by Mark Nolan
“And yet I’m looking at you on live video from the Literacy for the World speech.”
“Impossible, I was supposed to work a television camera at that event today, but I got a call telling me that the thing was canceled. Can’t you ping my phone and confirm my location?”
“Yes but phones can be cloned,” McKay said.
“You can look at me on live video here too if you tap into the CCTV camera on top of the memorial flag pole. I’m in the area of the lawn right in front of it. I’ll be the guy waving at the flag as if I think the flag is waving back at me.”
Jake looked toward the flagpole and waved. The flag waved too. Some people nearby watched him and started gossiping about the strange man. Jake found it ironic that one of the countless CCTV spy cameras in the city that he hated so much was now helping him prove his innocence and providing his alibi.
McKay rapidly tapped some keys on her computer, and she said, “I’m in, and I have eyes on the green. I see you waving, and I’m zooming in on your face. Stop waving and hold still. Damn, you are the identical twin of the man at the Moscone Center.”
“I don’t have a twin,” Jake said. “Wait, you’re serious that a man is impersonating me there? How close is this imposter to the Congressman? Get your people on that guy and arrest him and handcuff him right now.”
“I’ve already alerted the agents. The imposter should be in custody within sixty seconds.”
“Sixty seconds is too long. You need to tackle him, take him down. Hell, just shoot him in the leg or something.”
A chime sounded from McKay’s computer. The software had a partial match to the thermal scanning composite. The shape of the cameraman’s face, body language, and physical posture suggested that he might be a murder suspect who was wanted by Interpol and by a variety of governments around the world.
Classified orders from the CIA noted that he was to be arrested, or if deemed necessary, shot on sight. A file from MI5 in London said much the same thing. The secret codes McKay was reading told her that if this suspect really was a Level One threat, their sniper should shoot him, right now.
The body-reading technology was not perfect. But it had proven to give a fairly good guess of an identity. It went far beyond facial technology and worked similarly to the way the human brain can spot a friend in a crowd and recognize him or her by the familiar way he or she stands, walks or gestures.
Right now, according to the new technology, a potentially dangerous man had his hand in his coat pocket and he appeared highly animated, possibly high on something. McKay was faced with the decision to kill someone. She didn’t hesitate.
“Talk to me,” Jake said.
“Stay on the phone, and stay where you are. Don’t move. I’m giving the order for this imposter Jacob Wolfe to be shot and possibly killed. I suggest you lay low for now to avoid an accidental death.”
“No problem. What could go wrong? Stuff like this happens to me every day.”
McKay punched the keys to enter the emergency code numbers she knew by heart but had rarely ever used. The order to protect with the cost of lives. The “license to kill” in defense of the protected.
Her computer sent the name and photo of the target, Jacob Wolfe, to every agent’s smartphone at the scene, along with the order saying, Imposter, wearing a facial disguise: Code NCT. Neutralize, Capture or Terminate.
She also barked orders into her phone, as she fought back the bile that was rising in her throat. Her trained eyes watched the flat screen TVs and she saw the disguised killer lick his lips and grin.
“Act on the order,” McKay said. “Act now!”
Chapter 66
Congressman Anderson was still bent at the waist and enjoying a one-way conversation with the baby in Katherine’s belly. His head continued to block the assassin’s camera-weapon from focusing on his wife. The audience and the media were laughing at his antics.
Zhukov was planning to go to a nearby restroom and trigger the weapon from there with his phone. He noticed men and women in black suits coming toward him. It was time to leave, immediately if not sooner. He should have left several minutes ago. He held one hand on his stomach and bent over slightly as if in pain. He said to a photographer next to him, “I must have food poisoning or something. I need to run to the restroom and throw up again. Don’t let anyone touch my camera, okay?”
The other photographer wrinkled his nose at the words “throw up.” That was TMI, too much information. He nodded and grimaced in sympathy, but quickly turned his attention back to the entertaining scene on the stage. Zhukov’s television camera was positioned near the end of the media area, close to the doors, so he was able to hurry out of the auditorium in only a few seconds.
Adams received a message from McKay, “All personnel, Code One immediately on news cameraman Jacob Wolfe, he is an imposter wearing a disguise.”
Adams already had his sniper tranquilizer rifle aimed at the target. Now he had permission to neutralize or kill. He intended to attempt one time to neutralize, and then to kill after that if necessary. But suddenly the target bent over and held his stomach as he moved among the crowd of media people. A second later the target went through a doorway and into the hall. Adams was tempted to fire through the space of the closing door. But it was no good, he might miss and take out civilians as collateral damage. The tranc dart could kill if it hit someone in a vulnerable area. Thankfully, the target was moving away from the people the Agents were protecting. Not toward them. Adams let out a frustrated breath and then spoke into the tiny radio on his wrist.
“Target is on the move. He exited the auditorium through door B into the hallway. Team Delta Five, Code NCT.”
