Extraordinary Powers

by Joseph Finder

  The black woman shrugged, then grimaced.

  “All right, sir—”

  I felt my body flood with relief.

  “—go on through. There’s a men’s restroom off to the left that has handicapped facilities. But, please, don’t enter the hearing room until…”

  I didn’t wait for her to finish. With a great spurt of energy I wheeled off to the left, toward the entrance to the hearing room.

  Another guard manned the entrance. From where I sat, I had an excellent vantage point. Room 216 of the Hart Senate Office Building was a spacious, modern, two-floor chamber built with television in mind. Standing floodlights illuminated the entire room, for the sake of the television cameras. There were panels inset in the walls for cameras to be trained down on the hearing room; and, on the second floor, the press gallery, behind plate glass and toward the rear of the room.

  Where was he?

  The press gallery? Had the assassin been infiltrated using false press credentials? Easily done, of course, but too far from the front of the room for an accurate shot.

  He would almost certainly have to be using a small firearm, probably a handgun. Anything else would be too detectable within the space of the room. This was not a classic sniper situation with a rooftop and a rifle. He would have to use a pistol. Somehow he had to have smuggled a pistol into the room.

  Which meant he would have to be within the killing field. He would have to be located somewhere at close range. In theory, a handgun is accurate at distances of three hundred feet or more, but the closer you can get, the more accurate, the more reliable, the shot.

  Now I was out of the line of sight of the security guards who had admitted me through the second checkpoint.

  Swallowing hard, I wheeled up the ramp and directly into the room.

  Another uniformed guard stood by the entrance.

  “Excuse me—”

  But this time I plunged ahead, ignoring the guard. My calculation was accurate: he would not leave his post to chase down a man in a wheelchair.

  Now I was in the main room. I scanned the crowded rows of seats. It was impossible to see everyone, but I knew he had to be here, had to be here somewhere!

  Where—who—was the assassin?

  Seated among the spectators?

  I turned now toward the front of the room, where the senators sat at a raised mahogany semicircle. Some of them consulted notes; others held their hands over microphones planted in front of them as they chatted.

  Behind them, against the wall, was a row of aides, well-dressed young men and women. In front of the high mahogany podium was a row of three stenographers, two women and one man, sitting at their keyboards, typing away silently with lightning speed.

  And behind the row of senators, at the precise center, was a door, toward which the eyes of all spectators were trained. The room fairly crackled with tension. That was the door through which the senators entered. It had to be the door through which Sinclair would enter.

  The assassin had to be within a hundred feet or so of that door.

  So where the hell was he?

  And who the hell was he?

  I looked over toward the witness table, which faced the row of senators. It was empty, awaiting the surprise witness. Behind it was an empty row of chairs, cordoned off, probably for security reasons. A few rows behind the witness table I saw Truslow, dressed immaculately in a double-breasted suit. Despite having just returned from Germany, he didn’t look a bit tired; his silver hair was combed and parted neatly. Was there a glint of triumph, of satisfaction, in his eyes? Beside him sat his wife, Margaret, and a couple I took to be his daughter and son-in-law.

  I wheeled slowly down the side aisle, toward the front of the room. People glanced toward me, then quickly away, in that manner I’d become accustomed to.

  It was time to begin.

  Once again I scanned the layout of the entire room, affixing it pictorially in my memory. There were a limited number of positions from which a gunman could fire, hit his target—and plausibly attempt to escape.

  I breathed deeply, tried to get my thoughts in some semblance of order. Rule out any positions beyond three hundred feet.

  No—rule out any beyond two hundred feet. And within one hundred feet, the odds increased astronomically.

  All right. Of those positions within one hundred feet, by far the most likely were those situated close to an exit. That meant, since the only exits were in the front or in the back, that the gunman would very likely be seated or standing front-center, front-right, or front-left.

  Next … of those, rule out any without a direct line of fire to the witness stand. Which meant I could safely rule out ninety-five percent of the seats in the room.

