JULIA FLEW TO LONDON on British Airways nonstop. The flight was crowded, even in business class, and an hour late taking off, but she enjoyed it nonetheless. She departed Dulles at nine P.M. in darkness and landed at Heathrow in a watery pink dawn. She had been told to take a taxi to her hotel, the Basil Street in Knightsbridge. She couldn’t believe the fare; well over one hundred dollars U.S, but Frank Simmons had insisted, telling her when he handed her the tickets and an envelope full of five-pound notes that the buses were confusing for one who didn’t know the British capital, and the Underground painfully slow.
Julia was relieved to find her request for early check-in had been honored, and she was shown to a clean but very small room with bath en suite; 130 pounds Sterling a night; truly unbelievable. She hung up her things, took a shower, and put on fresh clothes; her smartest black suit, then phoned Capital National Bank’s branch on Bishopsgate Street in the City and asked for Arne Olafsen. He suggested she take a nap and come in around twelve-thirty for lunch. She was tired but had been told by Simmons, who made the trip often, that the jet lag went away much more quickly if one stayed awake all the daylight hours the first day, so she said she would be in by eleven. Then she went out to take a walk.
The rain had stopped, and a few blue patches appeared through low gray clouds. She passed restaurants and read menus posted in windows, went into a “Chemist,” what the British called a drugstore, and bought some aspirin to counter the hangover from British Airways’ plentiful champagne, then found herself at Harrods, the most famous grand store in the world. She browsed through the food court, then past displays of clothing. Once again she was amazed at the prices. If they had been in dollars, they would have compared with the better shops on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, the ones she couldn’t afford. But they were in pounds, and every pound was worth $1.66 at today’s rate. How could working people afford to live?
She continued to walk east, through the Green Park past Buckingham Palace, then down The Mall to Trafalgar Square and the Strand beyond, marveling at all the Victorian buildings and statues. It was hard to believe the British Empire had become so vast and built these monuments, then once again become a small island nation.
Determined to experience the Underground, she entered on the Strand and with no difficulty found herself at the Broad Street Station. After a few minutes gazing at street signs and the small map provided by the hotel, and managing to avoid being run over by a hurtling red double-decker bus that came from an unexpected direction, she found the small, old limestone building that housed Capital National Bank, identified by a highly polished but discreet brass plaque.
She felt safe. Surely the New Zealots wouldn’t follow her here.
21
J J EARLY LANDED at Dulles at 11:30 the day after his daughter had departed. He made several calls to Austin and Washington, and had secured an audience with the president’s Chief of Staff, Ezekiel Archer. J J took the hotel bus to the Mayflower on Connecticut Avenue, dumped his light luggage, and walked to the White House. The security guards at the southwest entrance had his name on the daybook, and he went right through. Once inside the building, he waited at a security desk until Archer’s secretary came down and signed for him, then escorted him to the Chief of Staffs surprisingly modest office. J J remembered Archer’s digs had been much grander at the state capitol in Austin.
Archer rose and greeted the retired lawman. Big Dog Jonas had forwarded the Mormon’s report, so Zeke wasn’t surprised to see anger on J J’s face. Archer offered coffee or whiskey; J J declined both. “Speak to me,” J J said, without any pretense of friendly down-home preliminaries.
“All right, J J,” Zeke said once they were seated. “We have a problem, it touched Julia but we didn’t know it. She was warned off but not harmed; I apologize. It was a mistake.”
“I called you about that,” J J said.
“But didn’t say anything about Julia. We were hunting the reporter and she happened to be with him. She was warned to stay away from him; that’s all.”
“Leave her alone, Zeke.”
Archer held up his hands. “We will. But she really should stay away from the reporter. He wants the president’s scalp to enhance his own career.”
J J shifted in his seat in front of Archer’s desk. “How bad a mess is Little Cheyenne?”
“Bad.” Zeke shrugged. “Maybe very bad. Money came in from there, or through there, during the campaign and after. I didn’t know, and I don’t think Justice knew much.”
“Clarissa,” J J spat. “And her boy-toy, Jim Bob Slate.”
