by Ray O'Hanlon
Rafter's life had veered back and forth after high school. He had attended college in the state system and had graduated with a most unlikely degree in Greek and Roman Civilization. It had been suggested that his interest had been spurred less by the civilization part of his studies than by a reverence for the Spartans at Thermopylae and the exploits of gladiators in the Coliseum, this apparently sparked by a senior year trip to Italy during high school.
Either way, several of Rafter's classmates had proceeded into military careers armed with the tactical theories of Alexander the Great, Caesar and Scipio. Rafter's long march had brought him to the ranks to the United States Secret Service.
What had marched with him was a taste for gambling that he had managed to unload for a while in his early days in the Service, but which had lately made a comeback.
It was tripwire with the potential to end his career, and it would definitely be uncovered in one of, if not precisely the next, security review that all agents had to undergo.
So, it was not all that difficult to accept the money along with the bundle of assurances that his role in the coming drama would be a minor one, that the president absolutely would not be harmed, and that in fact his part in the outcome would earn him a commendation, if not more.
Despite all his exterior toughness, Rafter was vulnerable to the approach from the man with the clipped Brit accent. He had wavered, naturally, but the huge advance, deposited in an offshore account in the name of a fictional company that the bank recognized as being owned by an American businessman named Smith, had brought Rafter onside.
As a member of the Secret Service, he could only admire his suitor's attention to detail, right down the excellent fake passport that was the key to the money that would resolve all his financial issues while leaving plenty more for a comfortable retirement.
And all he had to do was plant a piece of paper in a book, between page l00 and 101.
Rafter was contemplating his new riches when the voice of Cleo Conway rushed through the wire into his receiving ear. Conway said but two words. And in response to her “Let's go,” Rafter finished his task in the bathroom and hurried outside into the heat of the day and into the eyes of a gathering crowd on the lawn, one which invariably was as curious, though idly so, about the agents in their trim suits and shades as the agents, in an active, professional sense, were about the faces that made up the throng.
Rafter took one look and decided that what lay ahead would have been a breeze if not for the event that had been described to him by the old padre.
Jesus Christ, he thought, some of them are going to fucking faint.
Pender, through his camera lens, had spotted Manning in the crowd that was now beginning to fill the area of the South Lawn assigned to the reception. The diplomat looked tense. He had not noticed Pender but then again, people at these things rarely noticed the faces behind the cameras.
There was about thirty minutes to go before the formalities began, though, as yet, no sign of the guest of honor, the Taiwanese guy. Pender was curious as to what the old priest had in mind, but all he knew, all he wanted to know, was that he was to capture what would be the climactic moment, the biggest story for years barring the outbreak of global war, which, of course, was also possible.
But not, Pender hoped, in the next hour. All he wanted was his shot, his money and his escape into anonymity. As he was mulling over the security of the Swiss banking system in the event of thermonuclear warfare (he reckoned Swiss bankers would come through the thing along with rats and cockroaches,) he noticed in the corner of his non-lens eye a kerfuffle about twenty yards to his left. Some of the reporters who had been mingling with guests were gathered around someone, recorders and notebooks now in action. Pender noted the gathering but stayed put. He stared though his lens again looking for Manning, but now there was no sign of the Irishman.
“Where are you, Mr. First Secretary?” he whispered. And in a sweep of the crowd he found him again, in a knot of suits. The Taiwanese savior of the Irish peace had arrived. Now, Pender, thought, if only Belfast isn't on some target list for a Beijing rocket, all would be fine.
Bailey was juggling. He wanted to get everything on tape but was equally determined to get key lines down on paper so he could fire them across without having to keep pressing rewind and play. Colleagues laughed at him about his tapes, called him a dinosaur. But he didn't trust digital recorders.
His phone had nearly blown out of his pocket. He could tell at this stage of his career when a call was coming from the office, and he reckoned he could also sense the size of the story. And this one, on any day, was a whopper.
Henderson had given him the main lines. The heir to the throne had just staged a press conference in which he had declared himself a Roman Catholic, had denounced the Act of Settlement which barred members of the Roman church from ascending to the throne. Crucially, however, he had not renounced his claim to the throne. By not doing so he had added exponentially to a constitutional crisis just as the prime minister was about to have his big White House moment.
Bailey had felt almost giddy. It was for moments like this that he had become a reporter. What was now happening had reminded him of a mantra which went along the lines that you had to be good to be lucky in the news business. This was proof enough. He was good, damn bloody good.
The scrum around the young man with the nametag that identified him as Roger Jones from the embassy was made up almost entirely of British reporters and one or two photographers who had drifted over from their corral. There were a couple of Yanks and Bailey had heard an Irish accent. The Irish, he knew, were nuts about the royals, and what had now transpired was certain to elbow the ceremonial check presentation down even Irish news lists.
Jones, who looked like he still should be in university, had clearly been pushed out as a stopgap, a sacrificial lamb for the braying hounds of the press. Spencer, thought Bailey, was a smart bastard. A diplomat could only say so much under the circumstances and would buy time while the Downing Street crowd inside the presidential mansion cobbled together a response to the obvious uproar that was enveloping the United Kingdom, 3,000 miles to the east.
