Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  "What's in the cane?" Jeff demanded.

  For a moment pride showed in Grossman's gaze. "A surprise." He twisted one of the brass decorative beads that lined the side then shoved the bead inside. Instantly the brass handle slid up a fraction of an inch. Grossman unscrewed the handle, tipped the hollow cane, and metal parts for two palm-sized pistols slid out, plus a miniature tool kit and four .22-caliber bullets wrapped in paper.

  Jeff nodded appreciatively. "The cane's lined in lead?"

  "You bet. No machine can see inside. The best." He could not resist adding, "One of my finest designs."

  Beth said, "You're an artist, Harvey."

  Jeff examined the parts. "Looks good. In fact, very good." He would have no trouble assembling the small, one-shot pistols. "Are they reliable guns?"

  "Like I said, for their size, they're the best." Grossman sounded proud.

  Jeff was unhappy going into a confrontation with Berianov with just a single .22-caliber bullet for Beth and him, but getting even that past White House security would be a triumph. "The metal spring on those full-size plastic weapons would never get through the White House scanners unless they were disguised inside something with metal on it. You have anything that would do the job?"

  "Nope. The customer always handles that part. I just buy and sell the guns."

  "Then it'll have to be the cane," Jeff decided.

  "Does that do it?" Beth asked. Part of her was already out the door.

  "I'm satisfied." Jeff slid the gun parts back into the cane. "Sort of. It's not much firepower, but with luck it's all we'll need. Pay the man."

  Beth pulled from her shoulder bag the thousand dollars in cash she had taken from her desk drawer Thursday night after Stephanie Smith was killed. For a moment she was transported back to Stephanie's terrible death in the fiery car crash.

  She looked down at her hand as she passed the money to Harvey. Her hand was steady. And in that instant she saw how much stronger she had become. She was the same person, but different. All the new restlessness and rage had settled into an odd kind of confidence that allowed her to feel a range of emotions she had never attained. She glanced up at Jeff.

  Jeff handed one of the IDs to Beth. "This one's yours. Your name's Mercer Bell, and I'm Thomas Koster. We have the Social Security numbers from Olsen, and now we have the photo ID. We're ready."

  Grossman was counting his money. "Groove on, folks. My painting calls."

  Jeff said, "Not yet, Harvey."

  Grossman looked back at the Beretta in Jeff's hand. His eyebrows raised, and his jowls quivered. "Come on, Jeff. You're not going to kill me for a thousand bucks, are you? That's shitty." His face was tight with fear.

  "Not as long as you do what I say. Go into the living room."

  "I don't think this is a good idea—" Grossman froze as he saw Beth pull out a pistol, too.

  She said, "Come on, Harvey. Hurry it up. Move!"

  Without another word, the artist scuttled into the living room, Beth and Jeff close behind. As Jeff tied him to a spindle chair, Beth gagged him, then hurried out the door.

  Jeff grabbed the cane. "If all goes well, we'll be back in a couple of hours to untie you. Keep that thought, Harvey. And say a little prayer we make it—and so does the president."

  The gray morning sky had turned flinty blue. A few smoky clouds hung low above the Beltway as Jeff sped the car past Reagan airport, heading toward downtown Washington. He and Beth were talking about everything that had happened since she found the dying Colonel Yurimengri at Meteor Express.

  "Have you noticed how so many people think we won the Cold War?" she was saying. "Boy, are they wrong. We bought victory, paid for it fair and square. Of course, the Soviets helped by underproducing us and pillaging their own government's treasury. An odd collusion."

  "What I think's interesting is Americans' believing we're the only superpower left, when all anyone has to do is look at the mammoth international corporations like Microsoft and Enron, with budgets larger than most nations and profits bigger than any. Global market leaders are today's real superpowers, and individual countries are an indulgence they keep around like favorite aunts."

  She nodded. "In my practice, it's clear nothing fundamental has really changed despite all the talk about the technology revolution and our new information-based economies. Just as Machiavelli and the Medicis would've been right at home jawboning with Carnegie, Ford, and Rockefeller, all of them would come to a quick meeting of the minds today with Bill Gates and his kingly pals. It's still nothing but power and profits at those rarified heights, just as it's always been."

