April 4: A Different Perspective

by Mackey Chandler

  "Uh, Otis..." Keith started to say something in alarm, as Otis tilted the rifle over to get at the trigger. He fired it before he could object. The gun made a funny thump, but no real bang to Keith's relief. Neither did he have a hole from the back seat out through the front grill, as he likely would have been made with a full powered round.

  Otis ran the cleaning rod down the bore. He was satisfied the bullet was lodged, fully engraved on the rifling, about two inches forward from the throat. He took a magazine and made sure it still accepted a standard round and ejected it properly. There was no visible bulge on the barrel. If somebody checked both magazines were still full. The empty brass went in his pocket.

  "I have to leave this rifle somewhere this evening," he explained to Keith. "No way do I want it to be a functioning weapon." It was a nasty thing to do to a sweet weapon, but if something happened to him he also didn't want anybody to be able to 'take over' and fulfill his mission for him. If that should happen, well, with a little bit of luck whoever tried to use the gun would get a big surprise, if they didn't check the bore. The thought made him smile.

  "Here," he told Keith's man, "shake this powder off the napkin, over the edge of the deck."

  The man nodded an acknowledgment, but was checking out the Dunestar with a laptop. He must be the bug finder too.

  "It's cold, sitting still. Mind if I start it and circle the deck if I need to?"

  "Be my guest," Otis invited him.

  He went around once slowly, then surprised Otis by whipping around fairly fast. Otis didn't want him calling attention to them, but he pulled in after one quick round. He got out and went to the rear of the vehicle, fiddling with something.

  "You had two hot spots," he informed Otis. "First your remote start fob was emitting. That doesn't have anything to do with the vehicle, it just runs all the time. Second there was a transmitter in the spare tire valve, that didn't come on unless you were moving. Both are dead now, but you don't have a spare tire until you get a new valve stem in the rim."

  "Good work. You ready to go dump it?" The fellow gave him a mock salute and climbed back in. He never did get the man's name.

  "Let's go get my golf bag," he told Keith. "Then I need the van for a couple hours to check into the Sheraton. Your man with the golf bag can take you back can't he?"

  And that was the second coincidence he didn't deserve, Otis thought, fingering the key cards in his pocket. He'd had a reservation at the Sheraton from three weeks ago, before Wiggen was announced to be visiting the city. No need to find an excuse to enter the building or risk trying to get a room at the last minute when they were probably sold out. He wasn't sure if he'd even look in the room the conspirators had provided. He was still thinking on how to play it even now.

  * * *

  Otis checked in to the Sheraton uneventfully. He had two throw away phones in his pocket he'd bought on the way. They were busy enough at the check-in desk that no one objected or offered a hand when he piled his own luggage on a cart and took it up to the eighth floor. There were two security cameras visible on each floor, one pointing down the hall and one covering the elevator. It was dubious anyone was monitoring them in real time. Their deterrent value was in reviewing them if a crime occurred. They would undoubtedly be reviewed after an assassination attempt originating in the building, but not before.

  The room was average, boring really. He dumped the bag of trash he'd been given in the toilet and ripped the bag into smaller pieces he was sure would flush. He looked around the room trying to decide where he could hide the spacer ID. He rejected the Gideon Bible. Taped to a drawer bottom or table bottom was too well known. He finally saw the cheap floor lamp in the corner had a slip joint half way up. He pulled the brass-plated tubing apart and rolled the ID up around the cord. When he fitted it back together he wiped it down to be uniformly shiny. The key cards went inside the plastic cover of the hotel room service menu. It was a slide in folder so they could change inserts, but a very tight fit.

  He considered finding the cleaning cart room and using one to access the shooter's room. But he had nothing with which to disguise himself as a cleaning lady. Pushing a cart down the hall after check-in hours started would draw attention immediately. Anybody from the hotel he ran into would want to know what the hell he thought he was doing. In the morning all the carts would be in use and the only way he could get control of one would be to bribe or incapacitate a cleaning person. The only reasonable thing he could think of, after considering all sorts of ploys, seemed to be to brazen out his movements as soon as possible, before everyone was on alert status for the visit in the morning.

  Once his things were in his room, he took the luggage cart in the elevator, back down to the parking deck. He got in the minivan and pulled on dark pants over his khakis, rolled up his sleeves and put a crushable hat on that was part of his usual kit, to change his appearance. Then he ducked down, using the van to shield himself from the security camera and came out from behind a car further down the row wheeling the golf bag. The luggage cart was still in the elevator when he called it back.

  This trip in he had only the golf bag on the luggage cart, laying on top of the thin rifle case. Once someone saw the familiar golf bag, they'd assume the case, of a similar length, was just more golf gear. It likely shielded it from view of the high mounted security cameras completely. Otis kept his head down, so his face was hidden from the security camera by the floppy brim. As an added disguise he drew a gang tattoo on the back of his hand with his pen and made sure the camera saw it. It would come off easily enough with a disinfectant wipe. Going directly to the room he swiped himself in, without a guilty look either way in the hall. The suite had the look of one used as an apartment instead of for travelers. His conspirators probably knew the owner was on a trip or something.

