by Ted Peters
Leona disconnected from her Droid and picked up her iPhone. She dialed. “Edna here.” Edna and her husband lived on the 85th floor of the John Hancock Building.
“Edna, this is Leona Foxx. How are you and Marty doing?”
“Fine. How are you?”
“Actually, Edna, I need to cut to the chase. Are you guys affected in any way by the president’s visit?”
“Yes, indeed. He and his security have taken over the three apartments next to ours. The president’s in the middle and security in the two on each side. And, they’ve taken over the entire 84th and 86th floors.”
“Why are you still there? Why didn’t they move you out?”
“Because Marty and Andrew Dodge are good friends. Marty was one of Andy’s supporters back when he was a Chicago Alderman. They have already had a cup of coffee together this morning.”
“Edna, could I come to visit you?”
“Yes. We have to come down to the door on East Delaware and vouch for you.”
“Twenty minutes. Hillar Talin and me. No, on second thought. Just me.”
After disconnecting, Leona dialed Angie. She told Angie that she did not have time to talk. Angie said she understood, but urged Leona not to wait too long to get back to her. Hillar could overhear Leona saying, “Terrorists come and go, but a girlfriend lasts a lifetime.”
50 Saturday, Chicago, 1:10 pm
After disembarking the train and walking up the Magnificent Mile, the two stopped near the nineteenth century water tower. Located at 806 North Michigan Avenue, the Chicago Water Tower had been built in 1869, designed by architect William W. Boyington. It stands 154 feet tall. The tower helped rescue Chicagoans from the Great Fire of 1871. Was it really Mrs. O’Leary’s cow that started it?
“This is our rendezvous point, Quaz,” said Leona. If we get separated for any reason, this is where we’ll meet. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I need to go upstairs in the Hancock Building. Security will be tight. I don’t think I can make it through with what I’ve got.”
“What’ve you got?”
“Quaz, please open your backpack so I can discreetly put something in it.” Leona proceeded to remove from the back of her waistband her Kimber. She dropped this and extra ammo into the backpack. Hillar’s eyes doubled in size. Leona spoke. “I’d thought about bringing my Glock 19, which is an Austrian high capacity pistol built from carbon-fiber plastics. Most X-ray machines cannot detect it. But the barrel and part of the bolt are still steel; and that could trigger a security detector. So I thought I might as well bring my Kimber. I feel at home with this baby. Please take care of it until I get back.”
Hillar had never heard his pastor speak this way. He was momentarily dumbfounded.
Leona continued, ignoring Hillar’s reaction. “While I’m gone, shoot Castro for me.”
“Okay” muttered the confused teenager.
Leona walked north on Michigan and right onto Delaware. Edna, with her perfectly styled graying hair, greeted her warmly in the lobby.
“You look fabulous, Edna,” exclaimed Leona.
“So nice of you to come and visit. Marty’s waiting upstairs.”
Leona was quickly cleared by security and received a pass card to return to security upon departure. They took an elevator up to floor 44, transferring then to a second elevator. This took them up to floor 85 in what seemed like a jet-propelled rocket. Martin Townsend greeted the two at the apartment door. The small talk did not last long. Leona marched to the large picture window to view the stunning landscape and seascape to the south. She studied the location of various buildings.
“Where is the president staying?”
“He’s two apartments to our left,” said Martin. “Immediately next door is where security sleeps, if they sleep at all.”
“Mmmmmm.” She scanned the landscape again. She imagined herself in the cockpit of a flying terrorist craft. How would I approach? How could I make a square hit with minimum angle deflection? She ascertained that most likely the craft would come from the southeast, from Lake Michigan, past the Parkshore and Harbor Point. I would probably fly over the Water Tower Plaza just prior to impact. This could mean that enroute it would fly in the vicinity of the president’s ship. The president would be here, of course, probably entertaining the mayor and guests. He would not be on the ship. But the ship would be alive with Holthusen’s techies. Mmmmmm.