  As they rode on, she worried about what would happen at the Rose Garden. What it would mean if Berianov were to succeed in killing the president.

  Finally she asked, "Do you have any idea what Berianov's going to look like?"

  "I've been asking myself the same question. I've seen the FBI and CIA produce masks with skin so lifelike you'd think it sweats, blushes, and has to be watched for acne. We can thank university labs and the space program for that. Considering how well-equipped Berianov has been so far, I've got no reason to believe he doesn't have all the same tools and compounds." He paused and added with disgust, "I thought I knew him well. After all, I'd spent weeks debriefing him after he defected, and then I stayed in touch with him over the years. But in the end, I didn't have a clue he was the old man or Caleb Bates. He disguised not only his face, but his voice and his posture. I believed he was that dairy farm's caretaker, and so did he."

  "Me, too." She sighed worriedly. "The president could be in serious trouble."

  49

  It was 9:25 A.M., and the Rose Garden bustled with activity as TV and radio people checked mikes, feeds, and cables. White House press aides circulated among the crews, answering questions and setting up postconference interviews, while stern-faced American and Russian security teams conferred in low, urgent voices by walkie-talkie.

  The Secret Service had instructed the staff to be doubly alert, that there had been a threat against the president's life that sounded more legitimate than usual. As expected, the two presidents had refused to cancel or alter their schedules, so security was not only tight but tense.

  Atop the limestone steps off the West Wing, with white pillars and the Cabinet Room's white French doors as a backdrop, twin podiums stood awaiting the beginning of the internationally televised media event.

  Neat rows of white chairs were arranged on the Rose Garden's thick green lawn, facing the podiums. Divided into thirds, the central group of chairs would seat more than a hundred reporters from around the globe. On either side of the reporters' section, separated by aisles, were rows for special guests. Already many of the chairs were occupied. Overlooking the animated scene from the distant end of the garden was a temporary platform on which camera crews and still photographers with long telephoto lenses busily prepared their equipment.

  Keeping watch from the rooftops were Secret Service sharpshooters. Meanwhile, inside the White House, white-uniformed waiters padded silently in and out of the elegant state dining room with its gilded chandelier and sconces. They were setting two dozen round tables with the White House's classic Vermeil flatware and the red-and-gold rimmed Reagan china. Aides would shepherd special guests in to dine with the Russian and American heads of state immediately after the press affair.

  All this activity was situation normal for the White House, except for the intensified security. And on top of that was an added element—a subtle undercurrent of quiet frenzy due to the weighty nature of the occasion. A visit by the Russian president was a world-class event, now shadowed by potential danger.

  In the Oval Office, the two men—the calm center of today's business—sat apparently relaxed in gold damask chairs on either side of the fireplace, interpreters behind and beside. They discussed the traditional items—the weather, crops in America's Midwest and Russia's neighboring Ukraine, and the problems of getting away for a vacation. No one mentioned the recen
t unpleasantness in Chechnya or Colombia, or Russia's continuing problems with the IMF, or America's embarrassing campaign-finance scandals. This was no working meeting. It was social, and both presidents seemed relieved to be responsible only for their media images.

  Out on East Executive Avenue, the queue of invited guests moved ahead under budding trees. To their left was the wrought-iron fence and bushes that surrounded the White House grounds, while towering to their right was the gothic Treasury Building. Dressed in suits and springtime dresses, polished wing-tips and attractive low-heeled pumps, many were holding their envelopes and invitations while they chatted. It was a festive atmosphere, and Beth and Jeff in their disguises made every effort to fit right in.

  Except that their sharp gazes watched everywhere. Was Berianov here in line with them? It made Beth's skin crawl. Would they be able to determine who Berianov was? Perhaps at this very instant he was figuring out who they were so he could monitor them.

  They had been careful. They had parked six blocks away. Jeff had left the car first and was ahead of her in line by ten people. She and he made no eye contact. He was an elegant stranger in his pinstriped suit and cane. He limped slightly.