“That could be,” Zeke said carefully. “We have to smother this thing, J J, surely you can see that.”
“I don’t see it if you threaten my daughter.”
“J J, she never should’ve gotten involved with this reporter. We’ll take care of it one way or another; without her he has no proof.”
“You’ll leave her the hell alone,” J J said, leaning over Zeke’s desk. “That animal Jim Bob Slate still around?” J J knew that he was.
“He—he runs errands.”
“I ain’t above killing a man bothers my girl, Zeke. Him and anybody who orders it. You know that.”
“She’s safe,” Zeke said, trying to meet J J’s hard-eyed gaze, and failing. “We know she’s in London now; be in Europe a month if we need that long to bury the reporter.”
Nice turn of phrase, J J thought. “Why’d she get this trip just now? I didn’t ask her, but it seems a bit early in her banking career.”
“The bank is run by a friend, a major figure in the Republican Party.”
“No friend of Tolliver.”
“No. But Tolliver’s the only president he’s got.”
J J stood up and went to the sideboard, a mere two steps in the tiny office. He poured Jack Daniel’s into two glasses, not bothering with ice from the bucket on the tray. He placed the glasses on Zeke’s desk. “Zeke, I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to hang around for a while, at your expense. I’m going to look after my kid, and I’m going to help you with the president’s security.”
Zeke stiffened. “The president is well protected.”
“He’s pissed way too many people off, Zeke,” J J said, taking a sip from the cut-crystal glass. “Jim Bob can take care of a reporter or two, though he’s sure to make a mess of it. The reporter’s a gnat. My Julia did you a hell of a favor by letting you into the picture of Little Cheyenne; too many people already know, and they’ll be coming, and hell coming with them.”
Zeke picked up his glass, then put it back on the leather blotter without tasting the whiskey. “What are you saying?”
“They’re gonna kill Tolliver, Zeke. And soon.”
“Who’s they?”
“That’s your problem. Could be the bankers and businessmen he’s fucked over, could be the Russians, or the Cubans—either flavor of Cubans; they both got grudges. Could be anybody else who dumped money into Little Cheyenne and now doesn’t feel they got their money’s worth, or perhaps does and wants to cover their tracks. Remember, Zeke, I’ve seen the land records.”
“How do you know this?” Zeke asked. He knew J J had very good instincts.
“Don’t, but I feel it. It’s why I’ll be staying around a few days.”
Zeke drank his whiskey, welcoming the burn. “I’ll set you up an office.”
“Nope.” J J stood up. “Just get me some walking-around money, a lot of it. You maintain the president’s security; increase it if you can. I’ll operate on my own, Zeke. Someone has to look in the shadows.”
22
CHARLES TAYLOR STAGGERED out of Fort Marcy Park and was lucky enough to find a taxi after only a few agonizing blocks. Cabs were hard to find cruising in D.C., especially after dark; usually one had to telephone. He thought of having himself taken to a hospital but decided against it. When he reached his apartment, he shoved a twenty-dollar bill at the driver, who sped off without making change. Charles realized he smelled foul and c
ouldn’t blame the man. He went upstairs, put his soaked clothing in a black plastic garbage bag and cinched it tight. He had not only vomited but lost control of his bladder and bowel; no dry cleaner or laundry would touch the stuff.
He showered, then let the tub fill with water almost hot enough to scald. He got a bottle of whiskey and a glass from his tiny living room, double-checked the locks on the front door. He took three ibuprofen tablets and lowered himself into the tub.
He hurt all over from the two beatings and felt enough congestion in his lungs to presage pneumonia. His throat was so raw he could barely swallow, but swallow he did, all that remained in the whiskey bottle. After soaking until the water cooled, he took more painkillers and went to bed, after checking the triple dead-bolt locks on the front door one more time. He half walked, half crawled to his bed and tumbled in, and slept through tortured nightmares.
He awoke to the phone ringing beside his bed. The digital clock next to it said 10:12, and Charles knew the phone must have rung a long time to awaken him. It was Brad Bentley. “You sound awful,” the Washington Post editor said.
“I—Brad, my story—”
“Is brilliant. Pulitzer-material. Do you have the proof?”
