“We think they’re planning to kill the President. And soon.”
Joker frowned. “Why would the IRA want to help assassinate the President of the United States? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does if you know that Carlos and representatives of the IRA were guests of Saddam Hussein in Iraq not so long ago.”
“What? You think Saddam Hussein is behind it? What would he have to gain by killing the President?”
Howard shrugged. “Revenge for Desert Storm, we think. He’s never forgiven the States or Britain for forcing him out of Kuwait. But it doesn’t end there. There was the cruise missile attack on Baghdad after the Iraqis tried to kill George Bush in Kuwait. And the Iraqi fighter we brought down recently in the no-fly zone was a real slap in the face for him. He hates the US with a vengeance. As a result we’ve seen a growing number of terrorist attacks here. We had a big one in New York in ‘93, remember? The World Trade Center. They killed six people, and they were planning to blow up the Holland and Lincoln tunnels under the Hudson River and the United Nations headquarters. We caught the guys, but next time we might not be so lucky.”
“The IRA weren’t involved, were they?”
“Not that we can prove, but the bomb was similar to ones that have been used in Northern Ireland and London. We believe that the IRA have been helping Muslim fundamentalists in several locations around the world.”
“But you said this time they’re planning to use snipers?”
“We know they were practising a sniper hit in the Arizona desert several weeks ago. And we’re talking real long-distance stuff. We think one of the snipers is going to be firing from two thousand yards away.”
“Two thousand yards?” said Joker, with the emphasis on thousand. “You mean two hundred, surely?”
“No, two thousand yards. Six thousand feet. Our sniping experts tell us that the bullet will take four full seconds to reach its target.”
Joker looked stunned. “That’s incredible,” he said. “You don’t think they’re still going ahead, do you? Now that you know what they’re up to?”
Howard shrugged. “We don’t know. There’s another problem. We think there’s a chance that Hennessy, Carlos and Bailey might be planning to be nearer the target.”
Intuitively, Joker realised what the FBI agent wanted from him. He was the only person who’d seen the three terrorists close up. “In case the snipers fail?” he said.
“Or helping with the co-ordination,” said Howard.
“When do you think they’ll do it?” asked Joker.
“We don’t know. But soon. Assuming they don’t cancel.”
“Carlos isn’t a man who’s likely to be scared off,” said Joker. “I remember what he did in Vienna with the OPEC ministers. If anything, I think he’d relish a challenge. So, Agent Howard, what is it you want from me?”
Howard looked at Clutesi and then back at Joker. “We want to put you close to the presidential guard. Not as part of the President’s protective screen, but as an observer. You know what Carlos looks like, in the flesh. If he’s in disguise, you might spot him.”
Joker scratched his chin and winced as he moved his injured shoulder. He indicated the chain with his left hand.
“You’ll be released into the FBI’s custody,” said Howard. “I’ll be taking a chance on you, Cramer, but I don’t think you’ll let me down.”
Joker looked at him with hard eyes. “Yeah, and if Hennessy or Carlos sees me around the President, maybe they’ll take a shot at me first.”
“That’s possible,” agreed Howard.
“Do I get a gun?”
Howard smiled and shook his head. “It’s going to be hard enough to persuade the Secret Service to let you within a mile of the President, I don’t think there’s much chance of you carrying a gun.”
“Bullet-proof vest?”
“That I think we can arrange,” said Howard. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”
Joker nodded. “I’d do anything to get another crack at that bitch.”
“I thought you’d say that,” said Howard.
Marty Edberg pointed at the television monitor showing a close-up of the Orioles scoreboard. “Go to two,” he said. His assistant pressed a button on the console and the picture flashed up on the large screen in the centre of the wall of monitors. The picture wavered crazily and Edberg slammed his hand down on the console. “Wendy, would you ask that shithead Lonnie to stop fucking jerking himself off when we’re with him, please.”
Wendy spoke into her microphone, translating Edberg’s outburst into constructive criticism which wouldn’t upset the cameraman too much. The picture steadied.
