The wait didn’t last long. He heard more footsteps, this time on the steel staircase leading down to the lower level. Moments later he could hear them milling around in the passageway outside the door. Based on what he could hear he was convinced there were two of them. What seemed to be passing for communication between the guards consisted mostly of monosyllabic grunts.
From the sound of their voices he could tell they were close. He heard the door across the passageway being opened — a pause, then being shut. Finally he heard the key being inserted in the lock and saw the knob turn on the door to the room where he was hiding.
Bogner was ready. He crouched with the knife in one hand and a fistful of rags in the other. The door swung open and Bogner bolted forward, throwing his shoulder into the guard’s midsection.
He heard the air go out of him and something resembling a protest as the NIMF guard fell backward and slammed into the wall. Bogner’s foot caught the man flush in the crotch; the man yelped like a kicked dog, doubled over, and Bogner brought the knife up like a fulcrum catching the man in the throat. There was an ugly, guttural sound that trumpeted the fact the NIMF guard was struggling to get air past the gaping hole in his throat. It was a sound Bogner had heard before in the muddy waters of a rice paddy in Vietnam.
When Bogner looked up he realized the second guard hadn’t moved. He was standing just inside the doorway, silhouetted by the light in the passageway, and seemingly paralyzed. The man had seen everything. Bogner grabbed him, locked his hands behind the man’s head, jerked him forward, brought his knee up, and felt the force of the blow splinter bones in the man’s face. The guard’s 9mm Uzi clattered to the floor and he sagged to his knees, his face already a smear of blood. Bogner straightened and waited, hating what he knew he had to do next. He plunged the blade of the combat knife in the back of the guard’s neck and twisted. This time there were no sounds.
Suddenly it was Bogner’s turn. He slumped to his knees trying to catch his breath. The bullet hole in his left arm was bleeding again, his shirt sleeve was saturated, and he used what was left of the oily rag to make a tourniquet. His scuffle with the two guards had taken more out of him than he had bargained for. He slumped back against the wall, and nearly blacked out before he found the strength to get to his feet again. He pulled the two bodies into the room, checked to make certain they didn’t have anything else he could use, then removed the first guard’s glasses and the second guard’s Uzi ammo clip before he stuffed the two bodies into packing crates and stacked empty boxes both in front of and on top of the makeshift coffins. While he was doing it, the thought occurred to him that someone, sometime, was going to walk into that maintenance room and get one hell of a nasty little surprise when they opened those crates.
For the third time in the last fifteen minutes, Bogner found himself laboring to regain his composure as he listened for any further signs there might be more guards in the area. He hooked the Uzi ammo clips on the belt of the aux pack, snapped a lens out of the frame of the guard’s eye glasses, and used it to make a reflective prism in the glass thermostat housing. It was crude, but in theory, at least, it had a good chance of working.
He opened the door and stepped cautiously back into the passageway. This was the iffy part of his plan, and he knew it. If the makeshift prism didn’t work and he couldn’t find a way to get past the electronic sensor guarding the entrance to the tunnel, it was back to square one.
He studied the electronic sentry, carefully counting the pulses and pauses, and quickly determined the surveillance camera was programed to scan the entrance only when the sequence of pulses was interrupted. That meant it was one of the old Soviet red-light green-light systems that triggered security’s attention only when the camera was activated. The pulse count cycled three, then five, three, then three, and repeated the cycle.
Holding the prism housing steady while he slipped under the pulsating beam was going to be the tricky part. He began counting along with the pulse, cupped the housing in his right hand, and held his breath. It cycled one more time before he reached in, stabbed the prism in front of the beam, and saw the signal reflect back. He was still holding his breath, but so far the feedback was working. He watched the beam bounce off the makeshift prism in the thermostat housing several more cycles, waited for the long three-five cycle, dropped to his knees, exhaled, inhaled again, and held his breath as he crawled under.
It worked. He was through and he was in the passageway. The camera hadn’t moved, the security monitor was still dark, and Bogner could feel his heart pounding.
Chapter Eleven
Clancy Packer, Peter Langley, and several others waited in the red-carpeted ground-floor corridor of the White House, and watched the parade of officials walk grim-faced out of the earlier meeting.
Packer recognized Ambassador Aldrich, Senators Hawkins and Potter, Defense Secretary Snow, Vice President Blanchard, Chief-of-Staff General Harlan Mayfield, and two of Colchin’s longtime security advisors. There was a handful of others he did not recognize.
The general, Harlan Mayfield, the only one Packer knew personally, paused under the portrait of Rosalynn Carter and spoke briefly with one of the Secret Service men before he nodded in Packer’s direction. The two men had not seen each other in quite some time, but Packer was aware that under the circumstances there would be little opportunity for socializing.
Moments later, Lattimere Spitz walked out of the meeting, nodded in Packer and Langley’s direction, and motioned for the two men to follow.
By the time they had fallen into step with the ex-Marine, Spitz was hissing out information.
“The President wants us in the Roosevelt Room for a closed-door session — pronto. Needless to say, he’s pissed at this most recent announcement about Bogner’s confession…”
By the time the three men arrived at the Roosevelt Room in the West Wing, many of the attendees had already arrived and seated themselves.
The Roosevelt Room, usually reserved for White House staff meetings, was dominated by a long, formal conference table that easily accommodated twelve people, and a formal fireplace over which hung Dumaresque’s painting The Signing of the Declaration of Independence. Packer had heard President Kennedy used the room to let hostile callers “cool off” before he sat down with them.
Some said David Colchin had been known to do the same thing.
Only Chet Hurley, the President’s other acknowledged unofficial aide along with Spitz, wasn’t present when everyone began milling around the table and took their seats. When Colchin arrived, though. Hurley was with him and he was carrying a stack of papers and maps. Both men had shed their coats and removed their ties, and their shirt sleeves were rolled up. When Packer saw the expression on Colchin’s face, he knew Spitz had understated the President’s mood.
What was the phrase Sara used?
“Not a happy camper.”
When the meeting began Colchin was still standing, waving a piece of paper, when he zeroed in on Packer.
“All right, Clancy, what the hell is going on? Spitz brought me up to speed. I know about Bogner and I’m also aware of Captain Langley’s little unauthorized side trip. But what about this damned announcement coming out of Ammash now?”