Gibson sighed. "I understand you."
Watched by French and Klein, Gibson crawled from the bed and began pulling on the coveralls. His only thought was that it was a sorry set of clothes in which to die.
French hadn't finished with him. "I'm going to have the same gun all the way through the operation, and if I have the slightest feeling that you're trying to screw things up, I use it on you. You understand that?"
Anger came to Gibson's rescue. "Yes, I understand it. Death is real easy to grasp."
French nodded and then looked at Klein. "Okay, give him his shot."
"Shot? What shot?"
"A stimulant, to help you through."
"Not more goddamned speed?"
Klein was preparing the needle. "No, something of ours. It has a long complicated name, but usually it's called hero serum."
The needle went into his arm, and within seconds Gibson was feeling a whole lot better, light-headed and reckless. Rolling down the sleeve of his coveralls, he followed French into the living room. He was seeing things from a detached, insulated point of view that had to be an effect of the drug. He noticed a line of local script, presumably the name of a company, was stenciled across the back of French's coveralls, and Gibson presumed that his carried the same name and that they'd be posing as workmen.
Beyond the living room windows, the first gray dawn was creeping over the city and the sky was streaked with high pink clouds. It looked as though it was going to be a fine day. What was the Indian saying, "It's a fine day to die." Lights were burning in some of the apartment buildings nearby, others rising early or nighthawks not yet ready to give up and go to bed. It was all so damned normal. He wanted thunder in the distance and portents of doom. His mind wandered further. Somewhere out there, the president was sipping his coffee or talking on the phone, maybe dressing, maybe, at that very moment, splashing water on his face and blinking at his reflection in a bathroom minor, readying himself for the parade through Luxor and unknowingly readying himself for death.
French, briskly getting down to business, put a stop to Gibson's speculations. "Do you want to eat?"
Gibson quickly shook his head. "No."
"I didn't think you would. The hero serum tends to suppress the appetite." He pointed to a small collection of objects that had been placed on a side table: two packs of cigarettes, Leh Zwald's wallet, some loose change, and a couple of packs of matches.
"Put that stuff in your pockets."
"What's this, my junior assassin's kit?"
French ignored the remark. "Is there anything else that you want?"
"I want a drink."
French didn't argue and called out to Klein. "Get Gibson a large shot of whiskey."
Gibson flipped open the wallet. It contained Leh Zwald's ID and a bundle of notes. Gibson didn't count it, as at that moment Klein had come into the room with a generous measure of booze in a tumbler. Gibson took the glass gratefully and downed its contents in two swallows. When he spoke, the words came out as a hoarse gasp. "Damn but that's better."
He glanced at French. "What about my makeup?"
"The woman will be here momentarily."
The makeup woman was as good as French's word. In a matter of minutes, the door buzzer sounded and Klein let her in. She quickly rendered Gibson blue and left again. After she'd left, Gibson was thoughtful. "Aren't you running a risk using her? I mean, she could talk. She knows that I'm an albino."
French didn't look in the least perturbed. "She won't talk."
"She won't?"
"As we speak, she's being picked up by Raus's people on her way out of the building."
"What's going to happen to her?"
French was putting things in his own pockets. "That's none of your concern."
"Are you saying that she's going to be killed? Christ, she was an attractive young woman and has nothing to do with any of this."
"She was a drug addict, deliberately selected because of that. No one cares what happens to them."
Gibson's expression was grim. "Oh, of course. No one cares about drug addicts, do they?"
French gestured to the door. "Shall we go?"
"Where are we going?"
"I'll explain in the car."
On the way down to the street, another question came up.
"Where are Smith and Rampton?"
"Smith has duties elsewhere. I don't know what Rampton might be up to."
"How come he isn't along on this little junket? Shouldn't he be observing or something?"
French scowled. For once, he seemed to agree with Gibson's sentiments. "I don't think Rampton does field work."
A beat-up blue car that was completely in keeping with the two men's blue-collar image was parked at the curb. French got behind the wheel, and they pulled out into the stream of traffic. French talked as he drove. "We are heading for a warehouse building across town. It belongs to the Crown Electrical Company, and the reason that we're going there is that it overlooks the point where Lancer's motorcade will pass through Craven Plaza."
Gibson nodded. "This is the building that Zwald was going to shoot from? "
"Exactly. It was arranged some four weeks ago that Zwald would go to work there. We're going to park the car in the employees' lot and go into the building just like two regular guys on their way to work. From the moment that you enter the building, you will be Zwald. Fortunately, he kept very much to himself and it's unlikely that anyone will engage you in anything but the briefest conversation."
"What if they do?"
"Make an excuse, say that you're busy and have to be somewhere."
"Wouldn't that appear a little weird?"
"Not for Zwald, believe me. He was weird, you can take my word for that."
"So what do I do once I'm inside the building?"
"You punch in just like anyone else. I know you can't read but I'll indicate which card to use. After you've punched in, we take the elevator up to the sixth floor. Turn right out of the elevator and the fourth door along the corridor will be that of a large, empty storeroom. We go inside and wait."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"And you'll be with me?"
French smiled nastily. "I'll be right behind you, Gibson. There's no way you'll be able to give me the slip."
Gibson sighed. "I think you've made that point."
"So, is there anything else you need to know?"
"There is one thing. What's your cover story when we get to Crown Electrical? I mean, do you have a job there or are you just going to wing it on the strength of wearing the work clothes?"
"I have a job there. I'm due to start this morning."
"Isn't that asking for trouble? Surely the local equivalent of the FBI or whatever are going to be checking on all newly hired employees and stuff like that."
This time French's smile was grim. "By the time they start doing that kind of checking, I'll be a long way away."
They drove across town for about fifteen minutes, but Gibson, not having even the foggiest idea of the geography of Luxor, had no idea where they were going. They left the residential neighborhood and passed through an area of industrial buildings. All along the route there were the signs of a city waking up and starting the day. Lines of gray-faced workers waited for buses while others thronged the roads in their own almost uniformly run-down cars. For anything but the closest examination, Gibson and French fitted right in with nothing to make them stand out from the crowd. During the last five minutes of the trip, they were diverted by a number of police sawhorse barriers and temporary detour signs. They were obviously near an area that was being kept clear for the presidential motorcade.
The Crown Electrical building was a square brick structure and, apart from the fact that it overlooked the open space of Craven Plaza, was totally unremarkable. There were probably a thousand commercial buildings just like it in the city. French parked and locked the car, and he and Gibson walked to the staff entrance just like any other poor bastards on their way to work. The act of punching in went without a hitch, even though Gibson hadn't punched a clock since sometime in the sixties when, as a struggling rock 'n' roller, he'd worked in a bakery before the advent of fame and fortune.