When the back of the President's head dropped from view on his web cam Otis turned it over and shifted his view to the TV. President Wiggen appeared through the door with both arms thrown back and high, like she'd been struck with great force from behind. When she landed on the floor she slid forward about three feet before she rolled over on her back. The bright blood on her front looked horrible and before any more could be seen a jacket was thrown over her and a hand appeared to cover the camera lens.
Nothing more being visible on the TV, Otis checked the cell again. Almost everyone outside had a weapon in their hands now. An agent at the base of the short stairs outside had both hands in a sports bag at his feet. When he straightened up he had a squat cylinder over his shoulder and turned to the left. Before Otis could pan the camera back a swirl of dust and the smoke of an expelling charge announced he'd launched a mini-missile at the window, where the hole in the glass would be obvious to the world.
The TV was still black with the camera lens covered, but apparently it was still transmitting, because there was a hash of raw noise from the blank screen announcing the missile detonation. Barely on the heels of the TV a deep thud shook the restaurant windows, even though it was a full city block from the hotel.
Otis switched to the other web cam he hadn't zoomed in. Across the street thick black smoke poured out of an open rectangle in the side of the hotel. The missile had blown out the flimsy outer wall and windows and the glow from within said the room was gutted by the thermobaric round, right out to the concrete walls. Otis shut down the phone and pocketed it.
Chapter 9
April hugged Papa-san and Mother as soon as she stepped in Heather's place for their meeting. She saw Sylvia wasn't there. It was a kindness to allow them to use her home for such an important meeting. Sylvia's had at least twice the floor area of her new place. Even though she was determined not to clutter her new place up, she doubted all of them would fit there without it seeming crowded. They had Jeff, Heather, herself and Gunny, the Santos and apparently the ex-lieutenant Eric Brockman was a guard for them just like she had Gunny. That made a mob on Home and Sylvia's was one of the few homes she knew that could seat that many without dragging out the folding chairs.
The place was impressive from the moment you stepped in. The entry was an L-shaped lock and the panel facing the outer door was a thick one piece glass slab backlit by the living area. It was deeply carved and subtly tinted with a fabulously detailed swamp scene. A life size Great Blue Heron shared the cat tails and lily pads with frogs and fish, dragon flies and blackbirds. Calling it museum quality was no exaggeration, because Heather's mother had art in museums and lesser galleries, as well as the palaces of Arab princes and penthouses of successful executives.
Heather offered drinks just as smoothly as her mother would have, April thought. She also had pretty little finger food trays on the low table April liked so. The stone slab that was its top had a wealth of fossil sea shells oriented all different ways. Papa-san set his drink down just a tad harder than necessary and laid his hand on the table. Between the sound and how it drew the warmth out of his hand he knew it was real stone. April could guess he was calculating what something like that cost to lift to orbit.
The table and leather sofas on each side were arranged on a huge oriental rug which defined the living room, without breaking the space up with screens or stub walls. The wall coverings mirrored and defined the area similarly.
The gracious touch was mixed with hard practicality. Along the area with a lower overhead was a hydroponic garden and no effort was taken to hide it behind an opaque curtain. Instead natural sunlight came through the translucent curtain from a long viewport for a few minutes on and off as the habitat rotated. When the natural light faded the area didn't go dark as a sensor ramped up grow lights wired above each plant carefully.
"Do I understand correctly this is your home, Miss anderson?" Mama-san asked.
"It is, but I live in my Mother's household," she explained. "She is visiting on the French habitat Le Navet right now. An old friend happened to lift for it and she took the opportunity to visit with him after hours, when his business is concluded." April suspected who that would be, but refused to ask what might be taken as gossip until she had Heather in private.
"Surely they didn't name their space station The Turnip?" Santos objected.
"No it has a long bureaucratic name that includes the agency and names the French state, in a title that takes half a minute to recite. That's just what everybody called it for the shape."
"I find this very gracious," Mama-san decided. "I have not seen much beyond our hotel rooms, so I was getting perhaps an unfavorable impression. "I can see now there is much you can do with private spaces."
"My working spaces are very cramped and utilitarian," Jeff explained. "Not to mention scattered about. I have rented cubic beside my tiny apartment that you might say is my drafting space, as well as working at Dave's our spaceship fabricator and in a zero-G cubic April's grandfather loans me."
"Do you have dedicated cubic for the bank then?" Papa-san asked.
"The bank exists basically in one laptop computer and as secure storage and back-up on ISSII and the Moon. Perhaps you have seen the very elaborate offices of The Private Bank of Home, on the corridor just around spin from the cafeteria? If I had built that fancy an office, even in rented cubic, we would be running a deficit instead of a profit. I don't see us having dedicated cubic for the foreseeable future," he admitted. "When the time comes to expand my offices for design work and other things, I will still conduct the bank's business from there or from private places like this," he said, indicating the apartment with a wave.
"But what shall you do for secure storage? What if your customers want a safe deposit box, or want to deposit hard assets to their account?"