“The bloody Chinese must be thrilled with this,” said one reporter. It was a statement, not a question, but it was directed at Jones who had by now broken out into quite a sweat.
“I cannot comment on Chinese reaction,” said Jones gamely. But he was sweating blood right now, and the reporters could smell it.
“Is the prime minister going to pull out of the ceremony now? And if not, can we speak with him before it actually starts?”
The question, both barrels, seemed to knock Jones backwards.
“I cannot comment, I mean, I cannot say. Ladies and gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have to go back inside the White House. I'm sure there will be more from, ah, the prime minister's own spokesman soon, very soon.”
Jones turned and made a move to leave but could make very little progress. The pack moved with him as he struggled to make his way back to the nearest door. Bailey, however, did not move. Something had hit him with all the subtlety of a cruise missile.
That face, he thought, the one in the photograph in the old house in Essex, Ayvebury. It had indeed been the prime minister's, years ago, when Spencer was about the same age as the harried Jones. The old priest, the dead priests. There was a connection to the prince, there had to be. He dropped his recorder in his pocket and started thumping numbers on his phone. Henderson would know. The man had an unerring instinct for stitching together seemingly random occurrences. He would lay it out for Henderson and Henderson would know that there had been murders, that the reason for them was connected somehow to the next king and that the prime minister could very well be up to his tonsils in the entire affair.
“Sweet Jesus,” said Bailey, just as Henderson's voice barked at the other end of the signal.
Henderson told him to hold on and as he did so Bailey could hear him shouting at someone, something abo
ut being short-staffed and if he wanted to pull guys off soccer and cricket for the biggest story in years he was bloody well going to do so.
Bailey smiled. He could imagine the scene in the newsroom as Henderson went into full battle mode. He was glad to be removed from it, if not exactly away.
Henderson, turning his mind to Washington now, was a little calmer.
“Just throw me everything you can get,” he said.
“Don't let Spencer off the hook. This is a full-blown crisis no matter what he says, and if he calls the prince a nutter I want the word nutter in the story. Don't hold back, don't sit on anything, call me in an hour.”
And he was gone.
Roger Jones had made it back into the White House, and Bailey's colleagues were dispersing to the shade of various trees to call through to their offices.
Bailey, too, was on his phone again, this time to Samantha who was inside with Spencer. He wasn't surprised when he only got her message. She would be hooked up by now to her copper colleagues as they prepared to escort Spencer to the microphones.
“Sod it,” he said. He would have to get word to her by some means.Samantha Walsh didn't know it, but she was protecting a man who might well have had a hand in four murders.
He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes to kickoff.
As if on cue, some juiced up Irish traditional band had just launched itself into a frenzy on the stage set up just to one side of the speaking podium.
Bailey shook his head. He started to laugh. He needed a drink.
61
MANNING HAD HIS RADAR TURNED ON FULL. The ambassador was running late. For the moment Lau was occupied by a group of officials from the various interested parties. There was a man he knew from Belfast in the thick of it, acting as a kind of impresario. Everybody wanted a piece of the Taiwanese billionaire, and from him. The Belfast official was grimly sticking to his man, holding him by the arm. Lau, for his part, looked a little out of it. His health was not good.
Manning heard the ambassador before he saw her, and in turning to match eye contact with that unmistakable voice, he caught a momentary glimpse of the photographer, Pender. Whatever was going to go down it was clear that Pender would play a role. Just precisely what it would be he could only guess at; only he preferred not to guess at all.
“Madam Ambassador,” Manning said in a familiar tone that only the most alert would conclude was ever so slightly mocking.
“Well,” came the reply, “at least everyone turned up. Any sight of the president and the prime minister and, oh there he is, poor Mr. Lau. I hear he's not too well.”
“Not the best,” said Manning. “Before we do anything else, we should meet with the minister. His plane was a little late but he arrived a few minutes ago. He's over under that open sided tent.”
Evans looked at Manning, her eyes narrowed. She was about to pronounce rather than merely say something.
“I'll go over and say hello, of course, but after that it's your job, Eamonn, to keep that dreadful man away from me. I'm determined to enjoy myself here today. It's a splendid opportunity.”
Her words fell below audible level. Phillipa Evans had spotted someone worth her attention and was gone. The minister would simply have to wait.
Conway was breathing slowly in and out in an effort to relax. Jim Schrull, one of the two most senior agents on the presidential detail had noticed her nervousness and had nodded in an affirming way. Jack Garraty, the other old hand, had winked at her. The president referred to them as his Jack and Joker.
Packer was fond of cards, and throughout his term there had been late night card games in the family quarters whenever the state of the country, or the world, allowed for a couple of hours of poker, or a version that the president had himself concocted and liked to call Oklahoma Throw ‘Em.
“Wouldn't want Texas to get all the glory,” he had told a reporter who had inquired about what had become known in some corners of the press as the president's Canasta Cabinet.
“About ten minutes to lift off,” Schrull said as he fiddled with his earpiece. “The big man is in the bathroom freshening up.”
