“When the President arrives at the steps of the Capitol, the crowd is too far away from her for a handgun to (a) be accurate and (b) give the assassin any hope of escape. So we must assume that it’s the best-tested and most successful method of assassination of a Head of State — the rifle with telescopic sights for long range. Therefore, the only hope the assassin would have must be at the Capitol itself. The assassin can’t see into the White House, and in any case the glass in the windows is four inches thick, so he must wait until the President actually leaves the limousine at the steps of the Capitol. This morning we timed a walk up the Capitol steps and it takes around fifty seconds. There are very few vantage points from which to make an assassination attempt, but we have studied the area carefully and you will find them all listed in my report. Also the conspirators must be convinced that we know nothing about the plot, because they know we can cover every possible shooting site. We think an assassination here in the heart of Washington unlikely, but nevertheless just possible by a man or team daring and skillful enough.”
“Thank you, W.W. I’m sure you’re right.”
“A pleasure, sir. I do hope it’s only hypothetical.”
“Yes, W.W.”
W.W. smiled like the only schoolboy in the class who can answer the teacher’s questions. The Brain left the room to return to other problems. The Director paused and called for his other Assistant Director.
Matthew Rogers knocked and entered the room, waiting to be asked to take a seat. He understood authority. Like W.W. he would never become the Director, but no one who did would want to be without him.
“Well, Matt?” said the Director, pointing to the leather chair.
“I read Andrews’ latest report last night, Director, and I really think the time has come for us to brief the Secret Service.”
“I will be doing so in about an hour,” said the Director. “Don’t worry. Have you decided how you’ll deploy your men?”
“It depends where the maximum risk is, sir.”
“All right, Matt, let’s assume that the point of maximum risk is the Capitol itself, at 10:06, right on the steps — what then?”
“First, I would surround the area for about a quarter of a mile in every direction. I’d close down the Metro, stop all traffic, public and private, pull aside for interrogation anyone who has a past record of making threats, anyone who’s on the Security Index. I’d get assistance from the Met to provide perimeter security. We’d want as many eyes and ears in the area as possible. We could get two to four helicopters from Andrews Air Force Base for close scanning. In the immediate vicinity of the President, I’d use the full Secret Service Presidential detail in tight security.”
“Very good, Matt. How many men do you need for such an operation, and how long would it take them to be ready if I declared an emergency procedure now?”
The Assistant Director looked at his watch — just after 7:00. He considered the matter for a moment. “I need three hundred special agents briefed and fully operational in two hours.”
“Right, go ahead,” said the Director crisply. “Report to me as soon as they’re ready but leave the final briefing to the last possible moment, and, Matt, I want no helicopters until 10:01. I don’t want there to be a chance of a leak of any sort; it’s our one hope of catching the assassin.”
“Why don’t you simply cancel the President’s visit, sir? We’re in enough deep water as it is, and it’s not entirely your responsibility in the first place.”
“If we pull out now, we only have to start all over again tomorrow,” said the Director, “and I may never get another chance like this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t let me down, Matt, because I am going to leave the ground operations entirely in your hands.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Rogers left the room. The Director knew his job would be done as competently as it could be by any professional law-enforcement officer in America.
“Mrs. McGregor.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Get me the head of the Secret Service at the White House.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Director glanced at his watch: 7:10. Andrews was due at 8:15. The phone rang.
“Mr. Knight on the line, sir.”
“Stuart, can you call me on my private line and be sure you’re not overheard?”
H. Stuart Knight knew Halt well enough to realize that he meant what he said. He called back immediately on his special scrambler.
“Stuart, I’d like to see you immediately, usual place, take about thirty minutes, no more. Top priority.”
Damned inconvenient, thought Knight, with the President leaving for the Capitol in two hours, but Halt only made this request two or three times a year, and he knew that other matters must be put to one side for the moment. Only the President and the Attorney General took priority over Halt.
The Director of the FBI and the head of the Secret Service met at a line of cabs in front of Union Station ten minutes later. They didn’t take the first cab in the line, but the seventh. They climbed in the back without speaking or acknowledging each other. Elliott drove the Max’s Yellow Cab off to circle the Capitol. The Director talked and the head of the Secret Service listened.
Mark’s alarm woke him at 6:45. He showered and shaved and thought about those transcripts he had left in the Senate, trying to convince himself that they would have thrown no light on whether it was Dexter or Harrison. He silently thanked Senator Stevenson for indirectly disposing of Senators Brooks, Byrd, and Thornton. He would thank anybody who could dispose of Senator Dexter. He was beginning to agree with the Director’s reasoning — it all pointed to Dexter. His motive was particularly compelling, but... Mark looked at his watch; he was a little early. He sat on the edge of his bed; he scratched his leg which was itching; something must have bitten him during the night. He continued trying to figure out if there was anything he had missed.
The Chairman got out of bed at 7:20 and lit his first cigarette. He couldn’t remember exactly when he had woken. At 6:10 he had phoned Tony, who was already up and waiting for his call. They weren’t to meet that day unless the Chairman needed the car in an emergency. The next time they would speak to each other would be on the dot of 9:30 for a check-in to confirm they were all in position.
When he had completed the call, the Chairman dialed room service and ordered a large breakfast. What he was about to do that morning was not the sort of work to be tackled on an empty stomach. Matson was due to ring him any time after 7:30. Perhaps he was still asleep. After that effort last night, Matson deserved some rest. The Chairman smiled to himself. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower; a feeble trickle of cold water emerged. Goddamn hotels. One hundred dollars a night and no hot water. He splashed around ineffectively and began to think about the next five hours, going over the plan again carefully to be sure he had not overlooked even the smallest detail. Tonight, Kane would be dead and he would have $2,000,000 in the Union Bank of Switzerland, Zurich, account number AZL-376921-B, a small reward from his grateful friends in the gun trade. And to think Uncle Sam wouldn’t even get the tax.
The phone rang. Damn. He dripped across the floor, his heartbeat quickened. It was Matson.
Matson and the Chairman had driven back from Mark’s apartment at 2:35 that morning, their task completed. Matson had overslept by thirty minutes. The damned hotel had forgotten his wake-up call; you couldn’t trust anyone nowadays. As soon as he had woken, he phoned the Chairman and reported in.
Xan was safely in the top of the crane and ready — probably the only one of them who was still asleep.