Sally'd become a slow eater of late. She was still laboring at her food, but nobody seemed anxious to leave the table.
"Jack, Cathy, that was a wonderful dinner," His Highness pronounced.
His wife agreed. "And no after-dinner speechmaking!"
"I guess all that formal stuff gets to be tiresome," Robby noted, trying to ask a question that he couldn't voice: What's it like to be a prince?
"It wouldn't be so bad if the speeches could be original, but I've been listening to the same one for years!" he said wryly. "Excuse me. I mustn't say such things, even around friends."
"It's not all that different at a History Department meeting," Jack said.
At Quantico, Virginia, the phone rang. The FBI's Hostage Rescue Team had its own private building, located at the end of the long line of firing ranges that served the Bureau's training center. An engineless DC-4 sat behind it, and was used to practice assault techniques on hijacked aircraft. Down the hill was the "Hostage House" and other facilities used every day for the team members to hone their skills. Special Agent Gus Werner picked up the phone.
"Hi, Gus," Bill Shaw said.
"Have they found 'em yet?" Werner asked. He was thirty-five, a short, wiry man with red hair and a brushy mustache that never would have been allowed under Hoover's directorship.
"No, but I want you to assemble an advance team and fly them up. If something breaks, we may have to move fast."
"Fair enough. Where are we going, exactly?"
"Hagerstown, the State Police barracks. S-A-C Baltimore will be waiting for you."
"Okay, I'll take six men. We can probably get moving in thirty or forty minutes, as soon as the chopper gets here. Buzz me if anything happens."
"Will do. See ya." Shaw hung up.
Werner switched buttons on the phone and alerted the helicopter crew. Next he walked across the building to the classroom on the far side. The five men of his ready-response group were lounging about, mostly reading. They'd been on alert status for several days. This had increased their training routines somewhat, but it was mainly to defend against boredom that came from waiting for something that probably wouldn't happen. Nighttimes were devoted to reading and television. The Red Sox were playing the Yankees on TV. These were not Brooks Brothers FBI agents. The men were in baggy jumpsuits lavishly equipped with pockets. In addition to being experienced field agents, nearly all were veterans of combat or peacetime military service, and each man was a match-quality marksman who fired several boxes of ammunition per week.
"Okay, listen up," Werner said. "They want an advance team in Hagerstown. The Chopper'll be here in half an hour."
"There's a severe thunderstorm warning," one objected lightly.
"So take your airsick pills," Werner advised.
"They find 'em yet?" another asked.
"No, but people are getting a little nervous."
"Right." The questioner was a long-rifleman. His custom-made sniper rifle was already packed in a foam-lined case. The team's gear was in a dozen duffle bags. The men buttoned their shirts. Some headed off to the bathroom for a preflight pitstop. None were especially excited. Their job involved far more waiting than doing. The Hostage Rescue Team had been in existence for years, but it had yet to rescue a single hostage. Instead its members were mainly used as a special SWAT team, and they had earned a reputation as awesome as it was little known, except within the law-enforcement community.
"Wow," Robby said. "Here it comes. This one's going to be a beauty." In the space of ten minutes, the wind had changed from gentle breezes to gusts that made the high-ceilinged house resonate.
"It was a dark and stormy night," Jack chuckled. He went into the kitchen. Three agents were making sandwiches to take out to the men by the road. "I hope you guys have raincoats."
"We're used to it," one assured him.
"At least it will be a warm rain," his British colleague thought. "Thank you very much for the food and coffee." The first rumble of distant thunder rolled through the house.
"Don't stand under any trees," Jack suggested. "Lightning can ruin your whole day." He returned to the dining room. Conversation was still being made around the table. Robby was back to discussing flying. The current war-story was about catapults.
"You never get used to the thrill," he was saying. "In a couple of seconds you go from a standstill to a hundred fifty knots."
"And if something goes wrong?" the Princess asked.
"You go swimming," Robby answered.
"Mr. Avery," the hand-held radio squawked.
"Yeah," he answered.
"Washington's on the line."
"Okay, I'll be there in a minute." Avery walked down the driveway toward the communications van. Longley, the leader of the British contingent, tagged along. Both had left their raincoats there anyway, and they'd need them in a few minutes. They could see lightning flashes a few miles away, and the jagged strokes of light were approaching fast.
"So much for the weather," Longley said.
"I was hoping it would miss us." The wind lashed at them again, blowing dust from the plowed field on the other side of Falcon's Nest Road. They passed the two men carrying a covered plate of sandwiches. A black puppy trotted along behind in the hope that they'd drop one.
"This Ryan fellow's a decent chap, isn't he?"
"He's got a real nice kid. You can tell a lot about a man from his kids," Avery thought aloud. They got to the van just as the first sprinkles started. The Secret Service agent got on the radiophone.
"Avery here."
"Chuck, this is Bill Shaw at the Bureau. I just got a call from our forensics people at that house in Howard County."
"Okay."
At the other end of the connection, Shaw was looking at a map and frowning. "They can't find any prints, Chuck. They have guns, they have ammo, some of the guns were being cleaned, but no prints. Not even on the hamburger wrappers. Something feels bad."
"What about the car that got shot up in western Maryland?"
"Nothing, not a damned thing. Like the bad guys jumped in a hole and pulled it in behind them."
That was all Shaw had to say. Chuck Avery had been a Secret Service agent all of his adult life, and was normally on the Presidential detail. He thought exclusively in terms of threats. This was an inevitable consequence of his job. He guarded people whom other people wanted to kill. It had given him a limited and somewhat paranoid outlook on life. Avery's mind reviewed his threat briefing. The enemy here is extremely clever …
"Thanks for the tip, Bill. We'll keep our eyes open." Avery got into his coat and picked up his radio. "Team One, this is Avery. Heads up. Assemble at the entrance. We have a possible new threat." The full explanation will have to wait.
"What's the matter?" Longley asked.
"There's no real evidence at the house, the lab people haven't found any prints."
"They couldn't have had time to wipe everything before they left." Longley didn't need much of a hint either. "It might all have been planned to—"
"Exactly. Let's get out and talk to the troops. First thing, I'm going to get the perimeter spread out some. Then I'll call for more police backup." The rain was pelting the van now. "I guess we're all going to get wet."
"I want two more people at the house," Longley said.
"Agreed, but let's brief the people first." He slid the door open and both men went back up the driveway.
The agents on perimeter duty came together where the driveway met the road. They were alert, but it was hard to see with the wind-driven rain in their faces and the stinging dust blowing from the field on the other side of the road. Several were trying to finish sandwiches. One agent did a head count and came up one short. He sent a fellow agent to fetch the man whose radio was evidently out. Ernie tagged along with him; this agent had given him half a sandwich.