Conway noticed that Rafter was flexing the fingers on his left hand. He would hold the president's belt with that hand so would be standing slightly behind and to the president's right. Schrull would be just ahead of the president as he moved down the greeting line with Garraty to Packer's right. Conway was on point, a few feet beyond Schrull. She was the scout.
Other agents would be scanning the crowd but Conway, Schrull, Rafter and Garraty would be the infield group.
It had been decided that the president would do his meet and greet routine before joining the Irish visitors for the photo-op with Henry Lau, who, for all intents and purposes, was the main guest of honor. Then the president would be pictured alone with Lau. It would be his little favor to a dying man.
It was all simple enough, Conway thought. She continued to hold on to this thought as her cell phone, which she had kept in her pocket and had set to vibrate mode, erupted for a second time. She reached for it and, taking a quick glance at the caller's number, put it to her ear. “Yes,” she hissed.
Bailey, along with the rest of the British press corps, traveling and American-based, had by now wandered back into the general melee. He thought for a moment about approaching the Taiwanese star of the show, Lau, but thought better of it as the man was at that moment being smothered by a rather loud woman in an outfit that more than matched the heat of the day. Bailey got close enough to hear the woman issue an invitation to visit Dublin before seeking out the shade of a tree.
He was, he knew, going to have to focus all his attention on Spencer. To hell with all the rest of it, he thought. He found himself shivering despite the temperature that must have been pushing ninety degrees. And as if to confirm this his eye caught sight of a soaring thunderhead which looked for all the world like an atomic mushroom cloud over the city.
Bugger, he thought, that thing better hold off until after the ceremony. Spencer, he knew, would probably seize upon any excuse to duck back into the shelter of the president's house.
As a young man, Henry Lau had indulged himself in various martial arts disciplines. He was drawing upon all his mental and physical reserves, though only in part due to the verbal assault from the Irish ambassador to the United States. She had apparently enjoyed her visit to China a few years back, a sojourn that had taken in Beijing, Shanghai, Xian and those magnificent terra cotta soldiers and Hong Kong, oh wonderful Hong Kong.
Lau smiled and nodded as best he could, but he was in a losing battle. Because of the task he would in minutes have to perform he had gone without his full dosage of painkillers; indeed he had taken nothing at all beyond a couple of aspirin. Soon, he knew, the pain would be unbearable. For most people that point would have already passed. But Henry Lau wasn't everybody, an idea he allowed swirl around in his mind for the past several hours. It was becoming harder to remain focused on it, however, and this woman was threatening to break down his final reserves.
“Madam, sadly I have never been to these places you speak of since my childhood. I have never been to the China some refer to as the mainland. Now, if you will excuse me, I do need to visit the bathroom.”
To the sound of an “oh dear” and the sight of a determined refocusing of attention on another victim standing nearby, Lau bowed his head and with the aid of his walking stick made for what he had been told by a White House assistant was the bathroom just inside a door at the rear of the mansion.
Lau continued to smile and nod at people as he walked, whether others acknowledged him or not. He had traveled to the White House alone, save for a driver who would soon hear some shocking news concerning his charge.
In moments, he had reached the air-conditioned interior of the house and followed a sign that led into a room off of which was one of the world's most exclusive pit stops. Lau could not help but smile, though he did not veer for an instant from his target. It was a book at the
end of a row of books, third shelf from the top. The anteroom was lined with shelves carrying volumes of presidential papers. The book that he sought was packed with the thoughts, words and deeds of Richard Nixon, and it was right beside the bathroom door.
Lau glanced around. Another guest was staring at others books across the room, and he was aware of a couple of people talking excitedly in the bathroom.
Lau withdrew the volume and inserted the crook of his stick in his suit pocket. He flipped through the pages until he reached page one hundred. It was here that the blank piece of paper had been inserted by the American Secret Service agent in the employ of the English secret agent, Burdin. There was nothing remarkable about the paper. It was a little darker than the pages in the book but there was nothing to indicate that it had the potential to kill.
Lau carefully took the page and folded it. This he could do. The substance that it had been coated with, seemingly one of the most deadly potions concocted by the old KGB's Executive Action Department V, was at this point inert. It only became effective when brought into contact with liquid, which, Lau thought, was somehow appropriate given that Department V's work, which centered more or less on murder, sabotage and kidnapping, was collectively referred to as, in the jargon of the time, wet affairs.
Lau placed the page gently in his pocket and glanced into the bathroom. The man who was talking was stuffing paper towels adorned with the presidential seal into his pocket. The man he was babbling to was in a cubicle.
Lau turned, grabbed his stick and with all the strength he was still able to draw upon, made his way back to the South Lawn and its chattering horde.
Everything was working. Everything would work. His people would have their revenge at the very point of being betrayed.
62
CONWAY DABBED HER BROW WITH A TISSUE. She was still inside so her discomfort had nothing to do with the heat. It had been the cell phone call from the Globescan office. She didn't quite know what to make of it. Neither did her caller and the rest of them in the office, although they were trying to stitch things together.