He stuck his head out the door and glanced down the hallway. No one there. How likely was it the janitorial workers would notice the guard was missing?
He rolled the cart down the hallway, then stopped at the spot where he had gutted the guard. The man was big, the spillage substantial. There was plenty of evidence to clean. Nikolai dipped the mop into the dirty water and got to work, swishing the mop through the blood, smearing some around the floor but removing the heaviest of the stain, which had only just begun to dry at the edges.
Nikolai examined the floor and decided the stain was still too obvious. He rolled the cart back to the janitor’s closet. Dumped the dirty water and watched it disappear down the sink. Refilled the bucket with fresh water and some detergent, then rolled back to the murder scene.
Tried again.
Better.
One more pass and the evidence of the slaughter was now no more than a faded light brown stain that could have been anything. Nikolai wrung out the mop and moved quickly down the hallway toward the roof access door, erasing from the tiles most of the blood trail he had created when he dragged the guard up to the roof. He stopped when he reached the door. There was no reason to mop the stairway. The door would be closed soon—barring any further interruptions—and no one would see the evidence until it was much too late.
He examined the hallway with a critical eye. Not perfect, but it would have to do. He hurriedly returned the mop and bucket to the janitor’s closet. Stepped out and closed the door. Still no unwanted visitors. He turned and sprinted to the roof access and once more began the laborious process of pulling the tools of his murderous trade up onto the roof.
43
June 2, 1987
8:00 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
Shane’s head hurt. That was the first thing he noticed. His eyes were closed and he lay on his side and it felt as though someone was shining a flashlight squarely into his face. He opened his eyes slightly, two tiny slits. No flashlight. Nobody shining anything into his face. The motel room curtain was half-drawn, holding the morning sun partially at bay. From behind he could hear furtive sounds of movement.
He rolled over and sat up, moving slowly until he could gauge the extent of the pain inside his skull. From in front of the bathroom door Tracie flashed a tight-lipped smile in his direction, and just like that he didn’t give a damn about his headache. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered, and he wouldn’t have thought that possible.
“You’re a heavy sleeper,” she said. She was dressed in an outfit he didn’t recognize, a business suit, something a young female executive might wear.
He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand across his face. He wondered what the hell time it was. “What the hell time is it?” he asked.
“Eight o’clock,” she said. “I knew you were exhausted so I tried to be quiet. We’re not far from the Minuteman Mutual Insurance building, so I wanted to let you get as much rest as possible.”
“Quiet? You were quiet as a mouse,” he said. “Last thing I remember is that noise you make when…well, you know.”
“I know,” she agreed with a smile.
“Where’d you get the outfit?” he asked. “You look terrific.”
“Went shopping last night after you zonked out. Hit the store just before closing. I went out this morning and got breakfast. There’s coffee and a croissant for you,” she nodded at a brown paper bag on top of the small bedside table.
“Thanks for the grub,” he said gratefully, reaching for the coffee.
“No problem.” She looked at him closely. “I brought you something for the pain, too. How are you feeling?”
“Never better,” he lied. He didn’t know exactly how Tracie was planning to stop the assassination scheduled for today, but he knew she needed help, and the only way she might even consider letting him ride along was if she thought his headache had disappeared.
“Liar,” she said mildly.
“Listen,” he said, to change the subject quickly, “what’s the plan for today?”
“Well, let’s see,” Tracie answered, cupping her chin in her hand and pretending to think. “Dress up in my new outfit, have breakfast and, oh, I don’t know, maybe foil an assassination plot. You know, the usual.”
She was keeping things light but Shane could sense her tension. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You know where the shooter is going to be—on the roof of that insurance building—but how in the world are you going to access it? The building will be locked down tight as a drum, won’t it? And for that matter, how is the Russian going to get into position? Won’t he be spotted?”
“All good questions,” Tracie answered. “Undoubtedly the buildings have been swept in anticipation of the president’s visit, but the sweep will have been done yesterday and it will have been routine, matter-of-fact. As far as we know, there is no reason for the Secret Service to suspect anything might be wrong. And don’t forget, this is Washington, DC—presidential movements are routine here.
“Once the sweep has been completed,” she continued, “it will be a relatively easy thing for the shooter to access the roof of the building. This hit has been in the works for weeks, if not longer, so either someone will have been paid off—say, a maintenance man or janitor—or a master key will have been bought or made. The guy dresses like he belongs, nobody notices him. It will be pretty easy, really.”
Shane sipped his coffee and thought about it. Made sense. “But what about you? How are you going to get at him?”
“Exactly the same way,” she said. “I’m going to look like I belong. That’s where this new suit comes in.” She twirled. She was a natural at modeling and Shane wondered if there were things in her past she might have glossed over. He wolf-whistled and beckoned her closer and she smiled. “Sorry, big boy, we don’t have time for what you want. I’ll have to take a rain check.”
