by Ted Peters
“May I suggest you place that call just a few minutes after five. Ask the monitor team to locate his phone. This’ll tell us where he is.”
“Good idea.”
“Will you be with the president tonight?”
“No. He’s hosting the Daley family and some other Chicagoans at his John Hancock condo. Our agents are among his security force. I’ll be in touch with them constantly, but I’ll remain off-site.”
“Where?”
“Well, Miss Leona, tell me where you’d like me to be.”
“With Graham. Protect him. I kinda like him.”
“Should I tell Graham that?”
“Tell him whatever you want to. Let’s keep each other on speed dial.”
“Gotcha.”
She dropped down the stairs from the L platform and headed for North Michigan Avenue’s Magnificent Mile. Leona noticed the shadows created by the late afternoon sun. One of the shadows mimicked her own.
She hit Angie’s speed dial. “Angie, I just want to say that I can’t say much now. I’m still in the middle of things.”
“Is Graham in the middle with you?” asked Angie.
“Yes and no. He’s with another guy. I’m by myself. But I’ll see him soon.” She studied the shadow following hers. “In the meantime, Angie, there’s good shopping where I am.”
“That’s my Lee, always the bargain hunter.”
“Gotta go. Call ya later. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The two shadows continued to march in sync. She walked with the assumption that she was not alone.
She opened the door to Saks Fifth Avenue. Once in, Leona immediately turned right and flattened herself against the wall. Seconds later the store door opened again. In walked Rex Allen. She grabbed the agent from behind. She thrust her right hand under his right armpit and up his chest to the left shoulder. With her left hand she grabbed his left forearm and yanked it around toward her own back. Neither of Allen’s hands could reach for a weapon.
“Why are you following me?” she demanded.
“It’s not what you think, Reverend.”
“Tell me what to think.”
“President Dodge sent me. He wanted me to follow you to protect you.”
“It’s the president who needs protection, not me.” She loosened her grip. The two turned to face one another in civil conversation.
“Another thing,” Rex Allen went on. “The president wants to know: which window is dangerous?”
“The window in his condo on the 85th floor of the John Hancock,” she responded. “Tell him not to stand there at eight o’clock, better from 7:30 on. He and everybody else should get back toward the hall, the building’s center.” I bet he knew all of this but sent you anyway, Rexie. Maybe Andy wants to look chivalrous to me.
“Why the caution?” asked Allen.
“Only a theory,” she said. “Will you be with him after seven tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Then, you can make certain he’s safely away from the window before eight, Okay?”
“Yes, Reverend.”
“You can go. Thank the president for me. Maybe I’ll see you when this is over.”
“When what’s over?”
“Just get back to your duties, Rexie. Bye.”
Rex Allen left, heading toward the Hancock. The wheels within Leona’s mind began to turn again. She walked. She thought. CUB wants one and only one thing: to make Iran look like a threat to the American people. What does this imply? If I were Grimes or even Budenholzer, what would I want to do? I’d want to make certain the media would record the worst of the worst.
Leona ran through alternative scenarios. How could CUB get the media in place and ready by eight? With a dummy event at seven, she answered herself. If something would draw the media to an area near the John Hancock Building just prior, then cameras would be in place to watch the terror on the 85th floor. A fire? A shooting on the street? A suicide jumper? Whatever it was going to be, it would take professional orchestration.
53 Saturday, Chicago, 4:58 pm
It was nearing five o’clock. Leona headed for the water tower, circumambulating the small block with geometrically segmented lawns separated by wide sidewalks. On the north side, on East Pearson where horse carriages pick up tourists, she noticed something unusual. Parked halfway on the sidewalk was a large panel van, white, slightly smaller than a bus. Antennas decorated the roof. It appeared to be a media van with “Channel 007” written on the side. Leona could not resist a smile. No such channel exists. But somebody’s humor does.