"In that case we'd hold them temporarily at the Private Bank vault, but transport those things to the lunar surface at Central on the Moon. We have a tunnel boring machine and expect to expand that capacity very quickly. It is our intent to take the important parts of our lunar site below the surface. The critical parts really deep. Kilometers deep."
Chapter 10
"OK, take our bags to the car," Pretty Boy ordered Loyal Minion after they watched the same scene on TV as Otis. "I'll pay 'Mr. Duggan' and we'll be headed south from here. Then we'll head east from near San Diego. We have a long drive so use the bathroom if you need to and get us a couple bottles of water from the vending machine." This was the first he'd told the underling what they would do after the assassination.
"Don't you think you should wait for confirmation she's dead?" Loyal Minion asked. The look he got back was not friendly. Pretty Boy didn't appreciate his sudden assertiveness.
"Just asking," he said defensively. "Crap, It's not my money," he reasoned further, holding his palms up in a pacifying gesture.
"You saw her literally propelled through the door by the shot. She was hit badly enough to blow blood right out of her nose so it had to be a chest wound. I don't care if they had the operating table sitting right there to just lift her on to it. A .416 will make such a mess from any abdominal hit she's a goner. Do you want that snake looking at his bank account in a few minutes and thinking we shorted him?"
"No way! That guy scared the crap out of me. That's one stone cold killer."
"Well, the possibility occurs to me our bosses might decide to save a big chunk of change by removing the funds now that the job is done. I'd like to finish this up before they can think on that too long and decide to do it," he explained as he worked the keys. "Because guess who our Mr. Duggan would blame if he gets stiffed?"
"There," he said, hitting a final key. "It's a lot of money. I even thought about trying to steal it myself, but not after seeing 'Mr. Duggan' in the flesh. That sucker was so cold he was yawning, bored, the day before popping the President."
"You don't think the protective detail nailed his ass right there in the hotel room?"
&nb
sp; "I won't bet my sweet little butt on it. He had maybe ten seconds to get out of the room. You could do it in five or six if you moved. I wouldn't be surprised if that guy beats us to being on the road, headed out of town."
Chapter 11
Otis wasn't quite that far ahead. His server brought his omelet and related, all upset, that something apparently happened to the President just down the street. Otis nodded gravely and agreed what he'd seen on the booth TV looked bad. He took a few bites just for appearance sake and left a good tip. Keith's van was pulling in the parking lot, so he paid his bill on the way out and hurried to meet him before he came in.
He deleted the memories of both cellphones when he got in the van, removed the batteries and chips, before he directed Keith to stop and threw them and the unused envelope in separate trash receptacles.
With both phones gone he directed Keith to the airport. His computer chimed and he opened it. The e-mail was the automated response he'd requested from the Swiss bank. As he watched the amount in the account ran down in steps to just a couple thousand EuroMarks, as the bank followed his instructions. He closed the computer deeply satisfied.
He leaned over and used the clippers he'd requested, first with a number two and then a number one comb. He brushed both head and pants legs thoroughly to leave any loose hair on the floor and looked in the mirror. Damn, he looked like a recruit, but that was how spacers wore it.
When the number of emergency vehicles going the other way got to be too many to ignore Keith turned the radio on. They still were not clear if Wiggen had been hurt or not. There was no clear public announcement and the commentators sounded gravely concerned.
When they neared the airport the turnoff to the domestic terminal and local air services was blocked off by local police cars with flashing lights. A flashing arrow told you to move over and two officers with bright traffic batons urged everyone to pass the sealed off lanes and keep moving. As he hoped when they continued down the loop road, the ramps for air freight and the international/space terminal was still open.
"You don't seem very worried about Wiggen," Keith suggested, not commenting on the buzz cut at all.
"I'm not. Somebody tried something, but those boys on her detail are sharp. I mean we have some good men and we have considerable assets. But those guys play the game at a whole different level. I have every confidence that she's OK. It's just smart of them not to rush to say so. People who can arrange an attempt on the President's life might very well have the means to set it up in depth. A premature announcement she is OK might trigger a back-up attempt, just waiting in the wings."
"You seem to have given it a great deal of thought."
"You bet. I game things out in my head all the time, just like I'd do if we were asked to handle them. We can both be glad we don't have to provide Presidential security. Eventually somebody gets through no matter how good you are. Then there's no excuse good enough. That's why the Navy is handling her security detail now, when the Secret Service dropped the ball with President Hughes, there was no way they'd just get told to try harder next time. When they fail the whole agency is going to be replaced. The Secret Service is doing well just to have escaped being disbanded, at least that wasn't their whole mission, they still have counterfeiting and stuff. and you better believe the Navy knows how bad it will damage them if they fail. Lots of other very bright fellows didn't want to be tasked with Presidential protection, when they were looking to stick somebody with it."
"You figure they use outside contractors?"
"Well, sure, but you best believe they'd keep that under real tight wraps." When Keith didn't say anything Otis looked over at him again. "Real tight," he repeated.
"Got ya," Keith acknowledged. "I've forgotten I asked already."
Chapter 12
"Tell me in a general way what you expect your bank to do and what sort of philosophy it is directed by and what sort of business it intends to underwrite," Papa-san asked.
