Howard could feel his heart racing and he fought to contain his anger. “I wonder what’s got her so riled up?” said Clutesi.
“She’s just an evil bitch,” said Howard.
“I don’t think so,” said Clutesi. “I think there’s more to it than that.”
Through the open window of his hotel room, Carlos watched the President’s helicopter climb into the air and fly away from the stadium like a monstrous insect. Carlos linked the fingers of his hands and cracked his knuckles. In the distance he heard the first few bars of the Star Spangled Banner echoing around the ballpark. He checked that his microphone was clipped to the collar of his shirt and that his earpiece was firmly in place, then he carried the television set over to the dressing table. He took a pillow from the bed, placed it on top of the TV, then drew up a chair and sat down. The TV provided a perfect rest for the rifle, and the pillow would add extra stability and help dampen the recoil. Next to the television set he put the P228 and its silencer.
Lined up on the table were three gleaming brass cartridges. He picked up one and rolled the smooth metal between his fingers.
“Dina, this one is for you,” he whispered. He kissed the cartridge and slotted it into the breech. The first shot to break the glass, the second for the President’s chest. If there was time, a third. It would be the greatest achievement of his life: the assassination of the President of the United States. The IRA might take the blame, but the credit would be his. His heart thudded and he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He had to banish all anxiety from his mind, he had to focus on the target, not the man. In the distance, he heard a deep, throaty voice begin to sing the National Anthem.
Patrick Farrell scanned the instrument panel and turned the blimp’s nose slightly to the left. He looked at the altimeter. They were four hundred feet above the ground and Farrell was trying to put the airship in exactly the right position. He was using the GPS, VOR and DME equipment as primary navigation aids, but the final adjustment would have to be done visually by Bailey using the laser sight. During rehearsals earlier in the year they’d pinpointed an intersection of an alley and a road which was exactly two thousand yards from the pitcher’s mound. If the airship was directly above the intersection, it was in the perfect position for Lovell’s shot. Farrell was nudging the airship over the school, making small, precise corrections of the control wheel and rudders. He looked at the reading of the wind computer. Once he had the blimp stationary in the air, using the twin engines to hold it steady, he would be able to read the wind speed and direction and relay it to the snipers in time for them to make their wind corrections.
“Almost there,” said Farrell in his headset. “I’ll tune the radio to the general frequency.”
Bailey looked over his shoulder and nodded as Farrell turned the dial to the frequency the snipers were using. Lovell was kneeling by the open window, his eye pressed to the scope of his rifle. He was as still as a stone statue, and Bailey could barely see the man’s chest rise and fall as he breathed. Behind Bailey, a pool of blood was slowly spreading out from under the two corpses. He put his eye to the telescopic sight. Down below he could see the small red dot of the laser dancing on the roof of a black Cadillac. The alley was to the left of the dot and Bailey began calling out instructions to Farrell, guiding him slowly to the exact spot where Lovell would make his shot.
Marty Edberg clenched his knuckles and glared at the television monitor. The shot of the giant scoreboard was wavering as if the man operating the camera had Parkinson’s Disease.
“Wendy,” he said through gritted teeth, “tell Lonnie to get a grip on himself, will you? Tell him if he can’t give me a steady shot I’ll come out there and rip his throat out with my bare hands.”
Edberg’s assistant spoke quietly into her microphone and the picture on the monitor steadied.
“Thank you,” said Edberg. On the main monitor, a bulky, cowboy-hatted country and western singer was putting every ounce of effort into his rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, and the picture was so sharp that Edberg could see the tears welling up in the man’s eyes.
“Wendy, get me a close-up of the flag, and then we’ll superimpose the singer on it,” he said. His assistant spoke quickly to one of the cameramen and monitor number three soon had a tight shot of a fluttering Stars and Stripes. She moved one of the sliders and slowly brought up the flag on the main monitor so that it rippled like a ghost behind the singer. “Good,” said Edberg approvingly.
The light on the phone in front of Wendy blinked and she picked it up. After listening for a few moments she handed the receiver over to Edberg. “It’s the Secret Service guy, he wants to know why we don’t have the airship pictures yet.”
Edberg looked at monitor ten. The screen was still blank. “Tell him I’d like to know the reason, too,” said Edberg. “Tell him we can’t reach the blimp, we’re assuming they’re having technical problems.”
Wendy relayed the message, then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “He says he wants to speak to you, Marty.”
Edberg glared at her. “Explain to Dick Tracy that we’re in the middle of putting out pictures that are being watched by millions of people, and that I’ll call him when I get the time. Just now, I’m busy.”
His long-suffering assistant nodded. Edberg glared at the ranks of monitors. The shot of the score board was wavering again. Edberg put his head in his hands.
Cole Howard and Don Clutesi had moved to the far wall of the sky box as the President and First Lady made small-talk with the Prime Minister. As soon as the National Anthem began everybody stood to attention and faced the diamond, knowing that it was a photo opportunity that would have all the newspaper and television cameras pointing their way. Everyone looked appropriately sombre, with the exception of the Secret Service agents, who continued to prowl around their charges. Bob Sanger stood two steps behind the President. Through his earpiece, Howard heard situation reports being called in from around the stadium.
Howard saw Joker come out of the tunnel and stop dead at the edge of the diamond as if he’d just realised that everyone in the stadium was standing stock still out of respect. Howard smiled at the man’s appalling plaid jacket. He looked across at Clutesi who was also grinning. Clutesi shrugged and Howard shook his head admonishingly. Howard saw that Joker was carrying a can of Budweiser and he groaned inwardly.
Howard surveyed the presidential party. The Prime Minister’s own security team seemed far more relaxed than the Secret Service agents. He wondered when they had last had to deal with an assassination attempt. He recalled the IRA attempt to hit Number 10 Downing Street with mortars and the bombing of a hotel during a Conservative Party conference, but assassinations with firearms seemed rare in Britain. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that gun ownership was restricted there or that the people had more respect for their authority figures than the Americans had for their President. On television, he’d seen British politicians and members of the British Royal Family moving through crowds, seemingly at ease, with little in the way of security. At sports events, too, they generally got much closer to the public than the President ever did, closer even than American movie stars got to their fans.
Howard frowned as he stared at the pitcher’s mound. He pulled his cellular phone out of his pocket and whispered to Clutesi that he was going out in the hallway. Clutesi had his hand over his heart as the anthem played.
Howard nodded to two Secret Service agents standing guard in the corridor, and moved away from them so that they couldn’t eavesdrop. He tapped out Andy Kim’s number in the White House and it was answered on the third ring by Bonnie Kim. She was surprised, and apparently delighted, to hear from him. He asked if her husband was there and she passed the telephone over to him.