“Is the presidential apartment as deep as yours?” asked Leona.
“Actually,” Edna said. “It’s deeper. I’ve been in it many times. It’s more than twice as large as ours.”
“Large enough for a cocktail party?”
“Oh, yes. More than ample.”
“Have you been invited to this evening’s reception?”
“Yes, of course,” replied Edna.
“Look, Marty and Edna. I need to ask you to leave. By seven o’clock don’t be here. Even if the president urges you to join him, don’t go. Spend the night somewhere else.”
“Lee, what are you saying?” asked Martin.
“I can’t explain. I can say it’s a matter of life and death. Take my word for it.”
The earnest expression on Leona’s face was persuasive. Without too many more questions, the Townsends agreed to vacate for the evening.
Walking back toward the water tower, Leona called David Ragland. “Where are you right now, David?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Do you want to see the Cubs play the Cards?”
“Why are ya ask’n?”
“I’m on my way to Wrigley with my friend, Hillar.”
“Your friend, eh. Do you and your friend live together?”
“Hillar’s only fourteen, for heaven’s sake. He’s my helper at the church.”
“Just checking.”
“You’re not very subtle, David.”
“Rags.”
“We’ll meet you at Wrigley in twenty minutes. Gate F on Addison. I’ll buy your ticket if you can flap your badge and get all of us through security.”
“Are you pack’n heat, Reverend?”
“Never mind. Is it a deal?”
“See you at Gate F in twenty.”
51 Saturday, Chicago, 2:04 pm
Rather than take the L, Leona and Hillar caught a taxi and were delivered to Wrigley Field in front of Gate F. The game had already begun, so lines were short. Leona hastily bought three tickets in Section 122, Field Level Infield, just to the visitors’ side of home plate. Rags arrived as expected and guided the party through security. Leona led them to their seats.
Ragland talked all the way. “Wrigley Field was built in 1904, the oldest professional baseball stadium still in use by the Major Leagues. Its charm is exceeded only by the lack of comfort of its now too small seats. Over a century fan bottoms increased in size while the seats remained the same.” Leona and Hillar listened with appropriate head nods.
Despite the big breakfast, Hillar immediately asked for a Chicago dog with all the trimmings. The detective bought the snacks, including an Irish stout for himself and the pastor.
“So, your name is Foxx, eh,” Rags said to Leona. “Any relation to Jimmy Foxx?”
“I don’t know if I’m genetically related. But I think I share some of the Foxx spirit.”
“They called him ‘Double X’ and ‘the Beast’. Is that the spirit you mean? When he played for the Cubs, he played right here at Wrigley. When he quit, he’d hit 534 home runs with a lifetime batting average of .325. He was the ‘Right-Handed Babe Ruth’.” Rags paused. “When were you born, Lee?”
“July 27. I’ll keep the year secret. Woman’s prerogative.”
“That makes you a Leo. ‘Leo’ means lion, you know.”
“Oh, yes, I’m aware. My name, Leona, makes me a lioness.”
“So, you’re a foxy lion, eh. Let me ask you: are we working or are we on a date?”
“Working, Detective Ragland, strictly working. Got it?” she said f
irmly.
“Rags.”
“What do you think of the president and his entourage?” asked Leona without much expression. Looking toward the field, they could see the president in the front of Club Box 20. Leona removed the binoculars from Hillar’s backpack and studied the arrangement. To the right of President Dodge sat Mildred. To his immediate left was Sugar Daley. Sugar had been a dark horse during the mayoral election, even though she represented a new chapter in the long story of the Daley Machine. She won on the Democratic ticket when the opposing vote was split between Republicans and Independents. In the same election, curiously, one member of the Woodlawn Stoners, Ruben Wallace, had been elected Alderman. Wallace was not among the dignitaries behind home plate. Security agents, large muscular men too big for their clothes, were obvious. Rex Allen was calmly talking into something in his hand, most likely a mobile phone.