  When the woman ahead turned to admire the cane, he gave a stalwart smile and said, "Old war wound. Desert Storm. Quite an action that was." Soon he was chatting away with the woman, Grace, and her husband, Duane, discussing America's wars, from the Big One—World War II—right through to the peacekeeping missions in Yugoslavia.

  Beth struck up a conversation with a family that included a young boy of about twelve named Justin. He kept staring at her, licking dry lips, trying to think of topics to keep him the focus of her attention. His hormone-fueled adoration was sweet, and she would have enjoyed his company far more if she were not using him for cover.

  Above them through the leafing branches, the clouds had thinned to a high haze, and the sun sent out a friendly warmth. Excitement rippled along the crowd as the line trickled past concrete-block posts toward wrought-iron gates. Everything felt wretchedly out of sync, Beth thought: A gorgeous day. A lovely setting. Good cheer and conviviality. Yet somewhere nearby death might lurk.

  Was that man with horn-rimmed glasses Berianov? Perhaps the heavyset woman with the floppy hat?

  A group of killers had to struggle to blend and disappear, but one assassin could be the proverbial straw in the haystack, impossible to single out. In the end, there was nothing more dangerous than a lone human with a fanatical mission and the training, intelligence, and financing of a Berianov. Beth's throat tightened. Unconsciously she put a hand over her wound.

  On either side of the gated entrance, White House security in gold-trimmed black trousers, jackets, and caps stood sentry. They asked to see invitations, and as guests held them up, the guards politely instructed the visitors to continue on in. Beth made her smile casual and showed her invitation while keeping up an animated conversation with Justin. She looked up just in time to see Jeff disappear into a white building ahead.

  As he stepped indoors, Jeff quickly scrutinized the scene. He had been through here many times as an FBI man and then as a reporter. Now it was important he look like an interested outsider. Plus he was studying faces and body types, searching constantly for Berianov.

  The interior resembled the standard security check at an airlines terminal, but much more attractive—big glass windows and decorative ferns. If a guest felt insulted to be security-checked, at least this was no prison-like atmosphere. There were the usual metal detectors and conveyor belts with X-ray machines to examine packages, purses, and other items guests might be carrying. One of the guards divided the line in half to speed passage. Still the security people were thorough, and their trained gazes missed little.

  Jeff kept his face and voice cheerful, although he was brittle with tension. "Of course, that's the UN's job, Grace," he was saying to the woman who had first asked him about the cane.

  She had turned out to be the perfect distraction—an interesting and vivacious conversationalist. Apparently at ease, he laid the cane with its sinister contents on the moving conveyor belt and stepped through the metal detector. He did not glance back at the cane, although every nerve cell was raw with worry. When no flashing lights or alarms went off, he suppressed a sigh of relief, trying to keep out of his mind the two small guns in the lead-lined cane.

  "Your Social Security number and photo identification, sir." Guards were waiting on the other side to speak to each guest.

  Jeff repeated the memorized number and dug out the fake Virginia driver's license. "Sure. How are you today?" Jeff handed over the license.

  "Just fine. Is this your cane, sir?" The guard held on to the driver's license and picked the cane up at the end of the conveyor belt. "Heavy, isn't it?"

  Jeff frowned. "I'm a big man," he said smoothly. "A lot of weight to put on a stick, even a metal stick."

  "Had it specially made, did you?" The guard nodded to a second one, who joined him.

  Jeff assumed a puzzled expression. He peered through his oval glasses at the guard. "I don't know whether it's one of a kind, if that's what you're asking. A friend gave it to me."

  The guards studied the cane. The second one took it, turned it around, glanced up quizzically at Jeff, then ran a hand up and down it, his fingers probing and feeling.

  Behind them, Beth watched, holding her breath. The guards were detaining Jeff, while letting everyone else go on. She did not understand it. Anxiously she strained to hear the conversation as she put her own bag onto the conveyor belt.

  Jeff continued, "It was a coming-home gift after Desert Storm, if you know what I mean. I've always liked that cane."