Zhukov hurried into the men’s restroom located in the hallway near the auditorium exit, and once inside he used a janitor’s master key to lock the deadbolt in the door. Next, he pulled a small plastic prescription-sized bottle out of his pocket. Inside the bottle was a micro syringe. He removed the syringe from the bottle, stuck the applicator needle into the deadbolt lock’s keyhole, and injected a liquid type of “lock-out drops” into it, permanently sealing the lock forever.
Moments later, Zhukov looked at his phone and the video feed from his TV camera. He saw the Congressman still talking to his wife’s stomach. Secret Service agents were moving quickly toward the couple. There was a loud knock at the bathroom door.
This was not going according to plan, Zhukov had waited too long. His training told him he should make his escape, but he intended to fire the shot, no matter what. He still had time to do it. Great sums of money and his professional reputation depended on it. The knocking at the door became louder and more insistent, but Zhukov made himself focus his attention on his phone screen. He had to hurry and fire the weapon now. If he waited a few more seconds it could be too late.
This situation would not be happening if he’d followed his original plan and exited the auditorium sooner. He could have then shot Katherine by remote control while he was driving away in his car and she was on stage giving her talk. But it was just so much more artistic to do it with the Congressman and the unborn baby as part of the masterpiece.
The camera was still pointed where he’d aimed it, right below the Congressman’s face, and in the center of Katherine’s abdomen. He could control it the same way he’d controlled the crossbow in the tree that had so eloquently killed the disgusting attorney in his hot tub.
The Congressman finally moved his head and he turned to grin at the audience.
Zhukov was thrilled. It was perfect. After stalking Katherine for months now and studying her every habit and scheduled speech, it was the perfect moment.
He quickly typed the code into his phone that activated the camera weapon's trigger and said, “Bye-bye baby.”
Inside the auditorium, one of the Secret Service agents was in a balcony, searching the crowd with his binoculars and he saw Wolfe’s unmanned camera appear to move up and down slightly while nobody was touching it.
&nbs
p; “What the hell?”
He felt a chill go down his spine, and he spoke into the microphone in his shirtsleeve cuff. “Code One on the television camera. It might be a remote-controlled weapon. Take out the target’s camera, knock it down, shoot it, do it now!”
There were cries of alarm from the crowd as two agents ran toward the camera, one from each side, neither one knowing if it might explode in his or her face, but each doing their duty in spite of the risk. Several other agents were seconds away from placing themselves in front of the Congressman and Mrs. Anderson, directly in the line of fire.
On the balcony, Adams aimed his tranquilizer rifle at the television camera. The dart had a powerful impact that could knock it over. However, the dart might ricochet and hit someone in the eye. He had to make a perfect shot. It was a calculated risk he had to take when there was a clear and present danger to the protected. He quickly and professionally focused on the camera, inhaled a breath, and let it out as he squeezed the trigger.
At that same moment, the camera weapon fired. The two weapons were triggered almost simultaneously. Adams was looking through his scope, and he felt his stomach sink as he saw the camera kick and emit a puff of vapor. His dart hit the camera a second too late. The dart knocked the camera flying backward, but not before it had fired its projectile.
Adams cursed and picked up his other rifle that was loaded with live ammunition. He scanned the crowd with his scope, hoping to put a real bullet into the head of Jacob Wolfe or anyone else who might pose a threat.
The agents that had been running to put their bodies in harm’s way now heard the muffled shot from the television camera, just as they leaped in front of the couple in an urgent attempt to protect them. Each of the agents was thinking the same thing. They hoped to get in front of the bullet and be shot by it, sacrificing their bodies in defense of the protected. That was the way they’d been trained, and it was what they were sworn to do.
“Please let it hit me,” they thought. “Let me take the bullet.”
These brave men and women of the United States Secret Service lived day to day with the willingness for self-sacrifice. This was their job. They didn’t think twice about performing their sworn duty, even if it meant they might be injured or killed.
The single round that Zhukov fired by remote control shot out of the camera and barely missed the Secret Service Agents who had thrown themselves in its way. The strange projectile flew past within an inch of one agent’s ribcage and lightly grazed the underside of the coat sleeve of another agent’s raised arm. The projectile flew through a small space in-between the protecting agents’ bodies and hit Katherine Anderson directly on her stomach. The impact was right under Congressman Anderson’s nose as he was bent over and posing for the cameras, oblivious to what was happening with the Agents.
A bright red, thick liquid stain appeared on Katherine’s maternity dress and splashed up onto the Congressman’s face, dripping down his cheek. This horrific imagery was broadcast across the nation by dozens of TV cameras that were taking video from all angles. Hundreds of people in the audience, and millions more across America who were watching on TV and on the internet, all cried out in unison at the sight of it.
Katherine screamed and fainted, and fell to the floor. Daniel got down on his knees on the stage next to her and held her head in his arms, calling her name. Men and women wearing dark sunglasses and armed with automatic machine gun pistols surrounded Daniel and Katherine, forming a human shield in a circle around them. Other agents blocked the doors of the auditorium so no one could go in or out. One agent approached the microphone and yelled orders for everyone to put their hands on top of their heads. Several people in the audience fainted, others were crying.
