“Hey, Wally.”
“Hey back atcha, Phil,” said Wally, who sat on the other side of the back seat, dabbing a very red nose with a handkerchief. “Head over to the Watergate, Charlie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“His name’s Charlie?”
“Yeah. Why?” Wally asked, looking over at Phil.
“Well, my driver’s named Charlie, that’s all.”
“So the fuck what?” said Wally so matter-of-factly that Phil felt incredibly stupid for even mentioning such an unimportant little detail.
Years ago, before Phil had actually met Wally—when he’d only talked to him on the phone—he’d imagined him as some big overweight Mafia boss with three chins. But this Wally was skinny as a rail and had a sinewy neck with many wrinkles. About seventy years old, Phil figured, almost bald, hadn’t had sex in years, except for hookers. And while Phil had never asked Wally to handle a killing before, he knew from his other contacts that Wally was the go-to guy. Nothing scared him and his people.
Phil handed Wally an envelope.
“There you go, Wally.”
“Thanks, Phil. We’ll meet again after the job for the other half.”
“Right.”
“Any changes in the plan we worked out?”
“No. No changes.”
“You sure?”
“The only question was the date. He’ll be at the airport and flying north to Wellfleet in a Gulfstream.”
“Like we discussed.”
“Just like we discussed.”
“Turn up the fuckin’ heat, Charlie!” Wally yelled. “Fuckin’ freezin’ back here. AHHHHH-CHOO! Look at that fuckin’ rain out there.”
“I’ll give you the aircraft identification number as soon as I get it, so there won’t be any chance for error.”
Wally laughed.
“Yeah, we’d hate to—” but he couldn’t finish before coming out with another earth shaking AHHHHH-CHOO!
“It’ll all be worked out, Wally.”
They pulled up a block away from the Watergate complex.
“Better if I leave you off a block away.”
“Yeah,” said Phil.
“Sorry about the weather. You’ll get soaked just walkin’ the block.”
“It’s okay.”
“So, at the Inaugural, you wear white tie and tails and shit?”
“Maybe the President, but not me.”
“I’d like to see you in white tie and tails, Phil. Look like a regular Fred Astaire.”
Phil smiled.
“Fuck off, Wally.”
Phil got out and pulled up his collar against the freezing rain pouring down on him.
“See ya ’round, Phil.”
“Right,” said Phil, “get over that cold.”
He slammed the door and ran for cover.
Inside the Town Car, Wally opened the envelope and thumbed through the money. It was a lot of money. He didn’t count it, though, knowing it was all there. Nobody shorted Wally on the count.
He looked up and saw Phil run for the cover of the Watergate portico further down the block.
“This is not a good guy, Charlie.”
“No? He paid you, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but he’s messing with his boss, ya know? Goin’ behind his back. Not a good thing. Learn a lesson, Charlie. Never go behind your boss’s back.”
“Don’t worry, boss, I won’t.”
* * *
CHAPTER 82
Reza Shahzad walked out onto the wide terrace of an expansive penthouse apartment in Bay Harbor Islands, and filled his lungs with the fresh Florida air.
A sixty-year-old real estate agent named Annie Schwartz with big hair and a lavender rinse and sporting tacky gilt-edged sunglasses followed him out, yammering away in that non-stop manner real estate people use.
“And out here we have a bee-uu-ti-ful view of St. Clair Island, the richest town, per capita, in the whole country,” Annie was saying as she admired Bjorn Dansk’s fine Nordic good looks.
“Isn’t that the President’s house over there?” he pointed across a narrow body of water dividing posh St. Clair Island from the considerably less exclusive Bay Harbor, a two-island community just to the north of St. Clair Island bisected by the Broad Causeway connecting Miami with Miami Beach.
“Yes, it most certainly is,” said Annie. “A lot of famous people live over there. Not just that awful… Republican President,” she spat out the last couple of words—obviously Annie Schwartz was a confirmed Democrat.
Shahzad turned to face Annie.
“I’ll take it.”
“I’ll draw up the lease for one year then, Mr. Dansk,” she said, her sour face clearing and her mood brightening.
“Perfect.”
Shahzad would be careful only to have the fair-skinned of his operatives stay in the penthouse. Bay Harbor Islands was populated mostly with Jews, and the sight of a bunch of swarthy Iranians running in and out of the building would arouse suspicions. Shahzad wanted no special attention.
As soon as he signed the lease papers on the penthouse, he drove across the Broad Causeway to North Miami, where his team had rented two houses. Rented furniture would arrive that afternoon and his team could begin to settle down and wait for their opportunity to strike. Other apartments a half-mile inland had been rented to avoid too large a concentration of his people in any one place. Only three or four to an apartment. Others of his team were scattered about in hotel rooms, just to mix things up even more.
From the penthouse they could monitor the goings-on over on St. Clair Island.
In the two houses, they could meet in larger groups and make their plans.