  "You were injured?"

  Sweat was beginning to collect under Jeff's suit. He limped back a step as if unsure. It was good they thought him modest; he was less threatening that way. "Took some shrapnel in my leg." He chuckled. "No big deal."

  The two guards exchanged a glance. Neither had found anything obviously wrong with the cane, but there was still something bothering them. Jeff did not recognize either man, but maybe they had a sense they had seen him somewhere before.

  Then a woman's voice called, "Tom, how great to see you!" Beth waved as she came out through the metal detector. She picked up her straw bag with one hand, while with the other she took the hand of her new young friend, Justin. "Justin, come meet Tom Koster. He was in Desert Storm. Justin has a collection of to-scale tanks. Weren't you in a tank in Desert Storm, Tom?"

  At first he was furious she had risked exposure by connecting herself with him. But from the corners of his eyes he could see both guards were caught by her charms—the dark sunglasses, the dark, wind-blown hair, the beautiful red lips, the lean figure, the throaty voice.

  If it worked, he would use it. "Mercer, my God, how long's it been?" He pumped Beth's hand enthusiastically then leaned down and took the boy's hand. "Glad to meet you, Justin. Yes, I was in an armored battalion. Lot of sand over there. More sand than I ever want to see again."

  "What battalion?" Justin asked eagerly.

  "The two-seventy. Second Brigade, First Armored. Rode an M-l Abrams. A real dirt-eater. Great machine."

  The boy beamed. He had probably memorized every unit in Desert Storm. Meanwhile, Beth had handed over her fake ID and repeated her phony Social Security number. "Can we go on in?" she gazed around with awe. "This is my first time at the White House, and I can't wait to get wherever we're going."

  The two guards looked at one another. The other guests were surging impatiently.

  Beth asked innocently, "Is something wrong with my ID?" Of course, she was not the reason the two guards were holding them up, but she wanted them to be pressured into making a quicker decision than they wanted. She pointed. "Oh, Justin! There are your folks!"

  "Come along, Justin!" his father called.

  "Want to go in with us, Tom?" Beth suggested. She smiled at Jeff then at the guards.

  "How about it?" Jeff prodded. "Unless,
of course, you've found something wrong—?"

  That did it. He had put them on the spot. They had to decide. This was a happy occasion, one to celebrate the ongoing relationship between the Russian and American democracies, and the guards had no real reason to hold Jeff, only a faint suspicion, and faint suspicions without facts would not play well if Mr. Koster, Desert Storm veteran, decided to raise a fuss, despite the unusually high security.

  "Sure, sorry. Enjoy yourselves," the first guard decided. He handed Jeff the cane and driver's license.

  "Move right along," said the second.

  Without exchanging a glance, Beth and Jeff followed Justin and his parents on a walkway bordered by tulips and shrubbery and up steps toward the White House's ground-floor entrance.

  "Jesus," Jeff breathed. "That was close."

  "I had no idea security would be so difficult," Beth whispered.

  "Yeah. They're doing a good job. Hell, I remember when Lesley Stahl was writing her autobiography. Her publisher wanted to reproduce her White House press pass on the book jacket, but the Secret Service had a fit. Said it'd endanger White House security. That's how careful they can get here."

  They stepped indoors, moving with the crowd along the burnt-orange carpet on the ground-floor corridor. They raised their voices to normal and inquired about each other's imaginary relatives as if they were two old friends who had not seen one another in years. They passed the library and diplomatic reception room and gazed inside, just like several of the other guests. At last they reached the glassy corridor that led to the West Wing, where the president and his closest staff worked. From there, guards pointed everyone outdoors to the Rose Garden.

  It was a dramatic sight. Rimmed with blooming tulips and boxwood shrubs, the postcard-perfect lawn was filling rapidly with well-dressed guests. Aides and reporters bustled about. In the distance spread a panoramic view of the Ellipse.

  White House staff were handing out earphones so whoever wished could hear simultaneous translations of the two presidents and their questioners. "Channel one is Russian," explained one smiling aide. "Channel two is English."