Game Bet

by Forrest, Richard;

  “Understood.”

  The connection was broken. Rook leaned back in his chair and bent back over the chess board by his side. It was an interesting game plan. He would be curious to see its outcome.

  Ron Sawyer held a photograph of Cory Williams in his hand and stared at it a long time. The hair color was wrong. The beard on the teacher obscured facial lines, but the top part of the face and forehead fit.

  He slipped a mechanical pencil from his breast pocket and began to sketch a neat Vandyke beard onto the photograph. When his rough artwork was complete he stuffed the picture into his pocket. He fumbled for his jacket, automatically patted the gun strapped to his side, and left the room.

  At the end of the long hall he saw that the double doors of the presidential suite were now guarded by two agents. That would be messy. God only knew what was happening in the suite. He had to get inside quickly, with some element of surprise.

  He tried to recall the floor plan of the hotel suite that he had been given as part of his travel kit. The large living room was flanked by a bath, bar-room, and two bedrooms. Located off the bar-room was a pantry and a service entrance that could be entered from a rear hall.

  Ron Sawyer left the main corridor through a fire door that entered into a servants’ corridor.

  Another agent lounged against the wall near the pantry entrance to the suite. He stood erect as Ron approached and then relaxed as he recognized his fellow agent.

  “What’s up, Sawyer?”

  “Message for Ruby One.”

  “Right.” The agent leaned over and unlocked the pantry entrance, and Ron slipped inside.

  The serving pantry was unlit, but a dim light came through from the bar-room, just off the main living room. He heard a low hum of voices but couldn’t decipher what they were saying.

  Nothing had happened—yet.

  He unbuttoned his sport coat and drew the Magnum from its holster. He slipped from the pantry in a crouch, the heavy revolver braced with both hands. Inside the bar-room he was able to look into the living-room area through partially open louvered doors.

  The President sat in a wing chair facing him, Liz was to his right, and Cory Williams was hunched forward in a straight chair ten or twelve feet in front of Orville Crescatt.

  Ron Sawyer stepped through the louvered doors in a shooting crouch. He planted both feet firmly and leaned slightly forward in a textbook shooting stance.

  Elizabeth Cresscatt saw him first. “Mr. Sawyer?”

  “Don’t move, Williams!”

  Cory’s shoulders stiffened as his back muscles bunched. He slowly stood without turning.

  “Raise ’em.” Ron Sawyer watched with satisfaction as Cory’s hands slowly rose into the air.

  The President also stood. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Sawyer?”

  Ron slowly approached Cory, shoved him against the wall, and searched his body thoroughly for weapons. He didn’t answer Crescatt’s demand until he was convinced Cory was unarmed. “This man is Cory Williams, sir. He’s the guy in Connecticut who took a shot at you in the motorcade.”

  “I know who he is.”

  Ron gave Cory an unceremonious shove that sprawled him across a nearby couch. Cory’s face was chalk-white, and he seemed to be hyperventilating. “I don’t understand, sir. This man is wanted by everyone in the country. He escaped from jail, killed a couple of people, and God only knows what else.”

  “Are any other agents aware of his presence?” Crescatt snapped.

  Ron paused before answering. He had violated nearly every rule of his training by making this approach without backup. He could very well have jeopardized his charge’s life. He had taken the risk and prevailed, and now his weapon never wavered from its aim at Cory’s chest. “No, sir. I am alone. I finally recognized the man’s picture. I am sure I will be reprimanded for not realizing earlier who he was.”

  Elizabeth Crescatt crossed to her father’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “I brought him here and gave him my word nothing would happen.”

  The president smiled in the skewed, tight way he often used in situations of great pressure. “It would seem that Mr. Williams is here under a flag of truce, Mr. Sawyer.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, there must be two dozen charges filed against this man in several jurisdictions.”

  “I gave him my word, Mr. Sawyer.” Liz looked directly at Ron.

  Ron Sawyer had never seen eyes so deeply blue. His knees felt weak, and he wondered if it were the tenseness of the situation or the increasing feeling he had for this attractive young woman across the room. “I have a job to …” he mumbled until the thought died. He recovered and glanced at the President without letting the gun waver from Cory. “Sir, I have a sworn oath.”

