Target of Opportunity td-98

by Warren Murphy

  "It is a disgrace. A proper assassin dispatches his target and no other. And he does this without resorting to smoke and thunder."

  "So if it were you, the President would have been killed?"

  "If it were I," the old man said, "the puppet would not only have expired, but have expired in a way that no one would ever suspect fool play."

  "You mean foul play."

  "A chicken would be insulted by what happened this day."

  "Really?"

  "Truly." The old man lapsed into another long silence. His quick hazel eyes went continually to the gleaming aluminum wing just below the window.

  "We are past the point of danger," he said after a while.

  "You mean the country?"

  "No. I mean this conveyance. The wing has not fallen off. Typically this only happens in the first ten minutes. If it has not fallen off now, it is unlikely to do so until we are again on the ground. By then, it does not matter if the wing falls off or not."

  "Back to the puppet President," Pepsie said quickly. "If he's a puppet, who pulls his strings?"

  "Emperor Smith. It is he who truly rules this land and who, for stubborn reasons I cannot understand, allows the fallacy of democracy to lurch on unchecked."

  "You mean, like voting?"

  "Another sham."

  "I've never voted."

  "You show uncommon wisdom."

  "Do you think Smith has anything to do with the attempts on the President's life?"

  "No. It is Smith who has ordered me to Washington to protect the puppet from those who covet his life. I do not understand this. Smith has ignored all my entreaties to snuff the puppet and set him on the Eagle Throne."

  "You mean the Oval Office?"

  "I mean what I mean. It matters not where the emperor places his throne, only that he sits upon it with firmness."

  "You want the President dead?"

  "It will bring stability to this land of mass confusion. Every four years it is the same circus. Many vie for the puppet throne, and each time the prettiest face and the loudest voice triumphs. Seldom has a true ruler won the contest."

  "Name one who did."

  "Milhous the Trusted. He was a true leader. Cold. Ruthless. Calculating. The years when he was puppet were good ones, relatively."

  "What did you say your name was?"

  "I did not say," the old man sniffed. "But I am called Chiun. Remember the name well. Just do not repeat it to anyone."

  "My lips are sealed," Pepsie said, surreptitiously shutting off the tape recorder.

  Chapter 11

  The Washington press corps had already staked out Andrews Air Base when Air Force One touched down on barking tires.

  Secret Service Special Agent Vince Capezzi spotted them as the lumbering 747 swung off the runway, trundling toward the waiting black-and-olive-green helicopter that, like others designated for the Chief Executive's official use, was called Marine One whenever the President himself stepped aboard.

  "We got press in large numbers," he barked into his hand mike. "Inform the pilot to park her in the hangar. We'll take the Man off inside."

  "Roger."

  Turbines spooling down, the Presidential plane veered toward a waiting hangar. Seeing the course change, the Washington press corps surged toward the hangar.

  "Wonderful. They're going to try to beat us to the hangar."

  "I'd better put this to the President," said Capezzi, lifting himself out of his seat in the Secret Service cubicle.

  He moved through the narrow blue corridors and encountered the chief of staff.

  "We have press," Capezzi said grimly.

  "Good."

  "Good? We've got to get the Man to Crown as fast as possible."

  "It's the White House. Call it the White House when you talk to me. All these dipshit code names drive me crazy."

  "Until we've ascertained that there is no conspiracy, the President belongs in a secure place."

  "He has a health-care plan to push. He's pretty steamed you pulled him out of Boston."

  "I didn't notice your vociferous objection."

  The chief of staff shrugged. "You know how it goes."

  "Yeah, I know how it goes. Whenever the President has to change his schedule, the service is trotted out as scapegoat. But this time the threat was real."

  "Look, I'm going to recommend the President speak briefly to the press."

  "It's a risk."

  "It would have to be a pretty big conspiracy to have agents in Boston and Washington," the chief of staff pointed out.

  "It's not impossible. And I object to any Presidential appearance in the strongest possible terms."

