“Maybe.”
“When did she last see him?”
“Four days or so ago. But she’s only seen him about eight or ten times since he rented the apartment. He goes away for several days at a time. Says he does consulting work for the government. And—this is funny—of the ten other apartments in this building, six of the tenants are here—and not one can positively identify either the photo or the drawing. Three thought it might be him, but only after I suggested that it might be.”
“The manager expect him back at any definite time?”
“Whenever. He never says.”
“So he could just come waltzing in any ol’ time?”
“It’s possible.”
“Any chance he’s upstairs now?”
“I went up on the fire escape fifteen minutes ago and peeked in. Place looks empty.”
Jake stared at the picture. The face was regular, the features quite average but arranged in such a way that no one would ever call the owner handsome. He looked … it was hard to say. He looked, Jake decided, like everybody else. It was as if the owner of that face had no personality of his own. The eyes stared out, slightly bored, promising nothing. Not great intelligence, not wit, not … Nothing was hidden behind the smooth brow, the calm, unemotional features.
Wrong. Everything was hidden.
He took a copy of the artist’s rendering from his pocket and held it beside the photo. Well, it was and it wasn’t.
“Thanks,” Jake Grafton told the agent.
In the car he showed the picture to the others. They immediately whipped out their copies of the line drawing to compare.
“Oh yes,” Rita said. “It’s him. It’s the same man.”
“No, it isn’t,” said her husband. “It could be, perhaps, but …”
“Let’s go,” Jake told Yocke. “The place on Q Street.”
With traffic practically nonexistent, Yocke made excellent time. He ran every red light after merely slowing for a look. They drove past the Lafayette Circle address, Toad pointed out the error, and Yocke circled the block.
There was a parking place clearly visible fifty feet down the street, but Yocke double-parked in front of the main entrance. He gave Grafton a bland, slightly smug smile.
The captain sighed and got out of the car. “Toad, phone the armory and find out what’s happening.”
While the lieutenant used the telephone inside, Jake conferred with another agent in the hall. He was back in the car waiting when Toad came down the steps.
“Riots,” Toad reported. “The lid is coming off.”
“Any sign of the terrorists?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Let’s go back to the armory,” Jake told Yocke and tapped the dashboard.
“Aye aye, sir. What did the manager say?”
“Wasn’t the manager. He’s gone for the holidays. It was one of the tenants. Identifies both pictures. Says the guy called himself Smithson. He couldn’t remember the first name. Been here about a month.”
“Only one tenant?” Rita asked. “What about all the others?”
“Just one. No one else is sure. The agents are going door to door.”
“You’d think if one person saw him and was sure, they all would at least recognize the photo.”
“You’d think,” Jake Grafton agreed.
Assume these people are correct. Assume Henry Charon—Smithson—Sam Donally were all one and the same man. He had two apartments. No, make that at least two. What if he had three? Or four?
Grafton looked up at the buildings the car drove past. He could be up there right now, watching the street. But why had so few people seen him?
Let’s assume the man is really Henry Charon from New Mexico. He comes to town, takes several apartments. Why? Because the hotels and motels were the very first places the police checked. Yet the minute his picture ran in the paper, he would have to abandon all the apartments. Wouldn’t he? But that was a bad break. Unexpected. He worked like hell to ensure there would be no witnesses. But he was seen. That was always a possibility.
Apartments. He rented apartments about a month ago. The conclusion was inescapable—the attempt on the President’s life was very carefully planned. Most attempts to kill the President were made by emotionally disturbed individuals, Jake knew, screwballs who acted on a sudden impulse when an opportunity presented itself. Charon or Smithson or Donally had carefully planned, bided his time. And he should have succeeded. This was the nightmare the Secret Service worked to foil—the professional killer who stalked his prey, the hunter of men.
It fitted. Charon was a poacher and a professional hunting guide. He knew firearms. He could shoot.
A hunter. A man at home outdoors.
Well, there were the alleys and the railroad yards. Maybe the places under bridges and overpasses where the bums hang out.
No. He would be seen and remembered in all those areas unless he went to great pains to look like a derelict. And to pass freely in the world of working people and tourists that was the rest of Washington, he would have to be groomed and dressed appropriately.
A master of disguise, perhaps? A quick change artist?
Jake thought not.
Was he still in Washington? Well, the assumption was that all these long-range shootings were done by one man, and if so, there appeared to be no obvious reason why he should have left. Unless he’s finished what he came to do or decided to abandon the rest of his plan. Questions—there were too many unanswered questions.
The car entered one of Washington’s traffic circles. As Yocke piloted the car around Jake Grafton caught sight of the statue amidst the trees and evergreens. These little parks, he thought, were about as close to the outdoors as the residents of Washington ever get.
Perhaps a camper, mounted on a pickup bed. Maybe one of those vacation cruisers with the little toilet and the propane stove. Surely Henry Charon from New Mexico would be at home in something like that.
What else? He was missing something. Henry Charon, a hunter and small rancher from New Mexico. He comes to the big city and only three people see him? See and remember.
The problem, Jake thought, was that he himself had lived too long in cities. He didn’t see the city as Charon did, as alien territory.