  “To serve your Commander-in-Chief.”

  “This man is a criminal.”

  Cory’s muscles began to relax. He realized one salient fact. This intense agent was not a member of the Committee. If he were, he would have, without preamble, fired and killed Cory the instant he entered the room. Crescatt’s eyes swiveled from Cory to Sawyer. Cory had the feeling that Crescatt had made the same assumption, and although he still might not believe Cory’s story, he had doubts and uneasiness.

  “I am considering pardoning this man,” Crescatt said after a pause.

  “You what, sir?” Sawyer’s voice cracked in astonishment.

  “You heard me, Sawyer. This man is presently under my protection and under consideration for a presidential pardon. You notice I say ‘consideration.’ I have that power vested in me, you know.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. But this guy’s a …”

  “You will do the following,” Crescatt said in a low voice filled with complete authority. “You will escort this man from the hotel and then leave him where you picked him up. You will not attempt to follow or molest him. You will not discuss the matter with anyone. I emphasize again, you will not discuss this with anyone. You, Mr. Williams, will tell Mr. Sawyer what you told me, and in the same detail. Is that understood by both of you?”

  “Yes,” Cory said.

  Ron Sawyer looked unhappy but finally responded with a reluctant, “Yes, sir.” There goes the old career, Sawyer thought, but he couldn’t help noticing the very large smile Liz gave him.

  “I think you had all better go,” the President said. He shook hands with Cory. “I don’t know what to believe about what you’ve said, Cory. You may be mentally unbalanced, a con artist, or telling the truth as you see it. I helped destroy your father, for which I have no regrets, but I watched you suffer during those weeks in the hearing room. Because of that, I’m giving you a chance … temporarily. I will not be responsible for your complete destruction. What you do tomorrow is your own business, but I order you not to continue with this matter. Is that understood?”

  “I don’t seem to have much choice, sir.”

  “You don’t. Good night.”

  The President and his daughter sat down to await their dinner.

  Cory and the agent had been dismissed, and they left.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I wish I could say that I really enjoyed our stay together … but I can’t.” Thomas Alexander was still bound to the bed in the small hotel room. Apprehensively, he watched Cory and Ginny pack their meager belongings. “You guys aren’t mad, are you? I mean, I’ve been cooperative, haven’t I?” They didn’t turn, and he began to perspire. “You … ah, you aren’t going to do anything to me, are you?”

  Ginny zipped a small carryall and leaned over the bed to kiss Thomas on the forehead. “I hope you get your tenure, Tom.”

  “Thanks.”

  “An hour after we leave, I’ll call the management here and tell them to check the room. They’ll release you.”

  “Woop-de-doo.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic,” Cory said with a hidden smile.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything.”

  “Got everything?” Ginny asked.

  “We’ll g
rab a cab,” Cory said as he stuffed a gag in Alexander’s mouth. He dropped the garage ticket, keys, and car title on the bed next to the bound teacher. “It’s a seventy-two LeBaron. It’s yours if you want it.”

  They walked down the scruffed carpeting to the elevator, where Ginny pressed the down button. “Where to now?”

  “You said California once, didn’t you?”

  “California!” She dropped the carryall and threw her arms around him. “Then it’s over?”

  “It’s over. We rebuild what we can. There’s nothing more I can do.”

  “You tried, Cory. God only knows you took a terrible risk going to Crescatt that way.”

  The elevator door slid open, and two old ladies with dogs smiled at Cory. They stepped into the car and were silent during the ride down to the street level.

  Cory hailed a cruising cab on Commonwealth Avenue and asked for Logan Airport.

  Ginny seemed ecstatic, which only increased his depression. He knew she was happy because the tension was released. The danger of the last few days had taken its toll on both of them, and now the agreement to go to California signaled the end of their quest. Theirs would be a secretive future in some remote town as they gradually tried to assemble new identities and begin a new life.

  She hugged him and whispered into his ear. “Do you think you’re really pardoned?”