“Better,” said Edberg. “Thank you. Now, let’s go to four.”
Wendy depressed the button for camera four and a close-up of the pitcher’s mound filled the main screen. Several men in suits and sunglasses were checking the ground, bent double as if they were looking for dropped change.
“Good, now to six.” The picture on the main screen flicked to a long shot of the baseball diamond taken from a camera high up in the stands. Edberg looked across to the small monitor showing camera two’s output. It was wobbling again. “I’ll have Lonnie’s balls if he doesn’t shape up,” hissed Edberg. There was a knock on the door to the television control room and Edberg looked up, annoyed at the disturbance. “Go away!” he yelled. “Let’s go to three, with a slow panning shot of the crowds behind the batter,” he said.
Wendy spoke quickly to the cameraman on three and pressed another button. On the main screen the picture showed rows and rows of empty seats. A man in a grey suit and sunglasses was walking slowly down an aisle, checking underneath the seats. Several uniformed police officers were leading sniffer dogs along the rows. The knock on the door was repeated, and it opened. Two men with short hair and square jaws stood in the doorway wearing dark suits and sunglasses. Edberg sighed mournfully, recognising the suits and the demeanour. Only Secret Service agents and rock stars insisted on wearing their sunglasses indoors. “Yes, guys? What can I do for you?”
“Mr Edberg?” said the agent on the left.
“That’s right.”
“Did Bob Sanger of our Washington office speak to you yesterday about the live feeds?”
Edberg nodded. “He did, but it’s damn irregular.”
“Actually it’s not,” said the agent. “We’ve done it many times, just not at this ballpark, that’s all.” He flipped open a black leather wallet and showed Edberg his credentials. The other agent, who still hadn’t spoken, did the same. “We’re with the Technical Security Division. Our truck is downstairs.” The agents stepped to the side and Edberg saw that there were two men wearing white overalls and carrying tool boxes standing outside the door. “These technicians will run the feeds to our truck and establish a communication link with you.”
“You realise that you won’t be able to direct the cameramen, you’ll just be getting the feeds that come through to our console?” said Edberg. “I already explained that to Sanger — you can have the feeds but I call the shots.”
“That’s understood,” said the agent. “We’re just looking for a way to increase our surveillance of the crowds, that’s all. But if we see something and we’d like a closer look, and the camera wasn’t going out live, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind giving us a close-up — if we asked you, of course. It is the President’s safety we’re talking about, after all.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Edberg testily.
The two men in overalls entered the control room and scanned the monitors and racks of electronics equipment. One of them pointed to a blank monitor which was labelled ‘ten’.
“Is there something wrong with that one?” he asked.
Edberg shook his head. “That’ll be the overhead shots taken from the blimp,” he said. “That won’t be on line until it’s in the air, about half an hour before the game is due to start.”
“We can take a feed from it?” asked the technician.
>
“Sure, you just won’t pick anything up for a while. We can put a test signal through it if you want to check your connections.”
“That’ll be great,” said the technician, kneeling down and opening up his tool box. The two agents stood at the rear of the control room and watched the technicians work. Edberg could see the butt of what looked like a machine pistol sticking out of the back of one of the men’s jackets. He jerked his head away as if he’d been caught looking at something he shouldn’t have. Wendy was looking at him anxiously.
“Okay, Wendy, let’s go to seven. And tell Lonnie he’s got the fucking shakes again.”
This time there were no games: no open doors, no missing light bulbs, no running showers. Mary knocked gently on the door and Kelly opened it. Kelly looked tired and agitated. She paced up and down as Mary closed the door. A television set was on in the corner, but the sound was muted.
“I didn’t know, they didn’t tell me,” said Kelly, before Mary could speak.
Mary put her bag on the bed. “I know,” she said.
“If I’d known, I’d have told you,” said Kelly, her voice shaking.