No, he had that wrong. Charon saw the city precisely as he saw the forests and mountains. A hunting ground.
But where did that fact take him? Jake Grafton didn’t know.
The conversation among his fellow passengers caught his attention now. “Why is it,” Rita asked Jack Yocke, “that the newspapers and television give the impression that the whole city is in flames, with a million people rioting in the street? My mother called me last night in a panic.”
“The television people are in show biz,” Yocke told her lightly.
“Have there been any more ‘communiqués’ from Aldana’s friends in Colombia?” Toad asked.
“Yeah,” said Yocke. “They say they’re going to blow up some airliners. They’re going to bring this nation to its knees, they say. It’s probably on TV right now. Be in tomorrow’s paper.”
Jake Grafton sat in glum silence. The aftermath of all this … God only knew. But, he suspected, the plight of the desperately hopeless, all those people without the education or pluck to make it in America—the natural prey of the Chano Aldanas—would be ignored in the hue and cry. Not that the poor were the sole consumers of illegal drugs or even the majority. Oh no. But they were the core of the problem, the loyal consumer base unaffected by changing fashion or public education. The poor were the least likely to get treatment, the least likely to have the social and financial and spiritual assets to escape the downward spiral of addiction, crime, and early death.
“We’re going to have to legalize dope,” Yocke said under his breath.
This comment produced an outburst from both Toad and Rita. Jake silenced them curtly. They were supposed to be fighting alligators: someone else was going to have to figure out a way to drain t
he swamp.
The situation room at the armory was packed with people, including General Land and his flag aides. Jake found time to quickly brief the chairman on the search for the assassin, then he got out of the way.
He stood there watching the brass do the math required to figure out how long it would take to search all the remainder of the city with the troops available. They knew as well as Jake that the people they were after might just walk a half block to a building that had already been searched.
General Land was acutely conscious of that possibility. He wanted street patrols to stop and examine the IDs of any suspicious characters. The D.C. police could help, but they had limited manpower.
The military presence was inexorably rising and would continue to rise until the terrorists were found. If they were here to be found. Score one for the narco-terrorists, Jake Grafton thought. If they had accomplished nothing else, the people inside the beltway were going to get a real taste of military dictatorship.
While these thoughts were going through Grafton’s mind, Senator Bob Cherry and three other senators were voicing them on national television. Cherry dropped the bombshell toward the end of the program. Chano Aldana should be sent back to Colombia, he said, and then the terrorism would stop.
“The people of Washington, the people of this nation, should not have to submit to being wounded, maimed, and murdered just so the administration can have the satisfaction of prosecuting Mr. Aldana. The citizens huddle in their houses while the military makes war in the streets. We all admire persistence in the face of adversity, but at some point dogged insistence on observing all the arcane niceties of the law becomes foolhardy. Atrocities, bombings, assassinations—how much do we have to endure here in Northern Colombia? What price in blood and flesh does Dan Quayle think we should pay for Aldana’s prosecution?”
Watching Cherry on a portable television in an armory office, Toad Tarkington muttered to Jack Yocke, “He’s got a talent for rhetorical questions, doesn’t he?”
“It’s taken him far,” Yocke replied.
Twenty minutes later Jake Grafton saw the map. It had been there for days and three enlisted men were diligently annotating it with pins and little symbols, but when someone stepped out of his way, suddenly it was hanging on the wall in his full view. And the thing he saw as he looked at it were all the areas that were not divided into blocks to be searched. For the first time he saw the open areas.
It was possible. Not very likely, but possible.
“General Greer, do you have a company I can borrow?”
The major general looked at him askance. “A company?” he growled. He didn’t think much of naval officers—the damned boat drivers usually had only the vaguest grasp of real war, the land war. Just now he swallowed his prejudices. Grafton, he knew, was different. Liaison with the Joint Staff, Grafton had never tried to tell him how to do his job. Unlike fifty or so flag officers of all services who had been wasting huge chunks of his time with unsolicited advice.
“Yessir. A couple hundred troops. I want to walk them through Rock Creek Park.”
The company commander lined his troops up in a parking lot of RFK Stadium across the street from the armory. As the sergeants counted noses and checked gear, Jake turned to Toad. “Go get rifles and a couple extra magazines for me, you, and Rita. And three walkie-talkies.”
“What about Yocke?”
“He’s a civilian.” Right now the reporter was inside in the command post taking notes. If he didn’t get out here on the double he was going to be left behind. His problem.
“Aye aye, sir,” Tarkington said and trotted toward the armory.
The company commander, an army captain, asked Jake if he wanted to address the troops.
“No, you do it. Tell them we are going to be hunting a killer, the man who shot down the President’s helicopter. They are to take their time, go slowly, use their flashlights. We’ll do the Rock Creek Country Club first.”
“You want this man alive, sir?”
“I’ll take him any way I can get him. I don’t want any of your men killed trying to capture him. Anybody who fails to stop when challenged, they can shoot.”
“Your responsibility, sir?”
“My responsibility.”
The army officer saluted and went to talk to his men.