“No. I may not be able to get it. Brad, I’ve been threatened and beaten up. I’m afraid I can’t give you the story at all.”
“But we already have it,” Bentley said cunningly. “You were threatened? Beaten? By whom?”
Charles could hear relish in the editor’s voice. My best chance, he thought longingly, of the big story. But Brad Bentley wasn’t the one with the bruises. “I’m not sure. They told me to forget what I learned in Texas.”
Bentley guffawed with joy. “The president’s goons! We tried to trace them throughout the campaign but never did. You’ve struck the proverbial nerve, Assistant Editor Taylor.”
God, it was so close, Charles thought. He tipped more ibuprofen into his shaking hand and swallowed them dry. “I’m afraid, Brad. They’ll kill me. I have to run.”
“Nonsense. We’ll protect you; wrap you in the First Amendment, hide you. But we have to have your proof.”
“They know who she is, so I’ll tell you. Julia Early; works for the Capital National Bank, but I doubt she’ll tell you more than what I’ve already submitted.”
“We’ll find her,” Bentley said importantly.
“What about me? How will you protect me?”
There was a long silent pause. Charles realized to his terror that as far as the Post was concerned, he had just become irrelevant. “Come in to the office. As soon as possible. We’ll work it out.”
“Brad—”
“We’ve done this before,” Bentley said soothingly. “We know how to protect sources.”
Against the men in the black van? The men with steel-toed boots? Charles had his doubts, but where else could he turn. “All right. I should come to your office?”
“As quickly as possible. Call a cab; I’ll be waiting and I’ll call in our security chief.” Brad Bentley broke the connection.
Charles hung up and heaved himself out of bed, nearly collapsing because of the pain. His face was too swollen to shave, so he dressed in jeans and a sweater, threw on his jacket and phoned Checker Taxi and Livery. Five minutes, they said. Charles drank some orange juice from a carton in his fridge, and nibbled at a stale bagel, watching from his window for the cab to arrive. When it did, he locked his apartment and hobbled down to the lobby. As he reached for the rear door of the waiting cab, a black van pulled in ahead of it, riding up onto the sidewalk. While Charles was still struggling with the door handle of the taxi, a man in a black ski mask jumped from the van and shot him five times. For good measure, he shot the wide-eyed Nigerian taxi driver twice before jumping back into the van that was already backing into the busy avenue.
23
THE PRESIDENT TRAVELED to the Gettysburg National Military Monument by helicopter, designated Marine One, a souped-up, armored VH-60N Blackhawk painted combat marine green with “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA” in bright yellow letters on the sides and kept highly polished with automobile wax. It was a short, pleasant drive in late autumn but a motorcade would have tied up traffic and Tolliver knew that pissed voters off.
The helicopter landed on a cordoned-off area next to the military cemetery. The grandstands to either side of the podium were filled with invited guests, the press and television photographers were crouched before the podium on the grass, and the casual crowd of onlookers was left to stand or sit behind them. The president, carrying his Bible, strode from the helicopter to the podium, ringed by Secret Service agents and preceded by a military honor guard in dress blues drawn from the Third Infantry, the ceremonial unit that presided over military funerals at Arlington. The Marine Band had been trucked in earlier, and played ruffles and flourishes and “Hail to the Chief.” The president waved and acknowledged polite applause.
Cobra stood with the tourists about a hundred meters back from the podium. He carried no weapon, but an expensive video camera equipped with a telephoto lens he had bought in Washington. An earnest young man in a gray suit with a curly telephone wire running from a plug in his ear into his collar had stopped him at one of many checkpoints surrounding the graveyard, set up with portable metal detectors at intervals in metal barriers. The Secret Service agent, for so Cobra assumed him to be, examined the video camera with exaggerated care, pressed its trigger to run off a few feet of tape, then returned it.
This security is awful, Cobra thought. The perimeter is too small and too close to the podium, the agents too few. Even the military vehicles on the roads could be evaded by a man willing to risk his life for a shot, and the small army observation helicopters buzzing around the outer limits of the battlefield wouldn’t be of much use except perhaps to search for the assassin after he struck.