“I can guarantee it would be quick,” he said with a smirk. “But I understand.” Then, “So, you’re going to pretend to be an insurance exec or something? Won’t it be obvious to everyone who works there that you don’t belong? That nobody knows you?”
“You’re on the right track,” she said, “but I’m not going to be an insurance employee. I’m FBI. That way, it’s perfectly natural no one knows me. Meet Special Agent Maddee James,” she said with a demure curtsey.
Shane nodded. “Brilliant. But how are you going to get around the fact that you have no ID? Isn’t that the first thing the insurance big shots are going to ask for when you walk in there?”
“Who says I don’t have any ID? This isn’t my first rodeo, cowboy.” She reached into the backpack filled with the items she had liberated from the safe-deposit box outside New York City and rummaged around for a moment. “Ah,” she said, and lifted out a laminated plastic card.
“Let’s see,” he said.
She strutted over to the bed, all business now, the stern FBI persona in place.
He examined the card. “Federal Bureau of Investigation” was stamped across the top in gold lettering set against a blue background. A small head shot of Tracie appeared on the right side, unsmiling, staring directly into the camera. Her hair was pulled back from her face and she looked ready to step out of the picture and arrest someone. On the left side of the card was the FBI seal, with identifying information, including her “name,” Special Agent Madison James, inscribed in the space between the photo and the seal.
Shane examined it for a moment and then handed it back, shaking his head. “Planning a second career?” he asked doubtfully.
“This ID, along with some other stuff I retrieved, was my backup plan. All operatives have them—at least they do if they’re smart. It’s the first thing you learn: if things fall apart, you’d better be prepared to disappear.”
“Except you’re not using your ID to disappear.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s not my only one, and Maddee James is not my only identity.”
He stared at
her, amazed, trying to determine whether he was more attracted to her or creeped out by her. It’s not even close, he thought. Attracted wins in a landslide. “You’re definitely the most unusual date I’ve ever had,” he finally said.
Tracie smiled and placed the ID card into a small plastic flip-holder with the identifying information facing out, then slid the holder into the breast pocket of her suit. She was now Special Agent Maddee James. “That’s what all the boys say,” she answered, and walked away, hips swaying. She turned her head and winked.
“I’m coming with you,” he told her retreating figure, and she stopped.
After a moment she turned to face him. “You can drive,” she said, surprising him with her lack of resistance. “But you’ll drop me off a block from the insurance building and then stay with the car. No matter what happens. You’ll wait for me and then drive us away when the job is done.”
Shane grinned and she said, “Do you understand me? You stay with the car no matter what happens.”
“You can count on me, babe,” he said.
“I want to hear you say it. Repeat after me: I give my word I will stay with the car, no matter what.”
Shane said, “I give my word I will stay with the car, no matter what,” having no intention whatsoever of doing so.
Tracie’s eyes narrowed and she looked at him critically. “Hurry up and get dressed, then. It’s time to go.”
He slid off the bed and began throwing on his clothes. His head pounded and throbbed and he tried not to wince.
44
June 2, 1987
8:50 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
The traffic was moving steadily, better than Shane would have expected for drive-time in the nation’s capital. He followed Tracie’s directions, turning rights and lefts, and glanced at his watch. Two minutes after the last time he had looked. “How far is it?” he asked.
“We’ll be there in ten minutes,” Tracie said.
“How do you know where this place is?”
“I grew up in this area. The Minuteman building is pretty distinctive, even in a city overflowing with landmarks and historic buildings.”
Shane nodded. The pounding in his head had leveled off, the pain distracting but bearable, at least for the time being. “How are we going to do this?” he asked.
“‘We are not going to do anything,” she said. “You are going to do exactly as we agreed. Park the car a couple of blocks away from the building and wait.”
“Fine,” he said, annoyed. “How are you going to do this?”
“Reagan’s speech is scheduled for ten,” she said. She was speaking confidently, without hesitation, and it was obvious she had given the situation plenty of thought. Shane wondered whether she had gotten any sleep at all last night. “The building doesn’t open until nine, so—”
“How do you know that?” he interrupted.
“I went out last night after you fell asleep, remember? I did a quick drive-by of the Minuteman building after buying my outfit. Business hours are posted on the entrance. Anyway, my plan is to arrive the minute the building opens. I’ll let the manager know Special Agent James is on the case, so he doesn’t see me prowling around and call the cops. Then I’m going to catch an assassin.”
“Just like that,” Shane said skeptically.
“Just like that.”
“How do you know where he’ll be?”
“I don’t, but he had to have gotten into the building last night. He would have needed the time to set up. Once his preparations were complete, he probably napped in an empty office or something. But he’ll have to be in position on the roof before the office workers begin to arrive, if only to avoid the risk of detection. I should be able to surprise the guy and catch him flat-footed before President Reagan even leaves the White House.”
Traffic was beginning to bog down, and Shane checked his watch again. “Unless there are two of them,” he said. “You can’t catch two guys by surprise.”