  From where I was I could see mostly backs of heads. The assassin might be a man or a woman, which meant I couldn’t rely on the standard search image—the youngish, physically fit male. No; they were too clever. I couldn’t discount the possibility that it was a woman.

  Children were rule-outs … but an adult midget might pose as a child: bizarre, yes, but I could not afford to rule out the bizarre. Everyone within the area I had selected would have to be scrutinized. Systematically, I sighted each person in a strategic firing position, and was able to rule out only two: a young girl in a Peter Pan collar who really was a young girl; and a distinguished-looking old woman who my instincts told me really was an old woman.

  If my calculations were right, then, that brought the pool of likely suspects down to perhaps twenty individuals, all near the front of the room.

  Move.

  I accelerated the wheelchair’s pace until I neared the front. Then I slowed, and veered the chair to within a few inches of the people seated at the ends of the aisles.

  Here and there I felt a jolt of recognition, but the audience, naturally, was filled with familiar faces. Not friends of mine, certainly, but dignitaries. Personalities. The sort of people who are written up in The Washington Post Style section, who appear on Larry King Live.

  Where was he?

  Focus. Dammit, I had to focus, to concentrate my powers of perception, to parse the ambient room noise from thought noise. And then separate the usual babble of human thought from the thoughts of a man or woman who was preparing to carry out a public, excruciatingly tense, methodically executed assassination. These would be the thoughts of someone concentrating with great intensity.

  Focus.

  Nearing a man in a three-piece suit—sandy-haired and early thirties, the build of a football player, seated at the end of the fourth row—I bowed my head and rolled by slowly as if I were finding it difficult to maneuver.

  And heard:… make partner or not and when? Because ah sweet Jesus if I don’t know by … An attorney; Washington crawled with them.

  Keep on.

  Next, a scruffy-looking late-teenage boy, acne-scarred face, dressed in an army-navy surplus peacoat. Too young? And it came: won’t call me because I’m not going to call her first …

  A woman who looked to be in her late fifties, primly dressed, sweet face, ruby red lipstick. Poor man how does he get around the poor soul? She was thinking about me, it had to be.

  I rolled a little faster now, head still bowed.

  fucking nest of spies hope they fucking do away with the goddamn thing totally. A tall man in his late forties in a work shirt, earring in his left ear, ponytail.

  Was he possible? Not what I expected; not the intense, laser-beam concentration of a professional killer.

  I stopped two feet from him, focused.

  Focused.

  get home I finish the piece tonight maybe revise tomorrow morning see what the Times op-ed editor thinks.

  No. A writer, a political activist. Not a killer.

  Now I had reached the front row and began slowly to wheel down the aisle, across the very front of the room, extremely conspicuous.

  People were staring at me, wondering where I was going. Guy’s going to just wheel all the way across are they allow
ed to do that?

  And: so close to all these senators how can I get closer—

  Stop!

  get their autographs if they’ll let me …

  Move.

  An ash-blond woman in her fifties, anorexic-looking, with sunken cheeks, the too-tight facial skin that comes from excessive plastic surgery—a Washington socialite, from the look of her:… chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce or maybe a nice big slab of apple flan with a mountain of vanilla ice cream and don’t I deserve it I’ve been so good …

  I rolled faster, and faster, concentrating with all my might, glancing at the faces intermittently, head bowed, listening. The thoughts were coming in a torrent now, a confusing, kaleidoscopic, almost psychedelic rush of emotions and ideas and notions, glimmerings of the most private feelings, the most banal contemplations, anger, love, suspicion, excitement …

  … promoted over me how can …

  Faster.

  … from the darned Department of Justice if …

  Move!

  Again and again my eyes swept the rows of spectators, then the row of well-dressed senatorial aides, then the stenographers seated before the mahogany podium at their silent keyboards, all of whom were bowed in ferocious concentration over their keyboards.