  "He's still the President. He makes these decisions. But I'll relay to him your concerns."

  "Like hell you will. I'm going in there with you. I won't lose this President to staff politics."

  "Fine," the chief of staff said stiffly. "We'll both go see the President."

  "Don't bother," the hoarse voice of the President of the United States said. "I heard everything."

  The President appeared behind them, looking grim.

  The chief of staff spoke up quickly. "Mr. President, now would be an excellent time to assure the nation that you are alive and in control of the reins of power."

  "You mean word hasn't gotten out yet?" Capezzi said.

  The chief of staff smiled tightly. "We thought it would endanger the President's security if word were released prematurely."

  Buttoning a fresh jacket and smoothing his replacement tie, the President said, "I'll address the press when I step off the plane. Have the air stairs rolled into place and make the usual security arrangements."

  "Damn," Capezzi said, turning on his heel to do his thankless duty.

  Air Force One was braked short of the hangar. The Washington press corps uncertainly stopped its mass stampede and looked indecisive.

  There was a runway staircase mounted on a waiting truck and it started up, moving into position. Once the bumpers touched the hull on either side of the main exit door, the door was thrown open and Secret service agents, clutching MAC-11s, rattled down the red-carpeted steps and began going among the press contingent, demanding to see plastic press IDs and frisking unfamiliar reporters with metal-detecting wands.

  "Okay," one barked into his wrist mike. "All clear."

  "Roger. We're moving him down from Angel One now."

  The President emerged, flanked by two agents whose immobile faces rotated back and forth with metronomic regularity.

  The President lifted one hand, and gasps floated up from the assembled press.

  Walking steadily, the President descended to the bottom of the steps and stopped before a portable podium that had been hastily set in place.

  "I would like to make a statement," he began in a somber voice.

  "Who are you?" a reporter blurted.

  "Looks like the President," a second reporter said.

  "But he's supposed to be dead," a third said.

  The President ignored the outburst and pressed on. "As you all know, earlier today there was an incident where a shot was fired at the Presidential limousine."

  "Mr. President," a reporter asked, waving. "A question, please."

  The President ignored him. He opened his mouth to continue his statement.

  "Mr. President, why aren't you dead?" the reporter interrupted.

  The President looked up to see who had spoken. It was a former White House correspondent famous for his rude questions and bad hairpieces. He was wearing a serious expression despite the utter ridiculousness of his shouted question.

  "You are the President of the United States, aren't you?" he added pointedly. "I mean, you're not a double or ringer brought in to calm the nation?"

  "You know better than that," the President snapped, dispensing with his address.

  "But, sir, with all due respect, how do we know you are indeed the President?"

  "Because I just stepped off Air Force One wearing the Presi
dent's well-known face," the President said, swallowing a bitter "you moron."

  "I mean no disrespect, Mr. President, but the networks have reported your death. In fact, they have film. And it clearly shows your head being blown apart in living color."

  "That was not me but a Secret Service agent who looks a little like me."

  "In other words, a double?" the former White House correspondent said quickly.

  "A decoy," the President snapped back. "Not a double."

  "Can you prove that you're the real double and not the dead double?"

  The President jerked an angry thumb over his shoulder at Air Force One. "His brave body is in the process of being unloaded," he said tightly.

  "When will we be allowed to film the corpse?"

  "You wouldn't be able to broadcast the film. Trust me."

  "We telecast the film of you having your head blown apart," a woman reporter corrected. "Semilive."

  "That wasn't me," the President snapped.

  "We haven't fully established this yet," another reporter pointed out in a tone more reasonable than the comment itself.

  "Look at me!" the President exploded. "I am the President of the United States. I am standing here in my own flesh speaking in my own voice. What is so darn hard to understand?"

  "Do you have a comment on Watergate-I mean Whitewash? Whatever it's called now. You know, the scandal thing."

  "I'd rather talk about health-care reform."