Leona rapped on the shotgun door window. The door opened and she identified herself. After a verbal exchange within and Holthusan’s voice giving her permission, she entered. The door shut behind her. She was amazed by the array of electronic monitoring equipment. “Looks like you’re ready,” she announced.
“We’re ready,” said Graham. “The CIA shares equipment like this with the FBI.”
Leona was introduced to the two techies, Tom and Ted, younger men, perhaps in their late twenties. Both were with the FBI.
“I just had another thought,” said Leona, addressing Graham and the two techies. “Is there a way you could tune into TV stations and listen in on incoming calls? I bet that some will come in around seven announcing something dramatic happening in this area. We’ll want to trace the origin of those calls.”
“Can do,” said Tom. “We’ll take care of that.”
“Want some coffee?” asked Graham. “I’ll pour it.”
“Thanks. Half a cup,” said Leona. “Black.” Leona sipped. Her eyes peeked over the cup and caught Graham’s eyes.
Through the windshield Leona noted that Hillar was nearby. He was seated on a concrete post playing his video games. Soon, she thought, the others will be arriving. Time to become a field marshal.
Shortly after five all had gathered on the water tower lawn: Hillar, Graham, the three Stoners, Shmoo, and the two rent-a-cops. Holthusen watched through the vehicle window, admiring Leona’s organizational abilities. “I wish we still had her with us,” he said to the first techie.
“It looks like we still do,” Ted responded.
A moment later Holthusen was gone, disappearing into the crowd of pedestrians.
54 Saturday, Chicago, 5:02 pm
The John Hancock Building was constructed in 1970. With its 100 floors and antennae its height reaches 1500 feet. But it is still a bush when measured by the world’s forest of skyscrapers. The JH looks up to the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, the Taipai 101, Shanghai’s World Financial Center, Hong Kong’s International Conference Center, Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur, and Chicago’s own Willis and Trump Towers. Even so, the John Hancock is an impressive architectural icon which houses condominiums, business offices, a radio and television broadcast facility, and a 94th floor observatory. Its elliptical-shaped outdoor plaza includes a twelve-foot waterfall. The JH is located one block north of the Water Tower at 875 North Michigan Avenue.
On the Water Tower apron Leona addressed her army. “I think the fireworks will begin earlier than eight,” she said. “Maybe as early as seven.”
Hillar removed Leona's gun from his backpack, and all watched unobtrusively as she placed it in her waistband. Leona, now turned field marshal, shared her theory about a staged media draw. “Here’s what I would like you all to do. Hillar, I want you stationed here. Get to know the techies in the van. Stay as connected as you can with all of us, using your iPhone.”
Hillar nodded his head in agreement. Leona continued to direct. “We’re going to fan out and locate where we each can see what’s going on. Quint and Wade, walk one block north and position yourselves on the steps of the Fourth Presbyterian Church. From there you can see any action on the west side of the John Hancock. You’ve got Hillar on speed dial, and you can text him. Hillar will orchestrate what needs to be communicated.”
Quint and Wade gave Leona a mock salute.
“Shmoo, you take Hammer and Scorp o
ver to the northeast corner on East Delaware Place, where it intersects with Mies van der Rohr. There’s a Hilton Suites on the corner. From that point you can see what goes in and what goes out of the door at 175 East Delaware. Remain outside the police perimeter. But Shmoo, when you have a chance, sidle up to your cop buddies and see what you can learn. Keep in touch with Hillar.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” said Shmoo smiling.
“Graham, I want you and Everett to come with me down East Chestnut. Water Tower Place will be on our right. Hancock on our left. We’ll settle somewhere in the vicinity of the Broadway Playhouse.”
Graham and Everett also saluted, grinning.
“Hillar, again, you stay here at the Water Tower. Outside. If you need anything, go talk to Tom or Ted in the van. Otherwise, stay on the Water Tower lawn. Keep your eyes open. You can see the upper floors of the Hancock from here, but you won’t be in any danger if things start falling. Got it?”
“Yeah,” said Hillar.