  No.

  didn’t put anything in writing and there shouldn’t be any records …

  A murmur swept the room. I looked up toward the front of the room as I advanced across the front row of spectators, and saw the door at the front of the room open a crack.

  Faster.

  … Kay Graham’s dinner party when the Vice President asked me … I swiveled my head from side to side desperately. Where was the gunman? No sign of him yet, not a sign, and Hal was about to appear, and it would all be over!

  … the legs on that babe if there’s any way to get her phone number maybe I can ask Myrna to call personnel but then won’t she …

  And suddenly, with a jolt, I saw that I had completely overlooked the most obvious place of all! I whirled my head toward the podium, toward the steno pool, and when I noticed an odd discrepancy, I felt my stomach muscles tense.

  Three stenographers. Two of them, the two women, were typing away furiously, the continuous folded sheets of paper moving up out of their stenotype machines and around to the receptacle tray.

  One of them, however, did not seem to be working. He, a dark-haired young man, was looking up at the door. Odd that he would have the leisure to look around when his colleagues did not; how easy it would be to insert a professional gunman into the stenographic pool. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of it? I jerked my chair toward him wildly, studying him in quarter profile, and the stenographer glanced idly around at the audience, and …

  … and I heard something.

  Not from the stenographer, who was too far away for me to read his thoughts. But over my left shoulder, just ahead.

  Zwölf.

  Just a blip of a word, seemingly a nonsense word at first, but then it came clear: it was German. A number. Twelve.

  Elf.

  There it was again, from over my shoulder. Eleven. Someone was counting in German.

  I whipped the chair back around, away from the row of senators, toward the audience. Someone seemed to be striding toward me; I could see a shape in my peripheral vision. And a voice, spoken: “Sir? Sir?”

  Zehn.

  A security guard was moving toward me, gesturing to me to move out of the front of the room. A security guard, tall and crew cut, dressed in a gray suit, holding a walkie-talkie transmitter.

  Where the hell? Where the hell? I ran my eyes up and down the front row, looking for a likely gunman, and glimpsed a pleasingly familiar face, probably someone I knew, some old friend, and kept searching—

  And heard: Acht Sekunden bis losschlagen. Eight seconds to strike.

  And saw that pleasingly familiar face again, and recognized it: Miles Preston. Just a few feet away.

  My old drinking buddy, the foreign correspondent I had befriended in Leipzig, East Germany, years ago.

  Miles Preston?

  Why was he here? If he was covering the event, why wasn’t he in the press gallery? Why would he be here?

  No, of course.

  The press gallery was located too far away.

  The foreign correspondent I had befriended … No. He had befriended me.

  He had come up to me, sitting alone at the bar. Introduced himself.

  And then he was in Paris when I was there.

  He had been assigned to me, a brand-new CIA boy. A classic black cultivation. His job had been to cultivate a friendship, subtly learn what he could—

  Foreign correspondent: an ideal cover.

  The security guard began to lope toward me, quickly and with great determination.

  Miles Preston, who knew so much about Germany.

  Miles Preston was not a British subject. He was—he had to be—a Stasi plant, a German agent, now gone freelance. He was thinking in German.

  Zwölf Kugeln in der Pistole. Twelve bullets in the chamber.

  And our eyes locked.

  Sechs.

  I recognized Miles, and he—I was sure—he recognized me. Beneath my disguise, my gray hair and beard and glasses, it was my eyes, the glint of recognition in my eyes, that identified me.

  He gave me a cold, almost impassive stare, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he returned his fierce gaze to the precise center of the room. To the door that was now open a crack.

  It was him!

  Ich werde nicht mehr als zwei brauchen. I will need no more than two.

  A man emerged from the door at the front of the room.

  The room broke out in excited whispers. Spectators craned their necks, struggling to get a glimpse.

  Sicherung gelöst. Safety off.

