TWENTY-FOUR
Hastings and Klosterman had to come on duty three hours early because of the fund-raiser. Rhodes and Murph would have to stay on shift late, as well, at least until the fund-raiser wrapped up. There were other police officers there, all of them in uniform. But only a few.
Hastings and Klosterman were at the Chase Park Plaza before the senator and his wife. Hastings conferred with the hotel’s chief security officer and the hotel manager. After that, he and Klosterman stood in the lobby and watched a procession of limousines pass through the porte cochere.
It was not a red-carpet celebrity event. Some politicians are attractive, but a good many of them look like the rest of us. Klosterman followed politics more than Hastings and he recognized a few faces. A couple of senators were there, but most of them were members of the House. Representatives Tim Early of Texas, Robert Boudreau of California, Dana Caine of New Hampshire, Paula Enzbrenner of New York, and James Saunders of Illinois. They were all members of Senator Preston’s party. They were also all members of the House Homeland Security Committee.
The fund-raiser was sponsored by Cushman and Holt, a global law firm headquartered in St. Louis. Donors attending the dinner had to pay three thousand dollars.
Klosterman said to Hastings, “See, if it’s a luncheon, they would have had to pay only two grand.”
The senator and Mrs. Preston arrived after their guests. The senator wore a dark suit, not a tuxedo as Hastings thought he might. Mrs. Preston wore a black dress, flattering to her figure but tasteful. Hastings watched them as they walked up the aisle. Cameras flashed and the senator gave one of those politician finger points and a bright smile to a guy in the crowd, as if he was surprised and glad to see the person. It turned out to be someone he had spoken to only an hour earlier.
Hastings looked at the senator and then at Mrs. Preston. He turned his gaze as they walked by.
In the banquet room, Hastings and Klosterman took positions near the back and listened to the senator talk about the War on Terror. He spoke about the dangers of appeasement and Munich and Hitler, Iran and Iraq, pausing at times for applause. The speech was relatively short, about fifteen minutes, and he took a few questions afterward, one of which Hastings knew came from a plant. The senator asked twice if there were any members of the media in the room. The police officers knew there were not and knew the senator knew it, too. It was clever, Hastings thought. Letting the audience know he was confiding in them, making them feel special.
After the question-and-answer session concluded, the banquet attendees divided up into what was called “issues breakout sessions.”
Hastings watched the senator work the crowd, moving from table to table, shaking hands and touching shoulders. He was good, Hastings thought. If you didn’t know him, you would think he liked people.
Hastings did not loathe politicians as a rule. He attended the Police Academy with a guy named Steve Fawcett, who left the department ten years later to run for a seat in the state Senate. Fawcett was okay. He fought for better police pay and state pension benefits in the legislature and he did not look down on people. Fawcett told Hastings about the time he shook Bill Clinton’s hand and Clinton looked into his eyes and said, “Thanks, man,” and made him feel like he was the most important person in the room. “It’s the ones who can do that that you gotta watch out for,” Fawcett said, though not without some admiration.
Another cop Hastings knew had left the department to become a lobbyist in Jefferson City. Bobby Hahn was his name. Most of his clients belonged to municipal unions—police and fire fighters, mainly. He attended every police department Christmas dinner, was always dressed to the nines, and was very difficult not to like. Of course, Bobby Hahn was working for them.
Hastings did not believe that Fawcett and Hahn were bad guys. He wasn’t even sure they were attracted to power. Fawcett went into politics because he was bored with police work. And Hahn became a lobbyist because he sensed, correctly, that he would probably be better at working for cops and fire fighters than anyone else in Jeff City. To be sure, both men liked the limelight and liked wheeling and dealing. But vain men are not necessarily corrupt men. Moreover, they enjoyed politics.
Neither Fawcett nor Hahn was at this thing, though. This was another level.
Hastings remembered Dan Anthony telling him that Preston might run for president. Now Hastings wondered what it would be like if Preston actually got there. Would he tell his grandchildren that he’d once gotten bawled out by the president? That the president was a jerkoff? That he had a very cute wife?
Hastings watched as Senator Preston stopped at another table and extended his hand to a boyish-looking man. The man wore his hair cut short, almost military style, and he wore a nice blue suit and a red silk tie. Hastings saw the senator’s expression change—just. Where it had been jovial and open, now it was concerned and agitated. Hastings did not believe it was feigned, an attempt to show empathy over hearing about the death of a friend or a loved one. The senator seemed very uncomfortable.
Hastings moved forward.
The man talking with the senator did not fit the description of John Reese. He was too young, to begin with. And there was no way he could have gotten into the fund-raiser. Still, he made Hastings uneasy.
Hastings walked over.
When he got there, the senator turned to him and said, “What?” his tone short.
“Just wanted to know if everything is all right,” Hastings said.
“It’s fine,” Senator Preston said. “When we’re ready to leave, we’ll let you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Senator Preston made a sort of shooing gesture to him, and if not for this, Hastings would have left quietly.
Hastings turned to the younger man and extended his hand.