  "Yeah, that's him," the former White House reporter with the silly hairpiece said.

  The President continued his statement. "I would just like to assure the American people that, despite this tragedy, the governing of this nation will go on uninterrupted. And I would also like to express my sincere condolences to the family of the slain agent. Thank you."

  "You said there would be questions," a reporter complained.

  "I've answered all the questions I intend to answer," the President snapped.

  "Does that mean you don't know the answers?"

  "Just one more," the President said wearily.

  "Don't do it, Mr. President," the chief of staff whispered.

  Too late, the President pointed to the person who had spoken.

  "Will the Vice President take over your duties during the period of uncertainty over your identity?"

  "There's is no uncertainty! I know who I am. And the American people know who I am!"

  "Is that a yes or a no?" asked one reporter.

  "That will be all. That will be all," the chief of staff said, leading the fuming President away from the podium.

  "Hey, that will make a great instant-poll question," another piped up. "Let's let the American public decide."

  An armored limousine slithered under the shadow of Air Force One and the President was pushed into it for the sixty-yard trip to Marine One, which was whining into life.

  Agents surrounded the President when he emerged, forming a moving diamond around him. He was jostled up the stairs like a convicted felon being hustled off to court.

  When Marine One lifted into the air, Secret Service Special Agent Mince Capezzi breathed a long, whistling sigh of relief.

  Once they reached Crown, the President would be safe.

  Chapter 12

  The network news vans and satellite trucks had been parked on the 1600 block of Pennsylvania Avenue before the White House for over an hour now, their microwave dishes pointed in all directions. Cameramen were perched on the van roofs, panning tripod-mounted video cameras back and forth.

  Roving news crews prowled the perimeter fence, blocked from entering by uniformed Secret Service agents.

  "We need a statement from the First Lady," a reporter called over the fence.

  "The First Lady isn't making any statements right now."

  "She's gotta make a statement. She's the new Jackie Kennedy. She owes it to the nation to share her pain with ordinary citizens."

  The Secret Service agent bit his lips. The word from the West Wing was to stonewall the press until an official statement was put out.

  "Sorry," he said.

  Frustrated, reporters descended on citizens and tourists who were gathering on Pennsylvania Avenue, weeping and stunned.

  "What does the Presidential loss mean to you personally?"

  "Where were you when you heard the news?"

  "I need a shot of someone crying," a reporter called out. "If you've got tears in your eyes, raise your hand and I'll put you on the BCN Evening News. "

  No one raised their hand. But someone threw a rock. It bounced off the reporter's skull, and for the next ten minutes he became the story as cameras closed in on him lying on the pavement, bleeding from a gash over one eye, saying, "Help me. Someone help me."

  "Sorry," he was told by his colleagues, "you're news now. We can't help you."

  "Can't you bleed a little more?" another colleague requested. "This is kinda dull. How about a nice painful groan?"

  NO ONE NOTICED the panhandler arrive in a metallic blue Porsche.

  The panhandler stepped from the Porsche after parking it near the Treasury Building, one block east of the White House. He was wearing a shabby tan trench coat and a black acrylic baseball cap with the letters CIA stamped on the front. His aviator-style sunglasses were taped together with duct tape on the bridge and stems.

  He shuffled toward the east White House fence, making no effort to solicit spare change from the gathering crowd.

  There was a Secret Service special agent stationed under a spreading magnolia tree, and while his attention was elsewhere, the panhandler suddenly knelt and pulled a black-and-white cat from under his trench coat. He shoved the complaining feline through the fence, saying, "Scat!"

  Secret Service Special Agent Clyde Norman caught the motion out of the corner of his eye.

  "Hey!" he yelled at the kneeling panhandler. "Get away from that cat!"

  The panhandler abruptly straightened up. "I was just petting it," he said defensively.

  Trotting down to the fence, Norman lifted his left hand to his mouth. "Flea Dip is loose again."

  "Who the hell is Flea Dip?" a voice called back.