Ten minutes later, with the enlisted soldiers aboard the trucks, the officers consulted the maps. Just as Jake and the two navy lieutenants climbed into their car, Jack Yocke came running.
“Welcome to the party,” Toad told him.
The convoy moved slowly through the streets. Pedestrians were streaming in and out of the grocery stores, but the parking lots and streets lacked the usual glut of automobiles. The effect was jarring.
“I hear the stores are doing a land office business in liquor and contraceptives,” Yocke remarked.
“Can’t watch television all the time,” Toad agreed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rita said. “The glare of the boob tube doesn’t seem to affect your libido.”
Jake Grafton sighed.
Senator Cherry and his aide drove back to the Senate office building in Cherry’s car. Like many of the senators and congressmen trapped in Washington this close to the holidays—Cherry had told the majority leader a week ago that the chambers should adjourn early for Christmas and had been ignored—he had been issued a vehicle pass by the White House staff.
Two FBI agents were waiting in the hall outside Cherry’s office suite.
Hooper he remembered. The other agent was named Murray. “Your door’s locked,” one of them noted.
“That’s obvious,” Cherry thundered derisively. “They gave me one lousy pass for one vehicle and I have to drive the damn thing. You think my receptionist is going to walk ten miles through the streets of this open sewer to unlock the door so you can have a nice place to wait?”
“No, sir.”
The aide unlocked the door and the agents followed the senator into his office. After he had flipped on the lights and settled behind his desk, Cherry boomed, “Well?”
“Senator, we’re trying to get a handle on the activities of a certain lawyer here in the District, fellow named T. Jefferson Brody.”
Bob Cherry stared at them.
“It seems he made some campaign contributions that—”
“Did the White House send you over here?”
“No, sir. As I said, we’re—”
“You just got a call from Will Dorfman, didn’t you? Dorfman is trying to shut me up. That asshole! Well, it won’t work! I am going to continue to say what has to be said. If Dorfman doesn’t like it he can stick—”
“I haven’t talked to anybody at the White House, Senator,” Tom Hooper said with force. “I’m asking you, do you know T. Jefferson Brody?”
“I’ve met him, yes. I’ve met a lot of people in Washington, Mister … I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Hooper.”
“Hooper. I’m a U.S. senator. I meet people at parties, at dinners, they stream into this office by the hundreds. Just here in Washington I must have met ten thousand people in the last ten years. In Florida—”
“Brody. Jefferson Brody. He makes political contributions on behalf of people who want influence. Has he made any contributions to your campaign or any of your PACs?”
“I resent your implication, sir! You are implying that Jefferson Brody or someone owns a piece of me! You can haul your little tin badge right on out that—”
“I’m not implying anything, sir,” Hooper said without a trace of irritation. He had dealt with these elected apostles on numerous occasions in the past. It was one of the least pleasant aspects of his job. “I’m trying to conduct an investigation into the activities of T. Jefferson Brody. If you don’t want to answer questions or cooperate, your campaign finance statements are a matter of public record. We’ll get them.”
“I’m perfectly willing to cooperate with the FBI,” Cherry said civilly. “But your timing co
uldn’t be more … curious, shall we say? I appear on network television and take a strong stand against the administration about a matter of public concern. An hour later when I get back to the office the FBI is waiting for me. Nobody from the White House called you, you say. But what about your superiors? Did Will Dorfman call the director?
“I’ll be blunt, gentlemen. I think Dorfman is playing hardball, trying to use the FBI to silence someone who is speaking out against the administration’s handling of this terrorism debacle. I know how Dorfman plays the game. Next he’ll start telling lies about me. He’s done it before. He’s good at it. The slander, the invidious lie—those are Dorfman’s weapons against Bush and Quayle’s enemies.
“Now you go back and tell your superiors that Bob Cherry can’t be muzzled. You tell the director to call Dorfman and tell him Bob Cherry didn’t scare. No doubt that perverted little troglodyte will think of a filthy lie and find an ear to pour it into. But I’m going to keep telling the truth about Dithering Danny and that parasite Dorfman until the day I die.
“Now get out. Get out of my office.”
Hooper and Murray went.
With the door closed, Bob Cherry sat for a minute or two lost in thought. Automatically he reached out and rearranged the mementos on his desk, handling them and brushing off any specks of dust that might have come to rest on them. This altimeter mounted on a walnut stand—a presentation from a Florida veterans association. The gold doubloon from a Spanish treasure galleon, the baseball signed by Hank Aaron, the fifty-caliber machine-gun round on an alabaster base—all these things had been presented to him by groups of Florida citizens who appreciated his loyal service in the Senate, his sacrifices on their behalf.
He rose from his chair and went around the room looking at the photos on the wall, dusting an occasional frame with a finger and here and there straightening one. He was in every photo. He had posed with presidents, with movie idols, with famous industrialists and writers and athletes. Many of the photos bore handwritten inscriptions safely preserved forever behind nonglare glass: “To Senator Bob Cherry, a real American.” “To Bob Cherry, a friend.” “To Senator Cherry, a true friend of the American working man.” “To Florida’s own Senator Bob Cherry, who believes in America.”
05.Under Siege v5 Page 48