The South Lawn Plot

by Ray O'Hanlon

  “Okay,” Dalton continued, “you all have your assignments. We meet inside in thirty minutes, and then we'll take over from the current crew. Do what you have to do meantime, get a coffee, use the bathroom.”

  At this, he turned and walked briskly back into the building. Conway, uncertain for a moment, decided that a rest room stop was a good idea. Rafter, standing beside her and seeming to read her mind, pointed with his finger.

  “It's over there,” he said. “Just through the room with all the books, presidential papers by the look of them”

  “Thanks, I know,” Conway replied. As she turned to walk away, her cell phone began to vibrate.

  The agents, they would have been interested to know, were being more than casually observed. Pender, at times with his eyes, and for moments through a lens, had been watching the pep talk delivered by Dalton. Pender had entered the grounds at the earliest permissible time and a lot sooner than he would have done at a normal shoot. But this was not a normal shoot, and he had smiled at the pun. He assumed there would be no shooting at all unless one of the Secret Service agents had turned rogue, or suddenly flipped his lid. No, he thought, it wouldn't be bullets.

  He knew only what the old priest had told him. He was aware of the Irish diplomat's role, too, or at least some of it. And like his own, it seemed pretty simple. Manning had to set up the photograph for Pender. It was to have only three subjects, the president, the prime minister and the Taiwanese guy. This was an absolute. Manning was to make sure that his ambassador and the visiting Irish politicians, no doubt camera happy, were steered off into another corner, though with the promise of inclusion in the next picture.

  Manning, obviously, would be aware of Pender's presence. They had lived for a few days under the same roof in the shadow of that mountain. Pender reckoned that Manning even knew of the photographer's own limited but crucial part in what was to be a delicate choreography with a fatal twist of historical dimensions.

  “Unbelievable,” Pender said, turning a knob on his tripod for the tenth time.

  But he had witnessed the unbelievable before, participated in it, caused it to happen. This, however, was something entirely different from all his previous assignments. Still, there was no arguing with the money. This was the mother of all paydays, and he would even make money on the climactic photo, along with everyone else of course. No matter, the more the merrier. An army of photographers and cameramen was perfect cover.

  And cover was what precisely the old priest had in mind. He, too, was watching the preliminary proceedings from outside the railings that were designed to keep the uninvited off the White House grounds.

  For the time being, tourists and passersby were being allowed approach the black painted fence, but all would be corralled farther away once the South Lawn ceremonies got underway.

  No matter, the old man thought. He would not be lingering for the moment of truth. He was intent on enjoying a leisurely afternoon at the Smithsonian. He had only once before visited Washington, and that had been many years ago. And he had spent most of that sojourn confined to Georgetown University on a spiritual retreat.

  Slowly, he turned away and fixed his eyes on the National Monument. He would walk there first and then proceed to the museum. There was nothing more he could do. He could neither interfere with, guide nor affect the ultimate outcome of events on the South Lawn. In a few hours, his plan, his plot, would be executed. Or it would fail.

  Reaching into his coat, he took out the pocket watch that had belonged to his father, whose tenure at Ayvebury had seen the house turn from a family home into a place of spiritual learning, a repository of universal truth. It was a reliable instrument. If it was wound at the required intervals, though not too tightly, it would keep precise time. It was, the old priest thought, not unlike faith itself, sturdy, reliable, working at all times and always blessed with an answer, that being the hour of the day.

  He stared at the watch face and calculated the course of events based on the time difference between Washington and London. If all went to plan, or roughly close to it, the prince would be making his announcement just minutes before the scheduled climax of the trade conference which, of course, included a speech by the prime minister.

  Reporters on hand would be made aware instantly of the enormous story breaking in London. Questions would fly, and Spencer would know that he had failed. With this knowledge, and before he could plan any retaliation, the South Lawn Plot would reach its own high point, thus giving the reporters more news than they could conceive in their wildest dreams.

  And then? Well, assuming the plan was carried out with watch-like precision, the investigation would proceed down an entirely incorrect path. The Americans would assume their president had been the primary target, the British prime minister merely collateral damage, as the Americans themselves liked to put it. And the investigation would lead immediately to the perpetrator, Mr. Lau. The Secret Service would become aware of his fury over the selling out of his island home, not yet a known fact but one that was, well, lying just over the horizon. The fact that Mr. Lau was terminally ill would ensure that the assassination and simultaneous suicide was an open and shut case.

  It all seemed logical enough, though the old priest was acutely aware that the best plans could go awry. But assuming all was in place, why would it not succeed?

  For a little reassurance, he said yet another silent prayer. Not just for the desired outcome, but the most perfect outcome. That there would be no additional injuries or fatalities. Morality demanded sacrifice, but not excessive loss of life. With this thought in mind, the old priest fixed his eyes on the monument and began to walk.

  59

  BAILEY HAD NOT SLEPT VERY WELL despite the comfort of the room in the hotel with the oh-so-English name. He was standing in the lobby, contemplating breakfast, a light one, or maybe the whole hog, the full English with trimmings.