One of the houses was on the water (directly across Biscayne Bay from St. Clair Island) and had dockage for two boats. Shahzad would rent a variety of high-powered speedboats—sometimes a Donzi, or a Magnum, or a Cigarette—and an unpretentious Boston Whaler for cruising up and down the Bay in front of the President’s mansion.
In the days that followed, as Shahzad studied images of St. Clair Island taken from the air, he weighed the various options he had to choose from when it came time to launch his attack against Dumaine.
He didn’t really like any of them.
At first, he thought it would be smart to attack a Dumaine motorcade, but since roads were sealed off in advance of the core section of vehicles, and the chance for error offered by a moving target was great, he rejected this option.
The more he analyzed the different approaches, the more he gravitated toward a surprise commando-style attack on the Presidential compound. The operation could be conducted at night when security would be slackened.
He kept a team out on one boat or another day and night verifying to the smallest detail the routine movements of the marine patrols around St. Clair Island. These patrols were, variously, units from the Coast Guard, the county marine patrol, two small patrol boats manned by the Secret Service and the island’s own small patrol unit. None of these boats had mounted guns. The most they could do was alert security units on the island about any trouble they observed or encountered on the water.
Another very positive thing they learned: usually only a single boat patrolled at any one time. And at the leisurely pace with which the boat cruised, it took between thirty to forty minutes for the boat to circle the island. Now, of course, when the President was in residence, this force would be doubled or tripled. And the security detail on St. Clair Island would be dramatically enhanced.
Still, one night as Shahzad observed the single patrol boat circle the island, he was shocked that they didn’t have one patrol boat stationed at each major curve of the island so that Patrol Boat No. 1 would be in visual contact with Patrol Boat No. 2, which would be in visual contact with Patrol Boat No. 3, and so forth. This arrangement would provide for 100% visual coverage of the entire shoreline of St. Clair Island. But several boats would be required, and, working 24-hour shifts, the cost would add up.
From reports
passed on to him by Mahmoud Yazdi’s agents surveilling St. Clair Island in the past, the standard deployment on the waters around St. Clair Island when the President was in residence was two patrol boats, no more.
“A very interesting opportunity we have here,” Shahzad nodded to Gilani.
* * *
CHAPTER 83
Finally, January 9 arrived, the weather, if possible, even worse than the previous week.
Phil had butterflies in his stomach all morning, and could barely concentrate on anything during his regular meetings.
During one meeting with Cornelia Strate, he looked out the window at the snow and sleet coming down and lost track of what she was saying.
“Phil—?” she said.
“Huh?” he snapped back.
“Did you get that?”
“Sorry, just looking at the weather.”
“Nasty, isn’t it?” she said.
After she left, he checked through the scheduling office and found Tim’s flight had been delayed due to the poor weather.
Damn!
Tim would travel to Wellfleet on a small Government jet, a Gulfstream. Phil had already passed the ID number on to Wally.
Phil got in touch with the scheduling office and found out that Tim was still planning to go, standing by so he could leave on a moment’s notice when the weather permitted. The plane and crew were also on standby.
Phil decided to monitor the situation. It was very important that Tim catch his flight. If Wally’s people did what they said they would do, this would be the last they’d ever see Tim Harcourt. He grabbed up a couple of folders and went down the corridor for a meeting with Bill and some other aides.
* * *
Over in Georgetown, Bianca was on the phone with her mother’s doctor learning that her mother was getting sicker. Bianca rang off, called Bill and told him she was going back to Fort Lauderdale to visit her mom.
“Of course, honey,” Bill was saying when Phil walked into the meeting. Phil nodded at the others and took a seat with some staffers from the Dumaine camp and some from Mowbray’s. They were coordinating various aspects of the Transition.
“Well, sure, Bianca, you pack up and get ready to go.” He looked at Phil. “We’ll arrange a plane for you right now and inform the Secret Service that you’ll be going to Fort Lauderdale.” Phil nodded back, making a note to alert Agent Rodriguez. Dumaine listened a little bit longer. Phil knew it was Bianca, obviously passing on bad news about her ill mother. “Well, you just get ready. I know Tim’s flight to Wellfleet is on standby, like everybody else, so he’s waiting for the go-ahead. A lot of people are waiting to get out. So just get ready and we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can. Phil will call you. Right. Say Hi to your mom.”
“How bad is she?” asked Phil as Dumaine hung up.
“They don’t know,” Dumaine shook his head. “But it’s getting worse. She ought to be there.”
“I’ll make the arrangements,” said Phil.
“You know, Phil, why don’t you take a couple of days and go down there with her? Tell me how you think her mom is really doing. Sometimes, Bianca has a tendency to gloss things over, you know?”
“Yeah. Good idea. I’ll go down, stay a day or two, come back, depending on how she’s doing.”
“Right,” said Dumaine, and they got into the meeting.