  It was the chairman of the committee, a tall, gray-haired, barrel-chested man in a dove-gray suit. I recognized him as the Democratic senator from New Mexico. He was engaged in conversation with someone entering behind him, a man in shadow.

  Gespannt. Cocked.

  But I recognized the silhouette.

  Ausgang frei. Exit clear.

  The man behind him was Hal Sinclair. The audience had yet to realize who it was, but in a second or two they would. And Miles Preston would—

  No! I had to act now!

  Hier kommt er. Los. Here he comes—now! Bereit zu feuern. Ready to fire.

  And then Harrison Sinclair, tall and proud, dressed immaculately, his beard shaven, his hair neatly trimmed, strode slowly through the door, accompanied by a bodyguard.

  There was an audible gasp throughout the crowd, and then the hearing room erupted.

  SEVENTY

  The room was in an uproar, whispers becoming loud murmurings and excited exclamations, steadily louder and louder.

  The unthinkable. The surprise witness was … a dead man. A man the nation had buried, had mourned, months ago.

  The press gallery was in turmoil. Several people at the back of the room were running out, probably to place telephone calls.

  Sinclair and the committee chairman, cognizant of the commotion Sinclair’s appearance had caused, but oblivious of what was about to happen, continued walking across the hearing room floor to the witness box, where Hal was to be sworn in.

  As the crew-cut guard rushed toward me, his hand at his holster, closing the gap between us, coming closer and closer …

  Miles had gotten to his feet, unnoticed in all the pandemonium. Reached his hand inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

  Now!

  I depressed the button at the front of the right armrest, which caused the teak panel to flip upward, exposing the gun, grip up, barrel down, fitting snugly into the metal arm tubing.

  Two shots only.

  That was the drawback of the American Derringer, but it was a price I had to pay.

  It was already cocked. I drew it out, slid the safety to the side with my thumb, and—

  There was no clear lin
e of fire between me and the assassin! The guard, loping toward me, was blocking my path!

  And suddenly, the chaos, the anarchy, was pierced by an earsplitting scream, a female cry from somewhere above us, and hundreds of heads were turned upward toward where the shrieking was coming from. It was coming from one of the square holes in the walls, one of the niches for television cameras, but there was no camera lens jutting out of this one; instead, it was a woman, shouting at the top of her lungs.

  “Sinclair! Get down! Dad!

  “He’s got a gun!

  “Get down!

  “They’re going to kill you!

  “Get down!”

  Molly!

  How the hell did she get in here?

  But there was no time even to think. The crew-cut guard froze, turned to his right, looked up in confusion, and now for an instant, for a split second, the target was clear.

  —and at that instant, pointing the gun directly at the assassin, I fired.

  It was not a bullet that I fired.

  No, there was far too great a chance of missing with a bullet.

  It was a specially configured .410 Magnum shotgun shell, containing one-half ounce of lead pellets. One hundred and twelve pellets.

  A shotgun shell in a pistol.

  The explosion filled the room, which was now a cacophony of terrified screaming. People were out of their seats, running for the exits, some of them throwing themselves to the floor, seeking cover.

  In the two seconds before the guard leapt on top of me, slamming me into the wheelchair, I saw that I had hit the German whose cover was Miles Preston. He had thrown his head back, dazed, his left arm shielding his eyes but too late. Blood ran down his face as the high-velocity impact of dozens of lead pellets wounded him, maimed him, disabled him. It was like having a handful of hot broken glass thrown in your face. He was thrown off balance, off his stride. In his right hand he was holding a small black automatic pistol. It dangled at his side, unfired.

  Sinclair, I could see, had been tackled to the floor by someone, presumably his bodyguard, and most of the senators were crouching down, the whole chamber a Babel of screams and cries, deafeningly loud, and it seemed that everyone was rushing toward me all at once, everyone who wasn’t running toward the exits, who hadn’t flattened themselves on the floor.