“If this whole operation fails because of you...”
Angelo turned the color of his uniform as he thought about what had happened to Bruno Morelli.
“And the sword?” snapped Cavalli.
“A perfect fit.”
“And our physician. Is he fit?”
“He’ll be able to do his job, I promise you,” Angelo said, looking over his shoulder.
“Which car are you both in?”
“Number four. Directly behind the President.”
“Then get in, and right now.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Dollar Bill said as he arrived, panting. “My fault, not Angelo’s. Sorry, sorry,” he repeated as the back door of car four was held open for him by the Lieutenant, who was gripping his sword. Once Dollar Bill was safely in, Angelo joined the would-be physician and slammed the door behind him.
The policeman who’d been chasing Angelo took his notebook out as Cavalli turned around looking for Tom Newbolt. Tom was already running across the road.
“Leave him to me,” was all he said.
The second van with surveillance cameras on board screeched to a halt to complete the line. The front window purred down. “Sorry, boss,” said the driver. “Some jerk just dumped his car right in front of me.”
The clock on the Old Post Office Tower struck ten. At that moment, on a signal from the coordinating officer, several policemen walked out into the road. Some held up the traffic coming down Pennsylvania Avenue while others placed diversion signs to direct the cars away from where the filming was taking place.
Cavalli turned his attention to the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue, a mere seven hundred yards away. It was still bumper to bumper with slow-moving traffic.
“Come on, come on!” he shouted out loud as he checked his watch and waited impatiently for the all-clear.
“Any moment now,” shouted back the officer, who was standing in the middle of the road.
Cavalli looked up to see the blue-and-white police helicopter hovering noisily overhead.
Neither he nor the officer spoke again until a couple of minutes later when they heard a sharp whistle blow three times from the far end of Pennsylvania Avenue. Cavalli checked his watch. They’d lost six precious minutes.
“I’ll kill Angelo,” he said. “If—”
“All clear!” shouted the coordinating officer. He turned to face Cavalli, who gave the director a thumbs-up sign.
“You’ve still got thirty-nine minutes,” bellowed the officer. “That should easily be enough time to complete the shoot twice.” But Cavalli didn’t hear the last few words as he ran to the car, pulled open the door and jumped into the seat next to the driver.
And then a nagging thought hit him. Looking out the side window, Cavalli began to scan the crowd once again.
“Lights!” screamed the director, and Pennsylvania Avenue lit up like Christmas Eve at Macy’s.
“OK, everybody, we’re going to shoot in sixty seconds.”
The limousines and motorcycles switched on their engines and began revving up. The extras strolled up and down while the police continued to divert the commuters away from the scene. The director leaned back over his chair to check the lights and see if the seventh in line was working.
“Thirty seconds.” Johnny looked at the driver of the first car and said through the megaphone, “Don’t forget to take it easy. My tracking dolly can only manage ten miles an hour going backwards. And walkers” — the director checked up and down the sidewalk — “please look as if you’re walking, not auditioning for Hamlet.”
The director turned his attention to the crowd. “Now, don’t let me down behind the barriers. Clap, cheer and wave, and please remember we’re going to do the whole exercise again in about twenty minutes, so stick around if you possibly can.
“Fifteen seconds,” said the director as he swung back to face the first car in line. “Good luck, everybody.”
Tony stared at Scasiatore, willing him to get on with it. They were now eight minutes late — which with this particular President, he had to admit, added an air of authenticity.
“Ten seconds. Rolling. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one — action!”
The woman pushing the laundry basket down the corridor ignored the “Do Not Disturb” sign on room 1137 and walked straight in.
A rather overweight man, sweating profusely, was seated on the edge of the bed. He was jabbing out some numbers on the phone when he looked around and saw her.
“Get out, you dumb bitch,” he said, and turned back to concentrate on redialing the numbers.
In three silent paces she was behind him. He turned a second time just as she leaned over, took the phone cord in both hands and pulled it around his neck. He raised an arm to protest as she flicked her wrists in one sharp movement. He slumped forward and fell off the bed onto the carpet, just as the voice on the phone said, “Thank you for using AT&T.”
She realized that she shouldn’t have used the phone cord. Most unprofessional — but nobody called her a dumb bitch.
She replaced the phone on the hook and bent down, deftly hoisting the Special Assistant to the President onto her shoulder. She dropped him into the laundry basket. No one would have believed such a frail woman could have lifted such a heavy weight. In truth the only use she had ever made of a major in physics was to apply the principles of fulcrums, pivots and levers to her chosen profession.
She opened the door and checked the passageway. At this hour it was unlikely there’d be many people around. She wheeled the basket down the corridor until she reached the housekeepers’ elevator, faced the wall and waited patiently. When the elevator arrived she pressed the button that would take her to the garage.
When the elevator came to a halt on the lower ground floor she wheeled the basket out and over to the back of a Honda Accord. The second-most popular car in the United States.
Shielded by a pillar, she quickly transferred the Special Assistant from the basket into the trunk of the car. She then wheeled the basket back to the elevator, took off her baggy black uniform, dropped it into the laundry basket, removed her carrier bag with the long cord handle and dispatched the laundry basket to the twenty-fifth floor.
She straightened up her Laura Ashley dress before climbing into the car and placing her carrier bag under the front seat. She drove out of the parking lot onto F Street, and had only traveled a short distance before she was stopped by a traffic cop.
She rolled the window down.
“Follow the diversion sign,” he said, without even looking at her.
She glanced at the clock on her dashboard. It was 10:07.
Chapter Fourteen
As the lead police car moved slowly away from the curb, the director’s tracking dolly began running backwards at the same pace along its track. The crowds behind the barriers started to cheer and wave. If they had been making a real film the director would have called, “Cut” after twenty seconds because that fool of a coordinating officer was still standing in the middle of the road, hands on hips, oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t the star of the film.
Cavalli didn’t notice the officer as he concentrated on the road ahead of him. He phoned through to Andy, who he knew would still be seated on the bench on 7th Street reading the Washington Post.
“Not much action this end, boss. A little activity at the bottom of the ramp but no one on the street is showing any real interest. Is everything all right your end? You’re running late.”
“Yes, I know, but we should be with you in about sixty seconds,” said Cavalli, as the director reached the end of his private railroad track and put one thumb in the air to indicate that the cars could now accelerate to twenty-five miles per hour. Johnny Scasiatore jumped off the dolly and walked slowly back down Pennsylvania Avenue so he could prepare himself for the second take.