* * *
CHAPTER 84
Darkness descended on Washington and even though it did not seem to be getting better—the snow stopped only to be replaced by rain—forecasters called for a break in the weather around 8 P.M.
So everybody in Washington planning to get out made preparations to get to the airport by 8.
Bianca came over to join Bill at a small cocktail reception President St. Clair was throwing at the White House for senior members of the Transition team at 6 P.M. She didn’t want to miss that. So she met Bill at the White House, having sent her things on ahead to the plane. Bianca was beginning to appreciate all the little luxuries that were coming to her as the next First Lady. Her bags were taken out to the airport in advance, she never drove a car, her every wish was catered to. She couldn’t wait until they were sworn in.
The party was held in the Diplomatic Reception Room on the first floor. This was the ornate room where the outgoing President served coffee to all the VIPs on Inauguration Day, just before they went by motorcade to the Capitol for the swearing in ceremony.
As soon as he saw her, St. Clair made a beeline to Bianca, a concerned frown dominating his handsome features.
“I’m awfully sorry to hear your mother has not improved,” he said, taking her by the hand.
“Thank you very much, Mr. President,” she said. “We thought she was getting better when I was down a few days ago, but things have taken a turn for the worse.”
“And you’re going tonight, I hear.”
“As soon as the weather clears.”
St. Clair laughed.
“Everybody in town is waiting for the weather to clear.” He winked, said, “Good luck, Bianca, my best to your mother,” gave her a kiss on the cheek and moved on to somebody else.
Bianca looked across the room to find Bill so she could say goodbye, and saw him standing with Phil, Tim, Henry Westmoreland and Sidney Eismann.
When she joined the group, she gave Bill a quick kiss on the lips and greeted the others.
“You have a safe trip, Bianca.”
“I will, dear.”
“Let’s get a move on,” said Phil. “If we’re there in time, they’ll give us priority when we take off.”
“Tim’ll ride out with you,” said Bill.
“Yeah, we’re all leaving at the same time,” said Phil. “Let’s go!”
They all said their goodbyes to President St. Clair and Jack and went out to their SUVs for the ride out to the airport.
As they crawled into the SUV, Tim thought the three of them had settled into a “working” relationship.
Their manner was cool, but not evil, as if they’d both come to a reluctant understanding that they’d just have to live with him and get over it. Maybe Bill was right: it might work out after all. Maybe he shouldn’t run away, but hang in there and see if things would settle into a pattern everybody found acceptable after the Inaugural.
“How long you think you’ll be up at Hawk’s Landing, Tim?’
“Day. Day and a half, max.”
“We hardly go up in the winter—not really since we came to Washington,” said Bianca.
She sneezed, pulled out a tissue and blew her nose.
“Oh, God, now you’re coming down with something,” said Phil.
“I know,” she said meekly.
They made small talk as they drove through the rain, which became more intense as they approached the airport.
The Secret Service agent in the front passenger seat leaned over his shoulder.
“They’re telling me there’s so much congestion out here—so many planes trying to get out during the break—that they’re moving your planes to a different hangar closer to the runway so you can get outta here right away.”
“Thanks,” said Phil.
Their motorcade drove into a dry hangar, the cars continuing through the hangar to the other side. Workers were swinging open the tall doors on the runway side of the hangar, and they could see three identical white, unmarked Government C-37Bs (Gulfstream 550s) powered up and taxiing as close as they could get to an overhang attached to the hangar.
As the cars came to a stop, agents rushed out of the van behind Bianca’s car with umbrellas and military personnel swarmed around them. The rain poured continuously.
A colonel followed by a couple of other officers came over and saluted smartly.
“Good evening, Mrs. Dumaine.”
“Colonel, I wish it were a good evening.” She sneezed again.
He cracked a smile.
“Our report says the weather’s excellent in Florida.”
“It couldn’t be an
y worse than here,” said Phil. “Which plane?”
They all looked over their shoulders as two of the C-37Bs approached closer to the overhang while the third one lagged a little behind. The colonel looked at the identifying numbers on the tails of the planes and glanced at his clipboard.
“You and Mrs. Dumaine are in the one on the left, Mr. Thuris,” he said, pointing to the plane’s identifying number. “It’ll be closer to the overhang so you won’t get too wet running out to it. Mr. Harcourt’s on the right and the Secret Service detail that will accompany Mrs. Dumaine to Fort Lauderdale is the one behind. We’ll get you loaded up and outta here in just a couple of minutes.”
A lieutenant came up behind them and saluted.
“Excuse me, Colonel.”
As the colonel turned to talk to the lieutenant, everybody instinctively turned to listen to him, so they faced away from the planes inching into position closer to the overhang. So no one saw as the first two planes crossed paths, switching places, so that Bianca’s plane was on the right, and Tim’s was on the left, closer to the overhang.
The Running Mate (A Jack Houston St. Clair Thriller) Page 29