“If it’s going to be too much, you can get back in bed and we’ll forget the whole thing,” offered Howard.
Joker turned around and glared at the FBI agent, “I’ll be fine,” he said tightly.
Howard’s cellular phone bleeped and he pressed it to his ear. It was Ed Mulholland. “Bob Sanger’s given you the go ahead,” said Mulholland.
“That’s great, Ed. Thanks. I know you must have pushed for it,” said Howard.
“Yeah, I’ve got to admit that he took some persuading,” said Mulholland. “But I told him that you were prepared to accept responsibility for him at all times, and he agreed. But he’s most definitely not to be armed, Cole, I can’t emphasise that enough. He’s to be there as a passive observer, nothing else.”
“That’s understood,” said Howard.
“So what’s your plan now?” asked Mulholland.
“Don’s having a word with the Secret Service people in Baltimore. They’re handling the on-the-ground searches and I think we should leave it up to them.”
“I agree,” said Mulholland. “Bob Sanger’s sending more of his people to Baltimore right now. There’s no point in the FBI duplicating their work.”
“Yeah, though we’re going to stick close to the President at all venues in the Baltimore-Washington area where the computer projection suggests he’s vulnerable. I’m going to talk to Andy Kim right now for a list. Then we’re off to the ball game, the President’s due there at six-thirty.”
“Okay, Cole, keep in touch.”
The line went dead and Howard called up Andy Kim’s private line in the White House computer room. Kim answered on the third ring and sounded tired and harassed. Howard asked if he had put together a list of the appointments on the President’s agenda where two out of the three snipers matched. A flustered Kim asked him to hang on and Howard tapped the phone against his cheek as he waited. The door to the hospital room was thrown open and the doctor who had treated Joker stormed in, his white coat flapping behind him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. “Get back in bed right now.”
Joker looked at Howard for support, and the FBI agent was about to speak when Kim came back on the line. Howard turned his back on the doctor while he wrote down a list of venues. When he’d finished he had seven locations, including the ballpark and the National Aquarium, the two places where the President was going to be that evening. “The Secret Service already has this list, Andy?” asked Howard.
“That’s right, and we’re working on others now,” said Kim. He sounded as if someone was listening at his shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Howard asked.
“I’m fine, Cole, there’s just quite a bit of pressure here at the moment, that’s all.”
“How’s Bonnie?”
“Dog tired,” said Kim. “Look, Cole, I have to go, we’re running a new program and I have to give it my full attention.”
“Sure, Andy, sorry,” said Howard. He switched off his phone and turned to face the doctor, who was if anything even angrier than when he’d entered the room.
“What the hell’s going on?” the doctor asked Howard.
“We need Mr Cramer’s assistance in a security matter, doctor,” said Howard, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
“He needs bed rest,” said the doctor, “he shouldn’t be on his feet.”
“I feel better,” said Joker, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“You’re in shock, and your body still hasn’t made up for the blood you lost.”
Joker shrugged. “I’m not planning on running a marathon,” he said.
“Any sort of movement is going to open up those wounds,” warned the doctor.
“Doctor, this is important,” insisted Howard; “if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be taking Mr Cramer out of your care.”
The doctor clicked his tongue in annoyance. He put his stethoscope against Joker’s chest and listened. “Your heart seems steady enough,” he admitted grudgingly. He pulled a sphygmomanometer from his coat pocket and took Joker’s blood pressure. “Your blood pressure is on the way up, too.” He looked at Howard severely. “I’d like to give him a vitamin shot, and what he really needs is a couple of days’ bed rest, but I don’t suppose I can stop you, can I?”
“No, doctor, I’m afraid you can’t.”
The door opened again and Don Clutesi came in, carrying a large brown parcel which he dropped on the bed. “There’s a shirt and a sports jacket, and underwear. There’s a pair of trousers, but I’m not sure that they’ll fit. And I had to buy the shoes.”
“Keep the receipt,” said Howard, knowing how difficult it was to get anything past the eagle eyes of the FBI’s accountants.
“I’ll get the vitamin shot,” said the doctor. “And I’d like to change his dressings before he leaves.”
Howard looked at his wristwatch. “No problem,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
The Colonel parked his dark green Range Rover in the garage and pressed the remote control device which closed the overhead door. His back ached, the lingering soreness the result of several High Altitude Low Opening freefall parachute jumps he’d made over Salisbury Plain a week earlier. He rubbed the small of his back with his knuckles. Leading from the front was all well and good, he thought, but he was getting too old for jumping out of planes.
He took his keys and opened the two high security locks on the door which led from the garage to the kitchen of the four-bedroom stone cottage. The door looked like painted wood but in fact it had a steel core and was impenetrable by any means short of a bazooka. Immediately he opened the second lock he pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen, closing it behind him. He crossed the tiled floor quickly, opened a closet door and stuck another key into a white metal box on which a red light was flashing, neutralising the silent burglar alarm which was connected to his local police station and which would have a carload of armed police on his doorstep if it wasn’t switched off within thirty seconds.
He rubbed his back again and went through to his sitting room where he opened up a large floor-mounted globe which looked antique but which contained several bottles of malt whisky and crystal tumblers. He poured himself a large measure of an Islay malt and savoured it, breathing in its rich, peaty bouquet as he walked over to a table by the side of the fireplace where a chess game was laid out, a problem he’d been working on for several days. He looked down at the wooden pieces, his brow furrowed. The game was the ninth of a series Bobby Fischer had played against Boris Spassky in the summer of 1992. Fischer had opened with the ancient ‘Spanish Game’, but using the Exchange Variation. Spassky had resigned black’s position after only twenty-one moves but to the Colonel it was clear that he’d really lost the game on his seventeenth move when he’d moved his king. The Colonel had decided that Spassky should have taken one of white’s knights with his bishop instead, but he hadn’t yet decided where the game would have gone from there. It was an intriguing strategical problem and one that he relished.
The telephone on his hall table rang and he went over and picked it up. The light on his answer machine was flickering, indicating that he’d received several messages while he was out. The rich, almost plummy, voice on the line didn’t identify itself, but there was no need. The Colonel knew who it was, and that what he had to say must be important for him to call him at home.
“The operation has been discontinued,” the man said. “One of my operatives has been eliminated, one is missing, presumed inactive.”
“Damn,” said the Colonel quietly. “What happened?”
“Your man liquidated one at the house, for what reason I have yet to determine. The other operative followed the objective, but has since disappeared. The house was destroyed in a fire, your man is now in the Shock-trauma Unit of the University of Maryland Hospital in Baltimore and I am at a loss how to proceed further.”
“So we’ve no idea where the objective is?” asked the Colonel.
“That’s the position, yes.”
“What is my man’s status?”