Adams pointed a red laser targeting light at the chests of any people in the audience who did not put their hands on their heads fast enough. He blamed himself for not shooting the camera a split second sooner, and now he wanted to shoot a terrorist, any terrorist.
On stage, Katherine was semi-conscious and moaning. Daniel was cradling her in his arms and calling for a doctor. The two Secret Service agents that had run to the location of the camera were now pointing pistols at the closest news reporters and demanding to know where Jacob Wolfe had gone.
One of the frightened cameramen said, “He told me he was sick with food poisoning, and he had to run to the bathroom.”
A broad-shouldered and steely-eyed Agent named Easton nodded and spoke orders into the small microphone on his wrist. Easton knew that the Moscone Center was made up of over one million square feet of space, and the fugitive could be hiding anywhere. The Agents needed to move fast if they were going to apprehend him before he escaped.
Easton heard a report that an Agent had found the nearby men’s restroom to be locked. Someone matching Wolfe’s description had been seen entering. And he hadn’t come out yet, despite the agent banging on the door. Security was bringing a key.
Easton said, “Do not wait for the key. Break down the door with any means necessary. Open it immediately.”
Next, he called any available Agents to go outside and look for open windows and suspects on the side of the building where that restroom’s window was located. Easton took off running toward the locked restroom, intent on shooting the lock off if necessary and hopefully also shooting the imposter disguised as Jacob Wolfe. Easton would not hesitate to eliminate any danger that he deemed actionable. If anyone posed a mortal threat to the protected, he would kill them instantly, end of story. And he would sleep soundly that night too, without regret.
When Easton arrived at the nearby restroom and saw that the door was still locked, he cursed and went to a fire response box on the wall and took out the fire axe.
“Stand back,” Easton said. He swung the big axe down, smashing its six-pound polished steel head onto the lock of the restroom door. And again, and again, and again… like a man possessed.
From inside the restroom, Zhukov could hear the screams arise from the crowd in the auditorium and fill the air. He grinned and felt a thrill run up and down his spine. There was a loud crash against the outside of the door, and then another and another, as someone attacked it with a heavy object. Zhukov was cutting it very close, and he knew he had to run for it now. In his manic state he wondered if this was just another type of Russian Roulette, where he risked death to see if he might survive.
Standing in front of the mirror for a moment, Zhukov quickly peeled off the facial prosthesis mask that looked like Jake Wolfe’s face. He removed the brown contact lenses, took off his local news station sports coat and his shirt and tossed all of it into the trash. Underneath the shirt he’d removed, he was wearing a white tourist t-shirt that said San Francisco on the front and showed an illustration of a cable car.
Zhukov unlocked the window with his master key, climbed out and dropped onto some juniper bushes below, then stepped onto a walkway. He began running, and he sent a quick text on his phone that ignited a small firebomb he’d previously hidden in the bathroom trash can. It started to burn the clothes he’d discarded, and it created a lot of smoke that added to the confusion.
Smoke began to pour out of the bathroom window as Zhukov ran down the walkway toward the side street where his latest clean car was parked. He took a few quick glances at the live news video on his phone, still being broadcast by one of the cameras of a local TV news website. He heard the blood roaring in his ears and felt his heart thudding in his chest as he witnessed the terror that was unfolding on the stage. Terror that he’d created with the push of a button. The feeling of power was almost too much for him to bear while in his current state of mania. His ego told him that he could get to anyone, even a well-protected woman who was a former prosecuting attorney and the wife of a presidential candidate.
Who could oppose his power? He looked in wonder at the news replay of the red stain on the woman’s dress, the stunned look on her Congressman husband’s face and the screaming reaction of the crowd of cows that were i
n the audience. He could only imagine the millions of people watching the live broadcast that might be crying and cursing right now in front of their TV screens, tablets, computers or phone displays. It was a work of art, one of his greatest creations, and he would be raising his prices by double or triple after this stunning exhibition of his gifts.
Zhukov reached the car, got inside and drove toward a busy cross street. As he began to merge with the other cars on the road, he looked in his rearview mirror and saw several Agents running out of the conference center.
Chapter 67
Jake was standing on the grass at the Marina Green, talking on the phone but not hearing any reply. “McKay, are you still there, what’s going on?”
There was no answer. Jake stared at his phone and wondered what to do next. Agent McKay had told him to hold on and she had started frantically yelling orders into other phones and radios. Then her call had ended abruptly. Jake guessed that McKay had momentarily forgotten about him because she had more urgent problems to deal with.
“This is crazy, I’m not going to just stand around here while someone is impersonating me.”
Jake got another call. It was from his laid-back stoner friend named Tanner who worked as a bartender in a touristy hotel lounge.
“Dude, I’m at work right? And all of a sudden your face is on the television? Above the bar? News lady says you’re wanted? By the police? What’s up with that bro?”
“That’s not me. That guy is an imposter wearing a face mask to look like me.”
“Looked pretty realistic man. Had me fooled.”
“I’m at the Marina Green right now doing a photo-shoot, nowhere near where that stuff is going down. And I have witnesses, including my assistant, Caleb. You met him last week when we had a beer at your bar.”