At about 6:00 the group disbursed with an unsettling mixture of eagerness and apprehension. Leona, Graham, and Everett marched east. They surveyed the JH façade, looking for suspicious activity. They saw none. Police motorcycles had arranged the safety perimeter, blocking off nearly the entire street. Leona concluded that David Ragland had placed an important phone call.
When the threesome arrived at the Broadway Playhouse, they positioned themselves under its large awning. From there the Hancock and the street were in clear view. They waited for the drama to unfold outside the playhouse. Time passed. The three studied their surroundings very carefully, reviewing out loud with one another details about buildings, windows, awnings, traffic, police, and suspicious pedestrians. More time passed.
“I could sure use a hot dog—one of those Chicago-style Vienna beefers,” announced Graham. “There’s a hot dog cart up the street. Over by the Cheesecake Factory. See it, Everett?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’ll buy if Everett will run over and get them.”
“Yer on,” said Everett. “The works?”
Leona looked at Graham with furrowed eyebrows, then nodded at Everett. “Everything.”
“Everything for me too,” said Graham. He dished out a twenty. Everett headed up the street.
Graham looked into Leona’s eyes. “I don’t really need a hot dog, Lee.” Both smiled. Graham’s left hand picked up Leona’s right. He drew it to his mouth and touched it lightly with his lips. Then he slowly lowered the clasped hands until dropping hers at her side. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.
The two heard a rustling among pedestrians to their left. Feet shuffled. Voices murmured. Many in the crowd were craning their necks upward, watching some sort of commotion on the roof atop the Escada Plaza clock tower. Graham and Leona ran quickly toward, and then across, Michigan Avenue. Everett spotted them running by and joined the chase. Atop the clock tower was a fenced balcony where silhouetted figures swayed back and forth. The activity was hard to make out, but it felt ominous to the crowd. Then, a limp human form tumbled off the balcony, spinning through the air, bouncing off jutting roofs. The body fell on the concrete within a few feet of Leona and Graham.
“I’ll try to head them off,” said Graham. He took off running. Everett spotted Graham and sprinted to catch up with him.
Leona was the first to kneel at the side of the body, which lay prostrate and still. The collision of a falling human body with a concrete side walk is one where the body suffers damage, not the sidewalk. Blood flowed like the Mississippi. She rolled the man over. Rex Allen. It took a moment for Leona to collect her thoughts. Oh God. Into your hands I commend his soul. Amen. A note pinned to Allen’s shirt then commanded her attention.
“Death to America,” was her translation.
55 Saturday, Chicago, 7:08 pm
Graham and Everett dashed around the Escada Plaza toward its rear. They took positions behind a dumpster. Within seconds, the building’s rear door flew open and three men in drab gray sweatsuits with maroon trim burst out, each carrying a weapon.
“Halt,” yelled Graham.
All three twisted their heads towards Graham. They raised their weapons and started shooting. Shots were fired from both directions. Graham’s semi-automatic kicked up heat and smoke and death. It was all over quickly. Two down. One with hands up. Everett stared at the gun in his hand, grateful that he did not need to fire.
Graham and Everett approached the quelled enemy. So did three running policemen complete with battle rattle and drawn guns. Graham flashed his CIA credential to the lead officer. “Cuff ‘m,” he said. “They’re part of a presidential assassination team. We’ve got more to go after. Can’t tell you more right now. Please excuse us.”
A second patrolman grabbed Everett and started to handcuff him. “No,” said Graham. He’s with me. He’s with the CIA.” The cop immediately released him. Graham and Everett disappeared, heading back toward where they had left Leona. As they were running, Everett took a look at Graham. “So, I’m CIA, eh.” Both laughed.
The front sidewalk of the Escada was now in the public spotlight. Pedestrians and police converged. A fire truck pulled to a stop. An ambulance right behind. Leona drifted back, out of the hubbub. Her Droid struck up a tune, “Gimme Mo’ Town.” Ted was calling her from the listening van. “Got something for you,” he said.
