Wolf saw him at the same moment, and immediately the man broke into a run, arms pumping like a sprinter.
Bolden ran in the opposite direction, toward the rear of the library and the warren of corridors that housed the administrative offices and scholars’ reading rooms. He charged down one corridor, then made a sharp left down another. Doors on either side were stenciled with names and titles. A woman exited an office ahead of him, her head buried in her papers. Bolden crashed into her, sending her slamming into a wall. He stopped to help her up, then ducked into her office and shut the door. A young, bookish man sat at his PC, jaw agape, staring at him.
“Can you lock it?” Bolden demanded. When the man didn’t answer, he yelled, “Can you lock it?”
“Turn the dead bolt.”
Bolden slipped the dead bolt into place, then walked past the stunned man, into the adjoining office. A broad sash window gave onto the library’s café and Bryant Park, a wide expanse of snow-covered grass extending the width of the block. Bolden grasped the window’s handle and turned. It was stuck. There was pounding at the door. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he turned it with all his might. The handle budged. With a yank, the window opened.
Behind him, the door burst in, exploding in a shriek of splintered wood. There came the sound of glass breaking and of objects toppling to the floor. The young man shouted in protest.
Bolden dropped to the ground ten feet below, landing on a dining table, slipping and crashing to the ground. Standing, he stumbled again, this time on an island of ice, then finally found his footing and ran into the park.
Wolf slipped his legs over the sill and jumped to the table. He landed poorly, his right knee bowing, and collapsed onto the ground.
Daring a look over his shoulder, Bolden saw him try to stand, then fall back to the ground.
Bolden did not stop until he’d left the park and reached Sixth Avenue. Even then, he walked briskly, keeping an eye behind him.
How? he asked himself. How did they find me?
29
Ellington Fiske walked up the stairs leading to the United States Capitol. “What’s wrong here?” he asked the horde of men surrounding him.
“Mike’s on the fritz,” said one.
“Something’s gone south with the wiring,” said another.
“Where’s my chief electrician?”
“On the dais,” someone else answered.
Fiske pushed his way through them, counting members of the Capitol Police, Park Police, a member of the Presidential Inaugural Committee, and a pair of full-bird colonels attached to the Military District of Washington. He stopped when he reached the spot where the President would be sworn in and deliver the inaugural address.
Behind him, risers had been set on the stairs leading up to the Capitol esplanade. Rows of chairs, all of them numbered, were neatly in place. There was room for approximately one thousand invited guests. Each had to present a ticket and identification. That went for the chief justice of the Supreme Court on down to Senator McCoy’s four-year-old nephew.
“Who’s looking for me?” A stout, unshaven man in blue overalls and a ratty parka presented himself. “Mike Rizzo,” he said, holding up his credentials. “You’re here about the microphone?”
“That’s correct,” said Fiske. “If it’s broken, why don’t you just replace it? Unscrew the damn thing and stick on a new one.”
“Doesn’t work that way,” said Rizzo. “The microphone’s built into the podium. It’s integrated into the body of the lectern itself. Actually, there are four directional mikes built into it, each the size of a postage stamp.” He shrugged to show he wasn’t too impressed. “The latest and greatest.”
Fiske ran a hand around the edges of the podium. It was impossible to even see the mike.
Jesus… for want of a nail…
The rain was falling harder now, fat little bombs that exploded on his cheeks. The forecast called for it to worsen during the night, and possibly turn to snow. He made a mental note to double-check with D.C. traffic authority and have all snowplow drivers on call. “Will somebody please get the protective canopy in place?” he shouted.
Planning for the inauguration had begun in earnest twelve months earlier. Fiske had broken down the security work into nine operational areas: intelligence; explosives and hazardous materials; legal; emergency response; credentialing; site-specific; multiagency communications, or MACC; transportation; and aviation. The problem of the podium fell into the site-specific committee’s purview. “Site-specific,” as the name implied, was tasked with physically outfitting the Capitol for the event. That meant installing all seating, supervising placement and construction of the television tower, setting up an area for the press pool, and making sure all electrical fixtures functioned properly.
A dead mike when the President was swearing her Oath of Office was the second worst thing that could happen tomorrow morning.
Fiske circled the lectern. It was no different from the one the President used at any outdoor function. A wood base led to a navy blue lectern with the presidential seal attached by magnets. It was manufactured in Virginia from Georgia maple, Chinese fiberboard, and Indian plastic. That was as close to American-made as anything came these days. He looked around him. Giant American flags hung from the walls of the Capitol. A blue carpet ran from the podium up the stairs. He was happy to note that it was still covered with plastic. Ballistic glass ran the perimeter of the balcony and on either side of the reviewing stand. His eye darted to the strategic spots on the Capitol roof where his snipers would take up position. Out of public sight behind them, batteries of “Avenger” antiaircraft guns had been installed. TelePrompTer reflectors stood to either side of the lectern. He had no doubt that they worked.
Fiske turned and looked out toward the Washington Monument. Twenty yards away, the skeleton of the TV tower rose, partially blocking his view of the Mall. The long promenade was a splotchy brown, the dormant grass patched with melting snow. The Mall was utterly vacant, except for pairs of policemen (some his own men) patrolling the fences set up to regulate the crowds. In twenty-four hours, rain or shine, over three hundred thousand people would crowd the area. Americans eager to witness the most solemn rite in their country’s historical pageant. The swearing in of the forty-fourth President of the United States.
“Isn’t there any way we can change out the mike?” Fiske asked Rizzo.
“Only one,” volunteered a new voice. It belonged to a young man, white, clean-cut, bland. “Bill Donohue. Triton Aerospace. We built the podium. The only way to get around using that mike is to go into the repair panel and cut the wires. Then put an external unit on top.”
“An external unit?” asked Fiske.
“Yes sir, you know, a regular microphone. We can drill a hole and run the cable inside the podium and hook it up to the PR system.”
Fiske smiled and shook his head, as if this young pup Donohue were trying to pull a fast one on him. An external mike. A big black banana that would stick up in the middle of Senator McCoy’s face as she spoke to 250 million Americans and billions of others around the world. Senator McCoy standing all of five feet four inches tall with heels. That was not a solution. Not unless Ellington Fiske wished for an immediate transfer to the Sierra Leone field office.