From her jeans pocket, Leona withdrew her business card. She turned it over to write a note. Hillar and David were absorbed in the game. The Cubs had runners on first and second. All eyes were on the field. All eyes except Leona’s. On the back of the card she wrote, “Stay away from your window. Danger.”
She reached into Hillar’s backpack and pulled out the helicopter. She fastened the card securely to the bottom of the craft with Scotch tape. She tapped Hillar. “Please get this ready to fly.”
“What?”
“You heard me. We’ll wait for the crowd to stand. Then, launch this baby. Lift it up, over the crowd. Then drop it right into the president’s lap. Can you do that?”
Hillar’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Really.”
The crowd’s drone rose in pitch and volume as a walk loaded the bases. “Greer’s up,” exclaimed Rags.
“Oh, I gotta watch this,” said Leona. The first pitch was a ball. Outside.
“He’s afraid of ‘m!” screamed Rags.
The second pitch was just as far outside as the first. “Scaredy-cat!” screamed David. Hillar was half watching and half readying his craft for take-off.
“This one’s gotta be a strike,” said Leona, nodding to both Hillar and David.
It was. The pitch sizzled right down the middle, letter high. Greer’s swing came from the heels. He connected. The crack of the Louisville Slugger issued a heavenly sound for ears of Cub fans. The ball shot up and up. Everyone in the stands sprang up, watching the white pellet sail over the brick wall in left center field. Leona leaped up and off her feet, punching the air with her right hand. “Grand Slam!” she screamed. When she came down, she dropped into a crouch and gave a loud whisper to Hillar, “Now!”
Hillar pressed a button on the remote and the helicopter took off straight up. With the jumping and roaring of the crowd, the flying object was hardly noticed by anyone. All eyes were fixed on Hank Greer rounding third base. The baseball star paused after touching home plate to receive high fives from fellow Cubbies. The crowd’s applause grew even louder before the roaring fans settled back into their seats.
By this time the small silver craft was forty feet in the air and making its way toward the backstop. Leona and Hillar tracked its flight. Rags was becoming somewhat curious, but nothing prompted him to look in the direction of the flying object.
“Careful,” Leona whispered nervously. Hillar gripped his remote guidance box. Soon the copter was hovering just above the president. “Lower it slowly, Hillar.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Slower.”
“I’m okay, Pastor Lee. I’ve got it.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
Gently the remote whirly bird descended. Hillar flicked the off switch. It dropped into the president’s lap.
“Perfect!” exclaimed Leona.
“What are you doing?” demanded Rags.
“Oh, nothing,” said Leona, sitting back. “Just watching the president.” By this time Hillar had picked up the binoculars and admired the fruits of his labors.
“Look what I’ve got,” said Andrew to both Mildred on his right and Sugar Daley on his left. He fondled the treasure, examining it from all sides. At first, he did not notice the business card taped to the bottom. One of the security agents quickly came to the end of the row, just to Sugar’s left. “Perhaps I should take that, Mr. President.”
“Sure,” said Dodge. As he lifted the object to pass it to the agent, he spotted the note. Without revealing what he was doing, he unobtrusively peeled off the card and handed the copter to Sugar who, in turn, handed it to the agent. “We’ll examine it,” said the agent as he departed.
Dodge turned the card from side to side. He could not help but smile as he read, “Rev. Leona Foxx, Pastor. Trinity Lutheran Church.” He turned the card over. There he found written, “Stay away from your window. Danger.”
The president thought for a moment, asking himself, “What window is Lee talking about?” The only window he could think of was the screen that protected him and other fans from fowl balls.
“My helicopter’s now gone,” complained Hillar.
“I tell you what, Quaz. Next time you file your income tax, deduct the cost of the helicopter from your tax liability.”
“I don’t pay income tax. I’m too young. Remember?”
“Oh. In that case, I’ll buy you a new one.”