  It would be the main decision of a day that appeared to be set in stone. From the hotel he would go to the White House and there cover the conference which really wasn't much of a conference at all now, only a series of private meetings involving the Taiwanese billionaire and various officials followed by a South Lawn reception. The conference had been pegged back at the last minute because of the looming threat of war. The party, however, was a go, assuming the world didn't end in the meantime.

  Global Armageddon apart, Bailey also had to consider the statements by the political leaders, most especially the prime minister and the president. And they looked as if they were going to be a little too close to deadline for absolute comfort given the five-hour time difference. He would have to work fast

  Bailey's lack of sleep had mostly to do with the constant stream of text messages from Henderson, the latest being an instruction to call. Henderson clearly had been in the office from an early hour and was agitated by something more than just the narrow window of time for the story from Washington.

  No, Bailey thought, Henderson didn't give a fiddler's about the conference, not when he had the possible war to end all wars waiting in the wings for the front page, perhaps the last ever front page, the final edition of all final editions.

  The conference made it into the frame because of its cast of characters, not its content or purpose.

  Bailey had this just about worked out when his phone went off. He had set it on vibrate so as not to alarm the locals with his ringer, a little ditty from that long ago punk band, the Sex Pistols.

  He was about to parry Henderson's latest onslaught when the voice at the other end cut him dead.

  “Hey,” he said. It was Samantha.

  “And good morning to you. Yes, I understand, but let's try to have a quick get together at the White House. I'm not sure how much rope they are giving us, but you could probably scout us out before you bring Spencer over for a chat. Okay, all right, bye.”

  Bailey had stopped short of pledging his undying love, or had rather been stopped short by Samantha who just had to dash, or words
to that effect.

  Perhaps it was the lingering echo of her voice but when his phone went off again he had hit the on button before the second vibration. It wasn't Samantha, and it wasn't even Henderson. It was George Dawes giving him a head's up. Henderson wanted Dawes to pad out the story from New York, especially if the conference ran behind schedule. Bailey indicated his agreement.

  “No problem, mate,” he said. “And make sure you get your byline.”

  There was one more thing. Henderson, apparently tied up at a meeting, had passed on a phone number belonging to a man named Sydney Small. Henderson, said Dawes, had given clear instruction that Bailey should call the number as soon as he got it. And that was now.

  “Loud and clear, George,” said Bailey. “I'll call you from the White House and let you know how we are getting along.”

  Bailey stared at his phone. Sydney Small, the man of many mysteries, the man who had told him in the pub that he would lay every last quid he had on the fact that the prime minister was up to his eyeballs in something that was no good, indeed downright nasty, and that the man was a danger to the lives and limbs of a lot of people, some of them rather prominent.

  How, Bailey had asked Small, did he come across all this and what reason did he have to believe that the prime minister was dodgy, even dangerous?

  Small had clammed up under this questioning. It was clear he wanted to send Bailey out on some line of investigation but equally evident that he did not fully trust the reporter. His parting line, after he had stood Bailey another drink, was to deliver some odd line about the royal family, or at least the prince, being in the line of Spencer's fire.

  And now he wanted Bailey to call him.

  “Christ,” said Bailey, loudly enough to turn a couple of heads in the foyer. And then rather more quietly though he felt compelled to speak the words, “The world's about to nuke itself, and I'm in the middle of some plot out of bloody Shakespeare.”

  And that about said it. It was all a bit much, but it had helped him make one decision. If the world was going to end he wasn't going to meet his maker while hungry. Bailey walked across the lobby and into the restaurant. It would be a full on breakfast, a heart attack on a plate.

  Manning had gulped a cup of coffee and considered himself lucky. He had slept poorly, almost not at all. Then he had nodded off within minutes of the alarm going off. It had been a rude awakening.

  It was Rebecca's turn to get Jessica to school so Manning had been able to make his progress undisturbed through his necessary ablutions. The breakfast part of his normal ritual had to be sacrificed to the god of nattiness. Evans would be on her toes today, her eyes searching for any stain on her country's reputation.

  Manning had allowed Rebecca to choose his tie. She had also picked out a blue shirt that made for a contrast with his usual white. The suit was a sober dark blue. He would be the sharpest looking man at the White House, Rebecca had assured him.

  That might not matter much, of course. Today would be judged at a variety of levels with personal appearance somewhere between dollars and cents bagged for the old country, or at least its northern part, and suitable dinner invitations collected by Evans. Manning comforted himself with the thought that the gig was mainly an Anglo-American affair with the Irish tagging along for the party.

  Beyond these considerations, there was just darkness. His main task was to keep Evans and the visiting ministers well away from the American president, British prime minister and the mega rich Chinese guy, Lau, and most especially from the location on the South Lawn where the three were to be photographed.

  That was all there was to it, he had been assured. Nothing more than a little diplomatic choreography at the crucial moment and his past life would be his, and his alone, for the rest of his days. Manning had wondered long and hard of course. Could these people be trusted? Would his so-called terrorist past be finally buried?