“Good. Gimme,” she said.
“We’ve traced some of the phone action. Someone in your area phoned Channel Five to report a suicide jump from the Escada. Then, a minute later, someone else phoned 911 to report the same jumper to the police. First the media, then the call for help. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Leona. “This does not surprise me. I see a media van with roof antennae approaching on Chestnut. Soon a camera crew will be filming.”
“It looks like you nailed it, Reverend,” said Ted.
“Ted,” she said. Then she heard a deafening blast through the phone as well as with her naked ear. She looked south and saw black smoke billowing from the Water Tower plaza. “Ted?” she yelled with dread into the phone. “Ted!” No answer.
What Hillar on site had seen was a green SUV, perhaps a Jeep Cherokee, pull up next to Channel 007 on Pearson. The Cherokee stopped for a few seconds, then drove on, turning south. When the SUV was a block further south on Michigan Avenue, the FBI van exploded. The sound of the detonated bomb was deafening. The vehicle catapulted ten feet in the air. Then it turned to fall on its side. The entire van was burning. A startled Hillar hid behind a tree until the debris settled. Then, he ran to the burning van, concerned for Tom and Ted inside. The heat was so intense he was forced to keep a distance. Hillar felt as helpless as he was terror-ridden.
From the church two blocks north rushed Quint and Wade, running past the Escada activity at full speed. Leona seemed invisible as they ran by her. The two breathed a brief sigh of relief as they came to a stop next to Hillar. The helpless spectators watched the now transparent van disintegrate in the flames and heat.
“Did you see who did it?” Quint asked Hillar.
“It must’ve been that green Jeep Cherokee.” gasped Hillar. “I noticed it behind the horse carriages, maybe waiting for the right moment. I saw it stop next to the van.”
Within seconds two policemen were on-site. Within minutes a fire truck arrived. Traffic was beginning to jam up.
Wade offered an idea. “Suppose you’re right about the green Cherokee. Do you think the bombers might take a spin around the block and come back? Won’t they want to check on their handiwork? Could we ambush them?”
Hillar and Quint nodded in agreement. Wade and Quint took up positions at curbside, watching traffic moving east on Pearson. Traffic crept along Michigan Avenue at five miles per hour as their drivers rubber-necked the Escada and the fire scenes. Wade and Quint spied the green Cherokee approaching. Prophecy fulfilled.
“Let’s hold back until they’re waiting at the corner to turn onto Michigan,” said Wade. “Then we jump
in through the back doors. You on the right. Me on the left. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Just before we jump in, fire a bullet into the right front tire. I’ll do the same on the left. With two flats, they won’t be going anywhere we don’t want them to go.”
“Got it.”
“What if the back doors are locked?”
“Then we’ll point our weapons at them through the front. But let’s try the back doors first.”
“Got it.”
As the Cherokee crawled passed the devastation, the driver and the shotgun rider admired their handiwork, exchanging high fives, oblivious to the sneak attack about to take place.
Suddenly, gunshots! The back doors swung open. Now four were in the car. Wade shoved a gun barrel into the neck of the driver, who could already feel the drag of two flat front tires. Quint creased the neck of the right front rider with his pistol. “Turn right and up the curb,” demanded Wade. “Drive on the sidewalk, slowly. Very slowly.”
The driver did as he was told. In a moment the Jeep halted on the Water Tower plaza. Wade and Quint gingerly exited the Jeep and stood carefully pointing their pistols at their respective captives. One of the policemen approached. Wade hollered,”These are your arsonists, officer.”
After showing the cop his security credential, the policeman accepted Wade’s account and put the two firebombers under arrest. Hillar corroborated the story and volunteered to be designated a witness. They explained to the officer the urgency of the situation, that this FBI truck was part of a larger attempt to prevent a terrorist action. The policeman excused Leona’s soldiers to continue their operation. Hillar remained at the fire site while the other two raced back to Escada, looking for Leona.
56 Saturday, Chicago, 7:53 pm