‘I’ve brought you a snack,’ said Connor with a warm smile.
‘Great,’ said the sharpshooter. ‘Why don’t you come in and join me?’ He removed a pastrami sandwich from the tray, and Connor followed him along a thin, galvanised steel platform behind a vast screen made up of 786 televisions. The Secret Service man sat down and dug his teeth into the sandwich. Connor tried not to let him see how closely he was studying his rifle.
The JumboTron was on three floors, one above the platform and one below. Connor put the tray down beside the officer, who was sitting in the middle of the flight of stairs that led to the lower ramp. He took more interest in his can of Diet Coke than in Connor’s roaming eyes.
‘By the way,’ he said, between swigs, ‘I’m Arnie Cooper.’
‘Dave Krinkle,’ Connor replied.
‘So how much did you have to pay for the privilege of spending the afternoon with me?’ asked Arnie with a grin.
Marine One landed at the heliport to the north-east of the stadium, and a limousine purred up even before the copter’s steps had touched the ground. Lawrence and Lloyd emerged a moment later, and the President turned to wave to the large gathering of well-wishers before climbing into the back of the waiting car. They covered the quarter-mile to the stadium in under a minute, passing through every security check without hindrance. John Kent Cooke, the owner of the Redskins, was waiting at the stadium’s entrance to greet them.
‘This is a great honour, sir,’ he said as Lawrence stepped out of the limousine.
‘It’s good to meet you, John,’ replied the President, shaking the slim, grey-haired man by the hand.
Cooke guided his guest towards a private lift.
‘Do you really believe the Skins can win, John?’ Lawrence asked with a grin.
‘Now that’s the sort of loaded question I might have expected from a politician, Mr President,’ Cooke replied as they stepped into the lift. ‘Everyone knows you’re the Packers’ number one fan. But I’m bound to say the answer to your question is “Yes, sir.” Fight for old DC. The Skins will win.’
‘The Washington Post doesn’t agree with you,’ said the President as the doors opened at the press level.
‘I’m sure you’re the last person to believe everything you read in the Post, Mr President,’ said Cooke. Both men laughed as he led Lawrence into his box, a large, comfortable room positioned above the fifty-yard line, with a perfect view of the whole field. ‘Mr President, I’d like to introduce you to one or two of the folks who have made the Redskins the greatest football team in America. Let me start with my wife, Rita.’
‘Good to meet you, Rita,’ Lawrence said, shaking her by the hand. ‘And congratulations on your triumph at the National Symphony Ball. I’m told they raised a record amount under your chairmanship.’
Mrs Cooke beamed with pride.
Lawrence was able to recall an appropriate fact or anecdote about every person he was introduced to, including the little old man wearing a Redskins blazer who couldn’t possibly have been a former player.
‘This is Pug Washer,’ said John Kent Cooke, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Now, he...’
‘...is the only man in history to make the Redskins Hall of Fame without playing a single game for the team,’ said the President.
A huge smile appeared on Pug’s face.
‘And I’m also told that you know more about the history of the team than any living person.’
Pug promised himself he would never vote Republican again.
‘So tell me, Pug, in Packers versus Skins games, what were Vince Lombardi’s regular-season points when he was coaching the Packers, compared to his year with the Skins?’
‘Packers 459, Skins 435,’ said Pug with a rueful smile.
‘Just as I thought — he should never have left the Packers in the first place,’ said the President, slapping Pug on the back.
‘Do you know, Mr President,’ said Cooke, ‘I’ve never been able to come up with a question about the Redskins that Pug wasn’t able to answer.’
‘Has anyone ever stumped you, Pug?’ asked the President, turning to the walking encyclopaedia again.
‘They try all the time, Mr President,’ Pug replied. ‘Why, only yesterday a man...’
Before Pug could complete his sentence, Andy Lloyd touched Lawrence’s elbow. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but we’ve just been informed that President Zerimski is only five minutes away from the stadium. You and Mr Cooke should make your way to the north-east entrance now, so that you’ll be in time to welcome him.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lawrence. He turned to Pug and said, ‘Let’s continue our conversation just as soon as I get back.’
Pug nodded as the President and his entourage left the room to go and greet Zerimski.
‘It’s a bit cramped in here,’ Connor shouted above the noise of the large ventilation fan in the ceiling.
‘Sure is,’ said Arnie, finishing off his Diet Coke. ‘But I guess it goes with the job.’
‘Are you expecting any trouble today?’
‘Nope, not really. Of course, we’ll all be on full alert the moment the two Presidents walk out onto the field, but that only lasts for about eight minutes. Although if Special Agent Braithwaite had his way, neither of them would be allowed out of the owner’s box until it was time for them to go home.’
Connor nodded and asked several more innocuous questions, listening carefully to Arnie’s Brooklyn accent, and concentrating especially on any expressions he used regularly.
As Arnie dug his teeth into a slice of chocolate cake, Connor looked through a gap in the rotating advertising boards. Most of the Secret Service officers in the stadium were also taking a snack break. He focused on the lighting tower behind the western end zone. Brad was up there listening intently to an officer who was pointing towards the owner’s box. Just the sort of young man the Service needed to recruit, thought Connor. He turned back to Arnie. ‘I’ll see you again at the start of the game. A plate of sandwiches, another slice of cake and some more Coke suit you?’
‘Yep, sounds great. But go easy on the cake. I don’t mind my wife telling me I’ve put on a few pounds, but lately the SAIC has begun to comment on it.’
A siren sounded to let all the staff in the stadium know it was ten thirty, and the gates were about to be opened. The fans began to flood into the stands, most of them heading straight for their usual seats. Connor gathered up the empty Coke can and the plastic container and placed them on the tray.
‘I’ll be back with your lunch when the game kicks off,’ he said.
‘Yep,’ replied Arnie, his binoculars now focused on the crowd below. ‘But don’t come in until after the two Presidents are back in the owner’s box. No one else is allowed in the JumboTron while they’re out on the field.’
‘OK, I understand,’ said Connor, taking a last look at Arnie’s rifle. As he turned to go, he heard a voice coming over a two-way radio.
‘Hercules 3.’
Arnie unclipped the radio from the back of his belt, pressed a button and said, ‘Hercules 3, go ahead.’
Connor hesitated by the door.
‘Nothing to report, sir. I was just about to run an eye over the west stand.’
‘Fine. Report in if you see anything suspicious.’
‘Will do,’ said Arnie, and clipped the receiver back onto his belt.
Connor quietly stepped out onto the covered walkway, closed the door behind him and placed the empty Coke can on the step.
He checked his watch, then walked quickly down the covered walkway, unlocked the door and turned off the lights. The concourse was swarming with fans heading for their seats. When he reached the lift shaft, he checked his watch again. Fifty-four seconds. On the final run it would have to take less than thirty-five. He pressed the button. Forty-seven seconds later the service elevator reappeared. Obviously no one on the second or fifth levels had been calling for it. He placed the tray inside and pressed the button once again. It immediately began its slow journey down to the basement.