Cobra wasn’t willing to risk his life to kill the president. Most U.S. presidents assassinated, or upon whom attempts had been made, had been shot at very close range by fanatics who were apprehended or killed almost immediately. The exception, of course, was Kennedy at Dallas, but the cleanup squad had pinned that on Oswald and had him killed before he could reveal how little he knew. Cobra wondered if there would be a cleanup squad looking for him after this was done.
Cobra also wondered why he was expected to act alone, even to the point of choosing the time and place. Why not a team, as in Dallas? Triangulated fire; make it sure.
If there was a cleanup squad, Cobra would be very difficult to collect, because only he would know where and when he would strike and how he would escape afterward. But he was wary; all that money up front, no supervision. Just kill the president and move on.
The preliminaries concluded and the president began to speak. Cobra listened without great interest; he was here to observe how the man moved as he spoke. He knew the man had been a preacher, and he wasn’t surprised to find that he panned the audience with his eyes, right and left, giving the impression that he looked into each individual’s heart. He wore a black raincoat that hung stiffly. Kevlar body armor, Cobra had to assume.
“My fellow Americans,” President Tolliver began. “I stand on the very spot, as near as historians can determine, where President Abraham Lincoln made a short speech he himself called ‘a dud’ but that every American schoolchild must hear and most recite at least once in his or her early years. Lincoln was perhaps the greatest man ever to hold this office, at once humble and unbending. He saved the Union. He erased the colossal evil of slavery. And he hallowed this ground, for all his protests that he couldn’t.”
Cobra watched, and videotaped. The man held his body very still, and pivoted his head almost rhythmically.
“I come here today, on the anniversary of the Gettysburg Address, to speak of things that greatly trouble me. This’s a place of memory, of glorious dead from the Civil War and from many later wars. It’s a place where one cannot but honor our gallant fallen. It’s a place of sacrifice, of horror of war, but also
of the need of gallant men and women to stand against injustice or insult.
“When the Soviet Union and its empire collapsed, many wanted to declare victory and bring all the brave young men and women home. But the world of two superpowers had its own mad logic; a move by them, a countermove by us. Third world countries were in their camp or ours, and had to heed us as we restrained them or lose support. Half of Europe was theirs, every other country in Africa, much of Asia. In the Americas into the nineteen seventies, nations from Cuba to Peru to Argentina and Chile fell into the Russians’ camp, at least for a time.
“Now democracy marches eastward through the old captive states of middle and eastern Europe, resides in South Africa, and struggles to gain ground in Asia. Democracy has moved through Latin America like a cleansing sword.
“Saving only poor Cuba. She remains in chains.”
The president paused; took a sip of water. “Reform and democracy struggle against the old, entrenched, communist past. But the past won’t yield. The Russians have informed us that they’re preparing to send a fleet to rescue the spiritually and economically bankrupt regime in Cuba. To do this, they’ve trampled the roads and fields of newly free nations; Belarus and Lithuania. They boast of war and rumors of war. They berate us for protecting our shores from drugs transshipped through Cuba, and for turning away the misfits and criminals Castro empties from his prisons into leaky, overcrowded boats as his grandfather did. We reason, and will continue to try to reason with the Russians. They respond with threats and more threats. I believe the American people are behind me when I say we should not and will not allow Russia to dictate events five thousand miles from their borders but ninety miles from ours.”
Carolyn White fought an instinct to shake her head. Malcolm Japes, seated beside her, whispered in anguish. “Why this? Why now? We were making progress.”
“I’ve written to President Lebed, just this morning,” the president continued. “I entreated him to withdraw his threat of sending a fleet that we might be forced to scatter and destroy. The world, especially the world near Russia, the states broken away from the old Soviet Union, also Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, India, China, Burma, Korea, Vietnam, and all, is racked with instability and the threat of violence, even violence with weapons of mass destruction. We and the Russians must work together to restore the stability we once held so precariously through confrontation, and build a new order based on prosperity and freedom. This I have proposed to President Lebed, and I believe that he, a former commander of troops in bloody conflict, will agree.”
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