  The desk, dragged into the middle of the room, made a fine shooting bench. It took less than five minutes to refit the barrel and position everything. Just for insurance, besides the plugged bore, he turned on the scope and changed the zero point up a meter and a half meter to the right, deleting the history. He positioned the window breaching charge clipped on the edge of the curtain, instead of on the glass where it might be visible with binoculars and wired it up to a brand new throw-away cell phone. The drapes were only open about an inch. Hopefully that wouldn't bring anybody from the coming security team to inspect the room. The golf bag was unimportant, assuming Keith sanitized it properly, so it was left in the corner of the room.

  Otis left, walking from the Sheraton along the street, until he found a place for lunch. The dark pants went in the trash can in the men's room; the hat rolled up was tucked under his waist band. It was a pleasant walk back to his room, where he cleaned up a little and flushed his gloves and wipes from removing his fake tattoo. He put his clothing out for the hotel to dry clean over night, in the little bag provided, dressed with a jacket and no tie instead of a suit, this was California after all and drove the minivan back to Keith.

  A stop at a print shop got him a memory card his computer could read. While Keith finished up business to get ready for their signing, Otis sat at the small conference table in his office. He opened a throwaway mail account and contacted Credit Suisse. A few minutes work had the account balance shifted to a new account he was sure had no cosigners. Something he'd have been unable to do without an initial account. A little more work sent half to a new account at First Caribbean on Grand Turk. Unlike the Swiss bank, you didn't have to be there in person to open an account. This evening he'd spread the money around even further, safe from clawbacks. He'd leave just a couple thousand in the account the new card serviced.

  While Keith spent most of the time on his own phone, Otis pulled out his small computer and opened a program called Lineup Artist. He worked quickly, familiar with the program and proficient with it. He made a face for each of the three who met him at the airport, concentrating on the senior player. In a half hour he had likenesses that would have taken him days of bac
k and forth with an expert artist, or forever if he depended on his own freehand drawing skills.

  The easy part done, he considered what to write. He got a sheet of paper from the mid-stack of Keith's printer and wiped the table clean changing his gloves again.

  "FBI - Imperative we inform you there will be attempt on life of President." he started. He intended to imply he was speaking for an organization and leave a few articles out and print some of the letters in a form that would suggest a well educated Eastern European who had learned English in a British setting. He printed, working to make it different than his normal printing. An expert would find subtle similarities, but only if they had a decent sample of his writing and were already on to him.

  "We find ourselves able to frustrate this scheme by communicating, but unable to halt entirely on our own. Your Mr. Polzinsky returned to Atlanta by ONI only the first layer involved. On enclosed chip please find artist's best rendering of men working directly with your suspect. If attempt made on President then you will know these words true. Strongly suggest you remove President Wiggen from area under strictest security when this happens. If you temporarily refuse to divulge President's condition and imply she is receiving medical attention, will prevent launch of backup attempt planned. We have identified second attempt layer for you - next is up to you. Sincerely – Friends."

  It wasn't perfect. It might cause them to pull Wiggen out of the event entirely, which wouldn't bother him too much. It might cause a more intense search, which would find the sniper's nest. It might be, probably would be, ignored as the work of some demented flake. Certainly no real intelligence agency would communicate this way, he was pretty sure, but once the attempt was validated, could they afford to ignore the warning and recommendation? He didn't think so. It was after all cheap insurance and all the plans would already be in place for an emergency removal to medical attention. If they went along with it and the implication was that Wiggen was injured, he might just get the second payment in the Swiss account. That would be delicious.

  "I need some DNA spray," he told Keith.

  "That stuff is illegal in California now, you know."

  "I hope that doesn't mean that you didn't spray the golf bag down as I asked."

  "No, I'd have told you if we couldn't. I just wanted to make sure you knew. They're getting smarter too. Instead of outlawing a particular reagent, they outlawed any chemical agent that interferes with the replication and identification of DNA residues for criminal analysis." He rummaged through his drawers and brought Otis a can that proclaimed it was Acme Premium Glass Cleaner. When he applied it to the paper and chip it was more a fine fog than a spray.

  "I want this delivered today to the FBI, through at least three cut-outs. The last two should be somebody you have never used. A courier service or a cab. and they need to be watched, so we have positive confirmation of delivery."

  "I'll call some off shift people in. I need to have somebody else boss it, so we can get over to the signing." He didn't ask Otis what was in it.

  * * *

  The studio signing was anticlimactic, after the other events of the day, but he got fully engaged in it, assuring the executives more by presence than words what a wise choice they'd made. A couple times Otis caught Keith giving him a thoughtful examination. When they were back in Keith's van he finally spoke.

  "You're working for somebody else too."

  Otis didn't say anything. I am, sort of, he reflected. They just don't know it yet. Certainly several players would gladly pay him to do what he was if they only knew. Wiggen's own party and even the off-worlders who would be hurt when she lost the office, now or later. If he could get that to translate to gratitude after the fact - that was a whole different question.

  "No answer?"

  "You didn't ask anything."

  "Does John know about it?" he asked, refusing to play that game. He meant John Trumble, the CEO of Safety Associates.