  At the end of all the thinking he had concluded that he had really no choice. He had to trust the bastards, those inside the British security services, and those who lurked in other shadowy corners.

  As he sat at the kitchen table staring into his black coffee, Manning tried to imagine a freedom he had never really known in his adult life. He wanted to feel optimism, something beyond just hope. But he had also made a decision. If he was betrayed, he would have to take action, act like the fighter he had once been. How he would pull that off in his present circumstances was far from clear. And the coffee gave him no answers. As he promised he would do, Manning loaded the dishwasher. Funny, he thought, how the mundane tasks in life could tie in so closely to those that decided the course of a life.

  His course today was set, that of all future days still uncertain. He would go to the office for a while, check his emails and snail mail. And he would tease Nesbitt because he was he was bogged down in the office with work and would be missing the big shindig at the White House. Evans was not expected at the embassy. She was having lunch with the visiting ministers before heading to the White House. That would make the early part of the day a little easier. The end, he assumed, would not be easy because clearly something big was going down at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. It would make headlines and history. And he would be there for it. Knowing this he had a plan for the preceding hours. To his colleagues at the embassy he would appear in a good form. He would make light of all things, seemingly not having a care in the world because as sure as the day was getting warmer by the minute, he would be one of many people answering the questions of federal investigators by sundown.

  “Here we go,” he said as he left by the back door.

  Packer had asked to be left alone for a few minutes. He liked doing this, sorting out his thoughts on a day that would be dominated by pleasantries and ritual. He wasn't much for this kind of stuff. He enjoyed policy meetings and big speeches. And he had always been lucky enough to have the common touch. He genuinely liked campaigning, meeting folks. He knew that he gave the Secret Service nightmares by the way that he would constantly push against the security boundaries around him, but what the hell. He was the president, not some untouchable holy man.

  Packer's unease with pomp had always been at a higher pitch when dealing with the British. Yes, the special relationship, what was left of it, demanded a little extra, and it had been a thrill meeting royalty. But there always had been that strain of having to be on his extra best behavior for the Brits. It was, perhaps, the First Lady's fault. She was infatuated with all things British to the point that had he been George Washington he would have had her arrested as a loyalist. Packer laughed out loud at the memory of one royal encounter when he had suddenly been overtaken by a near overwhelming desire to fart. Only the fact that his wife was within range of the fallout prevented the kind of fusillade that had last been directed at the British at the Battle of New Orleans.

  Today would be another temptation. He had never particularly liked Spencer, had much preferred his predecessor. There was something about the guy, though he could never quite work out what. One thing he did know for certain, and that was the visitors, the Brits and the Irish, would go on and on about the Washington weather to the point that he would almost feel the need to apologize. And it was beginning to cook a bit outside. Good enough for them, Packer thought. He would nod in agreement and offer sympathy of course, but he knew that once again that inner voice would be telling them to go take a swim in the Potomac.

  Packer's thoughts of swimming and a renewed war, this time against suffocating etiquette, were interrupted by his secretary's voice.

  “Oh yes, the Secret Service detail,” he responded. “A couple of new ones, too. Send them in.”

  60

  AS IT TRANSPIRED, it was Special Agent Rafter who was assigned the president's belt. And he, Rafter that is, was none too pleased. The duty was simple enough. The agent stood directly behind the president as he worked the rope line, a hand firmly around the president's belt, not the top of his pants. The belt would be worn slightly loose to f
acilitate the grip.

  In the event of any threatening incident, if anyone lunged or struck out at the president, the agent would tug sharply on the belt. The president would then be bundled to safety by other agents as the agent who did the tugging, and others, blocked the assailant, or assailants. The move had been practiced over and over, though had never been carried out during the Packer presidency.

  Packer, however, had posed another problem for the Secret Service. He had a habit of breaking out of his protective corral and plunging into a crowd. Bad enough this would happen with the already security checked attendees during a White House event, but the president had broken loose on the road as well. It was a nightmare as far as the Service was concerned, but no effort to dissuade the president had been successful, thus far.

  In the event of the president passing beyond the end of the line on the South Lawn, Rafter would stay with him and instead of clinging to the belt would hang on grimly to the tail end of the president's suit jacket. The president had acquiesced in this tactic, though only after joking that he would, as a consequence, confine himself to cheap suits so as to avoid expensive repair bills being foisted on the American taxpayer.

  There was one, quite specific, reason for assigning Rafter to the belt. The president was a big man. So, too, was Rafter, a onetime football player with prospects who had famously charged in for a touchdown in a high school game with at least four opponents hanging off him. There had been a photo in the window of the town newspaper office for months afterward. Rafter had earned the nickname “Hulk” for his moment of glory. The old timers in the town had agreed that the young man would make something of himself. And their prediction had borne out. Hulk's hand was on the President of the United States and the president's safety hinged on its firmness.

  There was more to Rafter's life story, of course, and part of it was the hand of an elderly English priest which, as it transpired, was now directing its course on the day that the onetime football star had been assigned the nation's first belt.