“George Hastings.”
“George,” the man said, “Kyle Anders. How are you?” His tone was friendly and pleasant. All-American.
“Fine,” Hastings said. “Hope you’re enjoying our city.”
“I am. It’s a lovely place. You’re a police officer?”
The senator frowned at Hastings.
“Yes,” Hastings said. “A detective.”
Anders looked briefly at Senator Preston, then back to Hastings.
“Well, I’m glad to see the senator’s in good hands.”
“We try,” Hastings said. “It was nice meeting you.”
He walked away, and a few moments later, Klosterman walked over to him.
“What was that about?” Klosterman asked.
Hastings said, “He seemed bothered by that guy. I wanted to check it out.”
Klosterman looked at Kyle Anders, who was still talking with the senator.
“He doesn’t match Reese’s description,” Klosterman said.
“I know.”
Murph was on the roof of the hotel, patrolling the perimeter. With him was a uniformed police officer who was a member of the tactical team. The tact team officer had a rifle slung over his shoulder. His hair was high and tight—a marine’s cut—and when there was a trace of daylight, he wore a pair of Oakley sunglasses. Paramilitary, though no one had asked him to be.
Murph used binoculars to look at the ground and the buildings around them. See if any cars got through the blockades, delivery trucks in the area that had not been authorized. To the north, there were no buildings as high as the hotel. To the south, there were two apartment buildings. Murph scanned the windows. Left to right, down a row, then right to left.
Murph’s two-way squawked and he answered it.
“Go,” Murph said.
“Murph,” Rhodes said. He was at the hotel entrance, where the car would take Senator Preston away. Rhodes said, “George just buzzed me. The senator will be leaving in five minutes.”
“Okay.”
Murph repeated the message to the tact team cop and the cop said, “Good. It’s getting fucking cold up here.”
It was, too. Dark now and the wind blowing.
They could hear traffic from Lindell and Kingshighway below—city lights spreading out before them, darkness over Forest Park, which was about a hundred yards away.
Murph took another pan of the apartment buildings with the binoculars. One more sweep and in a few minutes the senator would be in his car and he and Rhodes would be relieved and could go home. He would call his wife on his way home, see if she had saved any dinner for him. …
And then he saw it.
An open window in the apartment building across the street.
It probably didn’t mean anything. Plenty of people opened their windows. Even on a cold night. Some people couldn’t sleep unless it was cold.
But there was no light in the window, no light at all.
Murph held the binoculars on the open window and tried to see beyond the black square. Movement, a person, something.
Nothing.
He called Hastings on the two-way.
“Yeah.”
“George, this is Murph. Probably nothing, but I see an open window on the other side of Lindell Boulevard.”
Hastings asked, “What building?”
“The Ambassador.”
“See anything?”
“No. It’s dark. The lights are off.”
“What floor?”
“I’ve counted. Let me recheck. … It is the … tenth floor … the sixth window from my right. … From the western side.”
“Is the window within range of the front of the hotel?”
“I can’t tell from here, but I would presume it is.”
“Okay. Stay there, keep an eye on it. I’m going to redirect the senator to a different exit. Over.”
Hastings relayed the information to Klosterman.
Hastings said, “Stay with Preston. Get him out the north door—the back alley. I’m going to check things out.”
Hastings radioed a patrol officer and met him at the hotel entrance. Together, they walked across the street.
Reese went to the window and looked down at the hotel entrance. There was an awning from the door of the hotel to the semicircular drive. The awning blocked his view. But he remembered what sort of car the senator had arrived in and he knew that activity would buzz once Preston came out. Between the end of the awning and the car, there would be a space of approximately twenty feet. That would be the window. With his infrared scope, he would be able to see the target. However, he would only get one shot before Preston reached his car. Also, he could not stick the rifle out the window and steady it and wait, because there was a chance someone would spot the rifle. He would have to steady the rifle, aim, and hit the target quickly and confidently. Not the easiest of conditions.
But it would be enough.
Reese moved to the window and took another look.
Hastings held the two-way in his hand now and was ready when it squawked.
“Yeah?”
“George, it’s Murph. I just saw movement in the window. A form. A man, I think.”
“The light still off?”
“Yeah.”
“You still got Walters with you?”
“Yeah, he’s right here.”
Hastings hesitated. He had always been uncomfortable with tact team members. He didn’t think they were trigger-happy, per se. But he had known more than one who had been disappointed to leave a hostage situation without getting to shoot a bad guy. Hastings didn’t know Walters well. Walters was a young cop, with about three years in the department, and he’d been very happy to get the slot on tact.
Hastings said, “Tell him to put his rifle on the window. But he is not to shoot unless he receives a direct order from me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hastings showed the desk attendant at the Ambassador his identification even though he had a uniformed cop with him. Quick explanations were given and the desk attendant summoned the night security guard. Hastings hoped he was an off-duty cop, but he wasn’t. An older man, unarmed, which was probably a good thing. They walked with the guard to the elevator.