  "No, I got recruited on the plane. But John would approve. He's made his politics plain to me and this mission fits them. I have the authority to sign the company to contracts and I have my own morals to serve too."

  "You figure you're on the side of the angels then?"

  "Always. Have you ever known me to do something dirty? Illegal maybe, but actually wrong?"

  "No," he sighed, "and when you spiked that gun it just reassured me you were the right kind of fellow to support. Contacting the FBI reinforces it. I wouldn't have done half of the things you requested today for somebody else. I hope you know that."

  "It will work out fine," he assured him. "The most important part is wrapped up already. Now it's just tinkering with the details."

  "Something to do with Wiggen?"

  "You'll know tomorrow." Otis promised him with a wink.

  When they pulled in at the Sheraton Otis pulled out the two silenced pistols and laid them on the console.

  "You might hang on to those for us. Might upset them at the airport if I forgot and tried to board with them."

  "Sweet Jesus, man. What if I get stopped on the way home?"

  "I guess you better be an exemplary driver this once."

  * * *

  Otis didn't want any further entertainment and just ate in the Sheraton. It was good, but overpriced like most hotel food. His expense account would cover it. He was more aware of value because he hadn't had much money growing up. It had been a struggle for his mom and dad, both working, to stay in something like a middle class lifestyle with two kids.

  After dinner he walked around outside. Across the street and in front of an office building, there was a decorative terrace with a small fountain. It appeared most everyone was gone for the day. There was no foot traffic at the main door and the parking lot was almost empty. He walked slowly giving himself time to examine it. He walked up to the rail around the fountain and worked his way around three quarters of the way until he was standing sideways to the building Wiggen would enter in the morning. It was directly across a huge parking lot and street from here, with his Sheraton sitting on the left. There were coins in the fountain and he dug in his pocket finding a few dimes. While he picked them out, he peeled off the sticky back on a web cam that looked like a bolt head. When he gripped the rail to lean out and toss the coins, he firmly pressed the camera on the vertical aluminum support. It was a good three hundred fifty meters from here to the only entry that looked possible for Wiggen to use in the morning.

  They would likely jam cell phones right around Wiggen as she moved, but if they jammed data wireless it tended to be a tight bubble around her, not this far away. He sat on the edge of a planter and accessed the camera from his phone, zoomed in on the door and centralized it. Then he carefully erased the address the phone had automatically recorded. After a bit he planted a second camera. Not so much as a back-up, but it was better than throwing it away and he didn't want to take it back to his room. There were several public wireless nets hot on the plaza, so he set the cameras to different ones.

  Back in his room he made a pile of pillows and got comfortable. He had several new books in his compact computer and time this evening to enjoy them.

  A firm knock on the door interrupted his immersion in the book. "House, unlock," he called and then realized it wouldn't do that here, like at home. It was a plain mechanical deadbolt on top. "Coming," he corrected and sat the computer aside on the bed.

  The pair in the hall were mid-thirties, in nice, but off the rack suits and the shoes screamed they were cops.

  "Hmm, not local, not military," he checked out the haircut and ties. "You boys gotta be Feds - probably FBI. Why don't ya come in and make yourselves at home?"

  "Thank you," the man seemed indifferent to his analysis. "You are correct. I'm Special Agent Pilato and this is agent Harriman." He offered ID and Otis made the gesture of really looking at it, since it seemed expected.

  "We'd like to ask you a few questions. Do you have any objection?"

  "No, not as long as you answer one o
f mine first. Am I a suspect in some criminal act? If so I'm afraid I'd have to lawyer up on general principles. If you have questions about third parties I have no problem talking to you."

  "Would you mind me seeing what you were reading when we came in?"

  "You're welcome to look at the item displayed. If you want to do a general search of my computer or phone I'll have to ask you to get a warrant. The comp has all sorts of private information about Security Associates and my boss would have my head if I just casually handed it over."

  The Special Agent nodded an acknowledgement and picked it up. Otis expected him to toss it back down after a few sentences, but he obviously read it all the way to the page end.

  "This is damn good stuff. Who's the author?" he asked.

  "Michael Z. Williamson, the novel is 'Better to Beg Forgiveness'."

  The lesser agent looked uncomfortable at this chatty exchange. Unlike the older agent, he'd looked pissed ever since Otis had ID'd them as Feebs.

  "Do you know why we came to speak with you?" he asked, probably out of turn.

  "Oh sure, President Wiggen is in town and I just flew all the way across the continent to be in the same city. I'm a shooter, an actual competent one. So that scares you guys. Hell of a shame the government needs to train people like me, it makes your job harder, but no way around it unless they go to all mercenaries instead of a citizen army."

  "Leaving aside the political tones of that you are correct. Can you tell us why you are in town and when you expect to leave?"

  "I'm here to sign a contract with Yani Cinema for security services. I work for Security Associates out of Atlanta and we signed the papers up this afternoon. My local man Keith anderson drove me over there and dropped me off after. You can check with the studio people that I was there too. I might mention this was all arranged and we made reservations, before it was ever announced President Wiggen would be in town. If I'd known I'd have re-scheduled it for another week."