“You can if you do it right,” Tracie said grimly, and he wondered whether she really believed that.
Ahead, a traffic light turned yellow. Shane slowed, thought about stopping and decided they could make it. He accelerated into the intersection, right behind an old Buick with badly rusting bumper.
Ahead and to his right a flash of movement caught his eye, and Shane saw a child step out from behind a parked car. The kid walked into the street without looking, directly in front of the Buick, and Shane gasped in surprise. The Buick’s driver slammed on his brakes a half-second later and Shane hit the brakes on the Granada. Both cars slewed forward, tires squealing, and Shane watched as the kid disappeared in front of the hulking mass of the Buick.
The cars shuddered to a halt, the Granada somehow stopping before impacting the Buick. Shane realized he was holding his breath and exhaled heavily. He felt a surge of relief as the kid appeared on the other side of the Buick. The kid, maybe eight years old, had darted away from the Buick and now stood in the middle of the street, head swiveling wildly. He took advantage of a small break in the opposite direction traffic and sprinted across the street in front of an oncoming yellow taxicab and disappeared.
“Holy shit,” Shane said, his voice shaking. He glanced over at Tracie just as she turned to look at him. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked over his shoulder and he whipped his head to the left just in time to see a blue pickup hurtling through the intersection’s cross street. The driver had locked up his brakes but the truck was moving much too fast to stop in time. He would T-bone them right in the driver’s side door.
Tracie lifted her left foot and slammed it down on his right, shoving the accelerator to the floor. The Granada lurched forward and smashed into the rear of the Buick, propelling it ahead a few feet, and then the pickup struck the Granada in a shower of screeching metal and shattering glass.
The car spun on an invisible axis and Shane felt his head bounce off the window and his headache exploded anew. He was aware of Tracie screaming to his right, a short, sharp sound, and then everything stopped and the interior of the car was quiet but for a faraway-sounding hissing noise. Whether the sound was coming from the Granada or the pickup truck he couldn’t tell.
Shane heard cars screeching to a halt—he knew they were in the middle of the intersection and the fear of a second car striking them flashed through his head. He tried to clear the cobwebs and was vaguely aware of Tracie tugging on his arm. “Unbuckle your seatbelt,” she said, her voice intense. “We have to get out of here.”
Shane nodded and tried his door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Not your door, mine,” she insisted. “Yours has been smashed. It’ll probably never open again.” She pulled on his arm more insistently. “Come on, we have to leave now.”
A man in a suit pulled open the door on Tracie’s side. “Are you folks all right?” he asked, his concern evident.
“We’re okay,” Tracie said, slipping out the door as Shane worked the buckle on his seatbelt and began sliding across the front seat behind her.
The driver of the pickup stumbled onto the sidewalk. It was a kid, late-teens it looked like, and he appeared uninjured. “I just looked down to change the radio station,” he said, “and when I looked up, you were right in front of me. I swear I only looked away for a second.”
“Are you okay?” Shane asked.
The kid nodded. “But my parents are going to kill me. This truck was a graduation present.”
“Come on,” Tracie repeated, her voice soft but firm. “We have to get out of here.”
The kid heard her and said, “No, you can’t leave. We have to exchange insurance information.”
She ignored him and started dragging Shane away from the two wrecked vehicles. “The police will be here any second,” she whispered, “and we can’t be here when they arrive.”
“We can’t leave the scene of an accident,” Shane said, closing his eyes for a moment against the rejuvenated pain bouncing around inside his skull.
“We have to,” Tracie insisted, speaking a little louder now that they were out of earshot of the teenaged driver of the pickup truck, who had staunchly refused to leave his vehicle. “We’re driving a stolen car, remember? I could eventually get this straightened out through CIA, but it would take hours, and we’re—” she glanced at her watch and swore softly, “—almost out of time. We might still be able to make it, as long as we disappear before the cops arrive.”
They took three more steps and then Shane froze as a DC police cruiser eased to the curb, light bar flashing, stopping almost directly in front of them.
***
Tracie grabbed Shane’s hand and began walking as casually as possible along the sidewalk, their path taking them directly past the police car. The patrol officer stepped out of his vehicle and she watched as his eyes bounced between the accident scene and them, then back to the accident scene.
They were almost past him when he swiveled his head and focused his gaze on Shane, his eyes narrowing. Tracie wondered what had gotten his attention. Then Shane turned and looked at her and she wanted to curse out loud. A thin line of blood had leaked out from his hairline and begun zig-zagging down the left side of his face. He must have cut his head in the accident. The injury was clearly not a bad one, but it had been enough to draw the cop’s attention immediately.
The officer lifted one arm to block their passage. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, his natural cop suspicion evident in his voice.
Tracie took a look at the blood and said to Shane, “Oh, honey, you must have been cut by flying glass.” She drew a tissue out of her pocket and wiped the blood off his face.
Parallax View Page 21