down behind the open car doors.
They watched a pair of headlights approaching in the dawn. The vehicle was moving very slowly, at times almost coming to a stop. There was an intermittent, soft thud like sound that neither Jake nor Farelli could identify. Then they saw the vehicle. It was a pickup truck with men standing in the back throwing newspapers.
( Jake put his weapon away as Farelli picked up the car microphone to talk with the officers in the black-and-white that was parked a block away. Jake lit another cigarette and watched the pickup truck make a U-turn to deliver newspapers on the other side of the street. Darkly, he wondered what the headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers would be. In big, bold letters they would tell what was blown up and how many were killed and who might be responsible.
And the death of Joanna Blalock would be a side story, buried somewhere deep inside the newspaper. And since she had no family, Jake would have to handle the funeral arrangements. He had no idea how to do it. Just call the mortuary and give them your credit card, he guessed.
“Another car coming!” the car radio blurted out. Farelli quickly picked up the car phone.
“You got a make?”
“Mercedes. Sedan. Two people in the front seat.”
Again Jake and Farelli crouched behind open car doors and waited. The headlights came into view, moving slowly but without stops.
“Remember,” Jake called over, “there could be an asshole in the backseat with a gun.”
“Uh-huh,” Farelli said and made certain the safety on his weapon was off.
The black Mercedes pulled into the Koppelmans’ driveway and stopped. Its lights stayed on.
Jake stayed behind the car door, his weapon drawn.
“Mr. Koppelman! This is the police,” he yelled.
“I want you and your wife to step out and move away from the car.”
Neither of the figures in the Mercedes moved. The lights remained on.
“If there’s anyone in the backseat,” Jake went on, “listen and listen good.
You’ve got two guns trained on you and two black-and-white squad cars waiting for you to do something stupid.”
The front door of the Mercedes on the driver’s side opened, and a man got out, holding his hands above his head. He was short and well-built and balding, with thin gray hair.
“Open the back door and step away,” Jake ordered.
“Then have your wife do the same.”
The Koppelmans did as they were told. Now they were well away from the car, which had all of its doors open.
Jake and Farelli advanced slowly, their weapons in front of them. At the rear fender they stopped and exchanged silent hand signals.
“There’s no one in there,” Koppelman said.
Farelli waited another second, then threw himself on the lawn and rolled over into a prone position, his weapon pointing directly into the backseat. It was empty. Slowly he got to his feet.
“All clear.”
Jake placed his gun in its holster and went over to the Koppelmans.
Lewis Koppelman lowered his hands and stepped in front of his wife, glaring at Jake.
“What the hell is that all about?” he demanded.
“Murder and kidnapping,” Jake said.
“Someone from around here?”
Jake ignored the question.
“Where’s your Chevy van?”
“At the back of the driveway,” Koppelman said at once.
“Here, I’ll show you.” They walked over to the Mercedes, and Koppelman turned on its bright lights. The high beams shined on the garage door at the end of the driveway.
“Son of a bitch!” Koppelman hissed angrily.
“Somebody’s stolen it again.”
Jake’s shoulders sagged. His last and only chance to find Joanna and the terrorists had just gone out the window.
“When was the last time you saw it?”
“Wednesday morning a little after eight. That’s when we left on our trip.”
“Do you have any idea who stole it?”
“None,” Koppelman said, taking his wife’s hand and drawing her closer to him.
“Do you know if they broke into our house?”
“They didn’t,” Jake assured him.
“We checked it out.”
“How did you get inside?”
“We broke a window,” Jake said, starting to cough again.
“We’ll have it repaired for you.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Koppelman looked down the empty driveway and shook his head.
“And they used my van to do a kidnapping, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Do I know the victim?”
“No.”
“Are you certain they used my van?”
“Positive,” Jake said, not wanting to go into details. He turned to leave.
“Sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Officer,” Koppelman’s wife called after Jake.
“Could you notify the police so they can track down our van and have it returned?”
Jake sighed wearily.
“Ma’am, it might be best for you to make the call. You can provide them with all the details they’ll need. You can describe the van better than we can.”
“Oh, they don’t need a description,” the woman said.
&nb
sp; “We just give them our number and they activate the Lojack system.”
Jake moved in closer to the woman, his ears pricked.
“The what system?”
“The Lojack system,” Koppelman explained.
“After our van was stolen for the second time, we had the device installed under the hood. Now all we have to do is call the police and they’ll activate the system. The device under the hood gives off a radio signal that the police can track down. They can usually find the
vehicle pronto, before it’s been damaged or cut up into parts.” “It’s a wonderful system,” his wife added.
“They even use a helicopter to zero in on ” “I need the number you’re supposed to call.” Jake cut her off. Koppelman took out a small
address book and began thumbing through it. Monday, April 19, 7=00 a.m.
Should I go ahead and kill the boy?” Rudy asked.
“No,” Eva said at once.
“Blalock will want to see the kid before she makes the phone call.”
“How much longer do we have to wait?”
“About an hour.”
Joanna pressed her ear to the cellar door and listened to the voices coming from the kitchen. Another hour, she thought, which meant it was now seven o’clock. In sixty minutes the Blalock family would be wiped out forever unless she could come up with a way to delay things. Maybe she could give the terrorists a phony message after talking with Joe Wells. No, she quickly decided. That would never work. The female terrorist was too smart for that. She’d have her ear next to Joanna’s while the phone call was being made.
The voices in the kitchen became muffled for a few minutes before clearing again.
“So you want me to kill the woman doctor first,” Rudy was asking, “then the boy and then the boy’s mother?”
“Right,” Eva said.
“And I want them all to be head shots.”
“There’s going to be blood everywhere. On the floor, on the walls, everywhere.”
“Exactly.” Eva’s voice faded briefly then came back. “… drag the bodies to the cellar door and throw them down the stairs.”
Lethal Measures Page 34