Reese saw the senator’s car pull up to the awning. He reached for his rifle, taking it by the stock.
A man approaching the car—
But not the senator.
A black guy. Tall, wearing slacks and a sport coat. Looking confident and in charge. A cop.
Getting into the front seat of the senator’s car.
What?
The car’s brake lights coming on. And then the car was moving forward, pulling out of the drive. The senator nowhere to be seen.
Shit.
Preston wasn’t coming out the front.
“Goddammit,” Reese said. “Goddamm it.”
It would have to be another time.
He disassembled the rifle and put it back in its case. He put his jacket back on and then his overcoat. Then he left the apartment and moved into the hallway. He walked to the elevator, and when he was halfway there, he heard it ding and saw the light flash on, signaling that it was stopping and someone was about to get off.
TWENTY-FIVE
Shortly after Reese was recruited by the CIA, one of the instructors said to him, “No one doubts you’re a good soldier. But that’s not going to be good enough for intelligence work. If I’ve got a choice between having a good soldier and a great salesman, I’ll take the great salesman every time.” Reese later realized that salesman was a kind word. The instructor really meant con man. Persuasion, acting. Anyone can shoot a gun. But a real pro can bluff his way out of many situations. The key is to act as if you’re in your surroundings. Act as if you belong. And through acting, become the other. If you believe you are the other, those around you will believe it, too. The instructor quoted Buchan, saying, “‘A fool tries to look different: a clever man looks the same and is different.’”
Normally, that’s what Reese would have done. When the elevator dinged, he would have gotten on and persuaded the occupants by his mere presence and body language that he was a tenant, not an intruder. He would even have made polite small talk.
But in a split second, something told him that would not be a good idea.
Perhaps it was the fact that Preston had not left by the front door. The black cop getting into the senator’s car, directing it elsewhere …
Reese saw the doorway to the stairwell and went through it just as the elevator doors opened.
Hastings was the second one out of the elevator, coming out after the apartment building’s security man. The uniformed cop was behind Hastings. Hastings saw and heard the door to the stairwell close. He kept his eye on it as he followed the security guard to the apartment, the security guard removing his passkey from his pocket.
Hastings turned to the uniformed officer and said, “Check the apartment.”
Before the patrolman could reply, Hastings went through the stairwell door. The door shut behind him and he peered down thestairs.
He saw no one. He stood still and listened. Heard footsteps.
Hastings moved down the stairs, hurrying now.
Reese heard the steps above. A man, moving quickly. Reese kept moving—not running, but picking up the pace. He thought about stopping at the sixth floor—maybe the pursuer would continue down the stairs—but then that could backfire if the man stopped on that floor, too, Reese being in the middle of a hallway, exposed. Reese did not think the pursuer had seen him. He had not heard the door open until he was on the eighth floor—he had a two-floor head start. He would continue to the bottom, go out the front door, slip into crowds and traffic. Blend in, disappear.
Hopefully, circumstances would prove his evasive action was unnecessary, the pursuer merely a tenant of the building.
Then he heard the voice from above.
“Hey! You down there. Stay where you are. I’m a police officer. I want to talk to you.”
Reese started running.
Hastings heard the man run. He, too, started running. And now both men were going down the stairs as fast as they dared, Reese keeping the attaché c
ase in one hand, touching and gripping the stairway rail at times to prevent himself from falling, Hastings about two flights behind him and as Hastings turned the corner on a landing, he almost tripped, but he kept his balance and the two-way radio clattered to the ground, but Hastings kept going.
Reese reached the doorway to the lobby. He pushed it open then stopped when he saw a uniformed police officer on the other side of the glass doors. Reese continued down the stairs, only one floor left, and when he got there, he saw an exit door that said emergency only and he knew that it would trigger the fire alarm, but it was the only way out and he hit it hard and heard the bell ring loudly as he went out into the dark alley.
In the street, the uniformed officer tilted his head, having heard the alarm. He hesitated a moment, then walked into the lobby.
The desk attendant looked at him and said, “That’s the fire alarm. Someone must have gone out the back door.”
Hastings stopped at the basement door, the alarm brrrriiinng piercing his cerebellum. He drew his .38 snubnose. Then he pushed the door open and moved his head out and then back in. He moved his head out again, stepped out, and saw a figure to his right running full tilt. Hastings ran after him.
The man had about eighty yards on him, running with a briefcase in hand. To Hastings, the man was a form in the darkness. Slim, obviously in shape, wearing a suit. Hastings tried to quicken his pace. He had been an athlete in college—a baseball player on scholarship—running laps and sprints at practice, but that was twenty years ago. He had not gotten fat over the years, but he had not set aside time for jogging, either. If he had, maybe he could have closed the distance on this man, maybe even getten close enough to discern his features. But the alley was only as long as the apartment building; it would spill out into Kingshighway Boulevard, a busy street between the Central West End and Forest Park. Hastings could see the man and, beyond that, he could see and hear the heavy traffic on Kingshighway. A man would have to be mad to run out into that traffic.
The Silent Places Page 12