Through the binoculars Leona followed Andrew’s movements as he placed the card into his pocket. Success. She couldn’t help but watch beyond what she needed for confirmation. It appeared from the jostling and smiling that the entire presidential party was enjoying the game. Occasionally, Mildred would flip her hair back. Then she would lay her head on her husband’s shoulder. He would pat her tenderly. For most onlookers this appeared to be a charming insight into the personal life of the nation’s leader and the First Lady. For Leona, however, it was depressing.
“I think it’s time for me to leave the game.” Hillar and David protested. But she held fast to her decision. “Hillar, we rendezvous at five o’clock, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Rags, where will you be there at five o’clock today?”
“Dunno. Depends on who kills whom.”
“If you have no murders to solve, you could meet me and my friends at the Chicago Water Tower. If you don’t come, you’ll miss some fun. In the meantime,” Leona leaned toward Ragland and whispered in his ear, “I’m thinking about your buddies at the Chicago PD. You might tell whoever is in charge of presidential security one little thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell him to clear East Chestnut just under the John Hancock Building before 8:00 this evening.”
“What? Why?”
“Falling debris.”
“What the hell? Why should I do that? What do you claim to know? Why should I act on your authority?”
“It’s up to you, Rags. You can ignore me. Keep what I said all to yourself, if you like. Bye.”
Ragland was befuddled. He pulled out his cell phone while watching Leona disappear up the concrete stairs toward the exit..
52 Saturday, Chicago, 4:01 pm
Leona headed for the L train. She phoned Graham, who reported that the intercept plan was now in place. It included two units, the primary one on the ship and an auxiliary one on the roof of the John Hancock. Graham also said he’d returned to shore. In fact, Holthusen was with him. They were catching a late afternoon coffee on State Street at the north end of the Loop.
“Graham, did you also set up a monitoring station?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Near the foot of the Chicago Water Tower. Look for a white van. I’ll meet you there a little before five and introduce you to the techie team.”
“Perfect,” exclaimed Leona. “Put Holthusen on.”
“Hello, Lee,” said the CIA director.
“Do you know where Budenholzer might be right now? Washington? Chicago? The Middle East?”
“No, I don’t. He’s a secret agent, you know. He has no official reason to be in Chic
ago, as far as I can tell. I’ve not heard from him in a few days. But recall the photo at Gatwick.”
“What are the chances that he’s the mastermind of CUB?”
“As of yet, no evidence. Just to be careful, though, I’ve kept him out of your loop. As far as I know, he’s oblivious to your activities.”
“He preceded you as director. Maybe he’s hurting because he lost that position. He may be resentful toward Dodge for demoting him. To whom is he most loyal: the CIA or his contractor buddies?”
“All of those questions have crossed my mind. To date, however, we have no persuasive evidence that he’s involved.”
“It may be relevant to remember that he was director when I was a full-time operative in Iran. He knows me. He knows my case. He would know that I possess the knowledge that CUB wants. In fact, I don’t know how CUB could find out about my knowledge without Budenholzer divulging it.”
“You’ve got a point there, Lee. What about Number Thirty?”
“I believe only three people in the world know who Number Thirty is. I do. The president. And Budenholzer. Maybe you.”
“Yes, I know, because Budenholzer passed this information on to me during the director transition,” said Holthusen. “That makes four. So, of the four of us, who told CUB about you? And would that person tell CUB about Number Thirty as well?”
“Gary, is Number Thirty safe? Did you check recently?”
“Now, Lee, we both know that only you know the location of Number Thirty. How could I check? Even so, the office has received no indirect reports of searches, let alone threats. And, as far as I know, Number Thirty still does not know what you know about Iran’s nuclear program; unless, of course, you shared this information. So, that could explain why CUB is after you and you alone.”
“Maybe we should learn just where Budenholzer is. What do you think?”
“I’ll put a call in to him. Let’s see.”