  "First Cat."

  "Oh, right. Just take it slow, Norman. He's very mellow for a cat."

  "Must have inhaled," Norman said, slowing up when he realized the black-and-white tabby wasn't disposed to run away.

  He looked mellow, all right. In fact, he looked somewhat on the stoned side.

  "Here, Socks. Come, boy. Or girl. Or whatever you are."

  The cat swung its piebald head around, fixing Norman with dull yellow eyes. It wore a red leather collar.

  Norman sank to one knee. The panhandler had already moved on.

  "Come here, Socks. Come on."

  The cat simply sat there, looking absolutely zoned out.

  "What are you, deaf?"

  Norman got up, taking care to make no sudden moves. Still crouching, he inched toward the cat.

  Just as Norman was about to scoop him up, the cat gave an unexpected leap, sailing over his shoulder, and bounded along on paws like soft white fur boots.

  "Damn!" Norman got up, whirling.

  "Norman to Base. Flea Dip is coming your way. Repeat, Flea Dip is coming your way."

  "Roger."

  SECRET SERVICE Special Agent Dick Armbruster was standing post on the breezeway between the Oval Office and the family quarters of the White House when he received the transmission.

  "Damn that moron cat," he grumbled, stepping onto the lawn.

  More often than not he got stuck with feline protection, as the service had dubbed it in its limitless bureaucratic hightestosterone style. Feline protection ran the gamut from hauling the little fur ball down from Andrew Jackson's magnolia tree to the joys of the weekly flea dip.

  It was Armbruster who had coined the First Cat's code name, Flea Dip-a coining scrupulously kept from Ballbuster and Braces, or the First Lady and First Daughter in service code.

  Armbruster was coming
around a corner when he heard a faint hissing. "Aural contact with Flea Dip on north side."

  "Roger. Approach with caution, Armbruster."

  "Roger," said Armbruster, thinking they make it sound as if they were stalking a wild animal.

  The hissing was still audible as Armbruster turned the corner and came upon the First Cat diligently licking its fuzzy butt.

  Armbruster froze, his agent's instincts kicking in. The cat was licking itself steadily. Yet there was a protracted hissing coming from the cat itself.

  As he knelt to observe more closely, Agent Armbruster thought he saw a fine mist rise from the feline's red leather collar.

  The cat seemed to sense something was wrong, too. It began to sniff itself with delicate curiosity.

  Not for the first time, Armbruster thought it was one hell of an ugly cat. Its face mask was a mottling of black-andwhite patches without symmetry or beauty.

  Blithely unaware of its ugliness, the First Cat continued sniffing itself.

  Armbruster reached out a tentative hand. Usually the First Cat would come to him, dumb-ass feline that it was.

  "Here, brain dead."

  Without warning, the cat gathered itself up on stretching legs and arched its back. Hackles rising with porcupine suddenness, the First Cat opened its mouth and hissed. This was a different hiss than the earlier sound, deeper, more threatening.

  "Come on, Socks. Don't bust my chops. You know me."

  Armbruster knew the best way to soothe a nervous cat-at least this nervous one-was to let it sniff his loose, unthreatening fingers. He let his fingers go limp and pushed them toward the hissing feline.

  "Have a good sniff," he said soothingly The cat growled like a junkyard dog.

  Armbruster pulled back slightly. "Whoa, there, tiger. What's your problem?"

  The cat straightened its ebony back, and Armbruster approached again.

  In his ear the radio voice of the assistant detail head asked, "What's keeping you with that fool cat, Armbruster?"

  "Hold your horses," Armbruster barked. "I'm closing in for the kill."

  And the cat pounced.

  THE ASSISTANT HEAD of the White House detail was named Jack Murtha and he had just received word that Marine One was about to land.

  "We're going to need as many agents as we can scrounge up to meet Big Mac. "

  "Roger," Murtha said, and then into his mike he asked, "Murtha to Armbruster. What's keeping you with that fool cat?"