Mary frowned. At their first meeting Kelly had appeared confident and self-assured, but now she saw that she wasn’t much more than a girl, a girl young enough to be Mary’s own daughter.
“My boss sent me on a wild goose chase,” Kelly continued. “If I’d stayed in the White House, I’d have been able to warn you.”
Mary shook her head. “You couldn’t have reached me, remember? You didn’t have the number. We were to meet here today. Don’t you see? Even if you’d known about the broadcast, you couldn’t have warned me.” The girl looked so distraught she wondered if there was something else amiss. “Kelly, do you think they suspect you?”
Kelly looked up sharply. “Oh no,” she said, “I’m sure they don’t. My boss just feels threatened by me, that’s all. He just wanted me out of the way. I thought if I got the security arrangements for you, it might help.” She smacked her thigh with her fist. “I should have stayed with them.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” soothed Mary. She pulled Kelly close and hugged her the way she’d held her daughter when she’d failed one of her exams.
“I let you down,” said Kelly. “I let you down and I let my father down.”
“No, you didn’t,” said Mary. She helped Kelly sit down on the edge of the bed and then fetched her a glass of water from the bathroom.
Kelly sipped it gratefully. “They killed one of your people?” she asked.
Mary nodded. “Yes. A girl.”
“Bastards,” said Kelly. “There was a Brit there, a man called O’Brien.”
“He’s dead,” said Mary.
Kelly shook her head fiercely. “No, he’s in Shock-trauma.”
Mary’s mouth dropped. “Are you sure?”
Kelly nodded. “They’re talking to him now.”
Mary stood in front of the dressing-table mirror and stared at her reflection. That was twice that Cramer had escaped her. The man must have the luck of the devil himself. How the hell could he have escaped from the basement when the house burnt down? Especially after what she’d done to him.
Kelly held the glass of water with both hands. “They’ve identified everyone at the rehearsal in Arizona now,” she said. Her grip tightened on the glass. “This Carlos, what’s his role in all this? You didn’t tell me about him.”
Mary shrugged, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “He helped us recruit the snipers, that’s all. He’s out of the country already.” Kelly nodded and Mary knew she believed her. “How did they find out about Carlos?”
“Same way they identified you and Bailey, from the computer-enhanced photographs.”
“Why didn’t they include his photograph on the TV broadcast? Why did they only use me and Bailey? Why didn’t they show the snipers?”
Kelly shrugged. “I’m not sure. My boss isn’t telling me much at all at the moment.”
“Do they know who the target is?” Mary asked.
“No,” said Kelly. “They’re working on a list of VIPs. It’s over there, on the chair, with the security details. They’re planning to flood the stadium with extra agents — I’ve got a map with their locations on it.”
“Does that mean they think the hit is going to be there?”
Kelly shook her head. “No, that’s going to be standard procedure at all the presidential venues for the next few weeks.”
Mary picked up the sheets of paper and looked through them. “They’re mostly British, I see. The targets.”
“They’re assuming it’s either the President or an IRA target,” said Kelly.
“Do they know where?”
Kelly shook her head. “That computer program I told you about hasn’t come up with anything yet. Something about them not being able to identify the long shot.”
Mary smiled tightly. “Or when?” Another shake. “Good,” said Mary. “Then we can still go ahead.”
Cole Howard knelt down by the side of Joker’s hospital bed and unlocked the padlock which secured the chain. He tugged the chain and it rattled through the steel rails at either side of the bed. Joker slid the chain from around his waist and dropped it on the floor with a rattle like a ship weighing anchor.
“Better?” asked Howard.
“Much,” said Joker. “Thanks.”
The two men were alone in the room. The television set flickered silently in the corner, its sound muted. Howard had told the uniformed cop that the FBI would be responsible for custody of the patient and he’d taken his newspaper and left. Don Clutesi had gone to the FBI’s field office in Baltimore to collect some clothing for Joker. Mary Hennessy had destroyed his shirt, and the rest of his clothes had gone up in flames when his car had exploded in the fire. Joker swung his legs off the bed and placed his bare feet on the floor. He tested them gingerly, shifting his weight gradually until he was standing upright.