Jeff went on for a long time. To the point April was getting overwhelmed. But she watched Papa-sans face and paid closest attention to which points interested him. Speaking of being late in the economic cycle and favoring capital preservation didn't surprise him. Papa-san just nodded agreement and let Jeff go on. That was no surprise to her either.
Her attention was drifting, but when Jeff said, "As April pointed out when we were discussing the first Global Depression," she came back aware and listening instantly. She just hoped it wasn't a lead in to a joke, but when he finished the thought Papa-san just nodded agreement, she saw with relief.
When Jeff talked about low leverage and reserves, Papa-san slid forward on the edge of his seat and they lost her in very little time. It took them two hours and speaking a utterly foreign language at times, before Papa-san was satisfied. Heather suggested they would need a break and a meal soon, so she offered to prepare supper and feed all of them.
She looked at April like she expected her to volunteer to help. April knew her kitchen, but had no desire to miss a single word of this conversation, even if it veered outside her grasp occasionally.
"April is also an officer of the bank," Mama-san pointed out. "I think you should have at least two of your board at this talk. I am a little lost to parts of this, but I am very competent in a kitchen. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to help? I realize that one's kitchen is a private matter, but I offer it with every respect."
"I'd be delighted to have you," Heather agreed. April knew her voice and face and she meant it, which was a great relief to April. When you have valued friends meet there is always the worry they won't hit it off.
"Thank you," Jeff piped up, "because I have had April doing economic research for me and I'd like her to hear this."
Yeah, right, April thought and worked at keeping a straight face.
"My little brother Barak will be coming home soon and joining us for supper," Heather told Mama-san," he makes a good scullery maid and can give us a hand."
"Barak taught me to make pancakes," April said, defending him automatically. "I fear he's still a better cook than I am."
"And he has a sweet crush on April," Heather added. "He isn't shy to say so."
"Then he is a young man of taste," Papa-san declared. "with Life Extension Therapy I think we are going to see that such minor age differences don't mean much anymore."
That was a very interesting idea. April had never considered it from that perspective before. Barak was smart and fun and could cook, give him six years to mature a bit and he might be very interesting indeed.
Chapter 13
The airport had a well stocked wireless toy shop and he got the most expensive set of wrap-around spex they had, with all the memory it would hold. They were de rigeur for spacers. He transferred everything from his computer using a different encryption scheme. He also bought the loudest bright Aloha shirt he could find and changed into it in the men's room. Nobody in their right mind would wear such a thing if they had any reason not to call attention to themselves.
A kiosk was better than dealing with a live agent and he bought a lift ticket direct for Home in thirty-five minutes. There was another in twenty minutes for New Las Vegas, but he could save fifteen minutes at this end and get arrested in USNA territory waiting for the Home shuttle at the other end.
He used his Safety Associates card because it was a numbered card requiring no ID. It was unrevokable, so people accepted it with just a number on the face. He'd simply have to pay John back when he informed him he was quitting. He had enough to pay cash, but that too raised a huge signal now that would get him scrutinized.
He killed time until near boarding and then assumed the correct body language, hands held a bit away from his body, very light on his feet like a dancer with his weight forward and a face masked with utter arrogance.
"ID," demanded the security agent at the gate.
"I'm going to Home. That is not subject to question or restriction."
"What ID do you have, si
r?" the man asked. He made 'sir' sound like an insult.
"I have no need of ID," Otis assured him. "Free people have no need of ID to travel, except in so-called free Earth countries."
"Did you destroy your USNA identification already?" the man asked grinding his teeth.
"Not everybody on Home was a Norte Americano," Otis assured him. "I was a citizen of the Principality of Monaco," he informed him. "A relatively enlightened Earth government, but one with which the question of dual citizenship has not been settled, so I don’t carry or use their passport until we get a proper ruling on the matter."
When the man looked like he was going to speak again Otis held a restraining finger up and looked in the upper right corner of his spex and then quickly in the left upper corner.
"I'd appreciate it if you gave me your undivided attention and didn't entertain calls while I'm speaking to you," the man said angrily.
"I'm not taking a call," Otis bluffed him. "I logged onto HomeNet, because I don't care for your attitude," he growled, "You people know better than to impede travel to Home. I want my friends to know if you break our treaty by refusing to let me board. I can't stop your nation from arresting me, but I can see to it they get reprisals, like China just experienced."
"You people are fanatics," the agent accused him, but he waved him through the gate and there was a visible sheen of sweat beading the man's forehead. He had heard about China then.
Otis made a point of lingering a heartbeat to look at the man like examining a particularly disgusting garden slug. Not hurrying to move on in relief at the man's wave. He let his mind have free reign and thought several truly evil thoughts about exactly how the agent should die.
If the biometric sensors read anything off him, he wanted it to be rage and not fear. Then he went up the tunnel unhurried, haughty as the King of the World. When he finally made his seat he ran out of adrenaline. His knees were shaking so bad he was amazed he'd made it this far. He belted himself in with quivery hands and leaned back, a look of irritation still painted on his face to cover the turmoil.
April 4: A Different Perspective Page 6