“You okay?” asked Howard.
Joker nodded grimly. “A bit weak, but I’ll be fine.” He took a few unsteady steps towards the window. He walked like an old man, slightly stooped and with a discernible pause between each step.
“If it’s going to be too much, you can get back in bed and we’ll forget the whole thing,” offered Howard.
Joker turned around and glared at the FBI agent, “I’ll be fine,” he said tightly.
Howard’s cellular phone bleeped and he pressed it to his ear. It was Ed Mulholland. “Bob Sanger’s given you the go ahead,” said Mulholland.
“That’s great, Ed. Thanks. I know you must have pushed for it,” said Howard.
“Yeah, I’ve got to admit that he took some persuading,” said Mulholland. “But I told him that you were prepared to accept responsibility for him at all times, and he agreed. But he’s most definitely not to be armed, Cole, I can’t emphasise that enough. He’s to be there as a passive observer, nothing else.”
“That’s understood,” said Howard.
“So what’s your plan now?” asked Mulholland.
“Don’s having a word with the Secret Service people in Baltimore. They’re handling the on-the-ground searches and I think we should leave it up to them.”
“I agree,” said Mulholland. “Bob Sanger’s sending more of his people to Baltimore right now. There’s no point in the FBI duplicating their work.”
“Yeah, though we’re going to stick close to the President at all venues in the Baltimore-Washington area where the computer projection suggests he’s vulnerable. I’m going to talk to Andy Kim right now for a list. Then we’re off to the ball game, the President’s due there at six-thirty.”
“Okay, Cole, keep in touch.”
The line went dead and Howard called up Andy Kim’s private line in the White House computer room. Kim answered on the third ring and sounded tired and harassed. Howard asked if he had put together a list of the appointments on the President’s agenda where two out of the three snipers mat
ched. A flustered Kim asked him to hang on and Howard tapped the phone against his cheek as he waited. The door to the hospital room was thrown open and the doctor who had treated Joker stormed in, his white coat flapping behind him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. “Get back in bed right now.”
Joker looked at Howard for support, and the FBI agent was about to speak when Kim came back on the line. Howard turned his back on the doctor while he wrote down a list of venues. When he’d finished he had seven locations, including the ballpark and the National Aquarium, the two places where the President was going to be that evening. “The Secret Service already has this list, Andy?” asked Howard.
“That’s right, and we’re working on others now,” said Kim. He sounded as if someone was listening at his shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Howard asked.
“I’m fine, Cole, there’s just quite a bit of pressure here at the moment, that’s all.”
“How’s Bonnie?”
“Dog tired,” said Kim. “Look, Cole, I have to go, we’re running a new program and I have to give it my full attention.”
“Sure, Andy, sorry,” said Howard. He switched off his phone and turned to face the doctor, who was if anything even angrier than when he’d entered the room.
“What the hell’s going on?” the doctor asked Howard.
“We need Mr Cramer’s assistance in a security matter, doctor,” said Howard, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
“He needs bed rest,” said the doctor, “he shouldn’t be on his feet.”
“I feel better,” said Joker, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“You’re in shock, and your body still hasn’t made up for the blood you lost.”
Joker shrugged. “I’m not planning on running a marathon,” he said.
“Any sort of movement is going to open up those wounds,” warned the doctor.
“Doctor, this is important,” insisted Howard; “if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be taking Mr Cramer out of your care.”
The doctor clicked his tongue in annoyance. He put his stethoscope against Joker’s chest and listened. “Your heart seems steady enough,” he admitted grudgingly. He pulled a sphygmomanometer from his coat pocket and took Joker’s blood pressure. “Your blood pressure is on the way up, too.” He looked at Howard severely. “I’d like to give him a vitamin shot, and what he really needs is a couple of days’ bed rest, but I don’t suppose I can stop you, can I?”
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