  “I think I had an hour’s worth of pardon to fulfill Liz’s commitment to me. We still have to be careful.”

  She grabbed his arm. “We will be, Cory. We will be very careful.”

  “Don’t you ever go off duty, Mr. Sawyer?” the President asked.

  Ron tried to smile. “Occasionally, sir. I’ll be in the limo with you and Elizabeth during the motorcade. We’ll be preceded by a motorcycle escort of local police. We’ll have the closed car and …”

  “No closed car,” Orville Crescatt said.

  “Sir, in all respect, in light of the fact that we both know Mr. Williams is in town and is one of the best marksmen in the …”

  “No closed car and no bubble.”

  “I must insist.”

  “This is a political trip, Mr. Sawyer. It is not a sealed train from Switzerland to the mother country.”

  “Cory Williams with a high-pow—”

  “The open car. By the way did you enjoy Cory’s story last night?”

  “I think he’s nutty as a fruitcake. I hope that later today I will have your permission to put out a bulletin on his presence in Boston.”

  “That would be a little hard for both of us to explain, Mr. Sawyer. No. We shall let the usual procedures snare him—if they can.”

  “He might make another attempt.”

  “Attempts on my life go with the territory, but I don’t think he will.” The President patted Sawyer’s shoulder, and Ron knew why this man could capture the heart and loyalty of so many.

  Crescatt started toward the door of the suite and was joined by Liz. They exited into the nineteenth-floor hallway together.

  The Secret Service hated motorcades with a passion. The dislike went back long before the Kennedy-Dallas catastrophe. As Ron recalled, the morning of his assassination, the agent in charge had begged Kennedy to ride in a closed car. The young President had resisted the offer just as he refused the bubble-top dome.

  Crescatt was the same—they were all the same.

  Sawyer was in a black mood as he boarded the elevator behind the President. His frustrating trip the night before with Cory Williams hadn’t helped. He had debated with himself most of the night as to whether or not he should call his chief and override the President’s command.

  No one could override the President’s administrative command. His career would be over.

  His mood hadn’t been helped this morning when he had informed the other agents on kiddie duty that he was taking another shift of duty. They hadn’t grumbled openly, but he saw by their dark looks that they thought he was using his seniority to build overtime.

  The presidential limousine was waiting by the elevator door in the basement of the hotel. Ron had specifically asked that agent Frank Sommerhill, his driver of the night before, be present this morning. He had served with Sommerhill for three years and knew him to be one of the Service’s best wheel men.

  The motorcade formed outside the hotel garage in the two-block area that had been cordoned off by Boston police. Frank Sommerhill drove, while Ron sat next to him. President Crescatt and Elizabeth occupied the rear seat.

  Frank handed the clipboard holding the motorcade’s operating procedure to Ron. Ron studied the route and flipped several of the pages to familiarize himself with the location of the nearest hospital at various points along the route. Hospitals, at least in Boston, were no problem. The city seemed mostly composed of hospitals and colleges.

  The route had been designed to give the President maximum exposure to lunch-hour pedestrians. The route wound around the Commons and through the downtown area and then took a circuitous route to Faneuil Hall. It would give maximum exposure but also concomitant with that, maximum danger.

  The phalanx of police motorcycles roared to life.

  Ron turned to check on the second car, which contained a group of Secret Service backup men.

  The motorcade began.

  People were ten deep on the perimeter of the Commons. Crescatt waved and occasionally stood to clasp both hands over his head. The President seemed to be truly enjoying the experience, and his daughter glowed with the excitement of the crowd’s adulation.

  Liz’s and Ron’s eyes met and held. There was an electrical spark between them. He turned quickly away to look up at the crowded buildings in the downtown shopping area. Dozens of people hung, out of windows. It was a security nightmare. He adjusted his dark glasses and swept the area on both sides of the street. The sidewalks were packed.

  “You’re going to win, Daddy,” he heard Liz say. “The people are behind you.”

  The motorcade was now in the oldest part of the city. Buildings seemed to crowd the narrow passageway. The mobs on either side of the police cordons contributed to the oppressive feeling of confinement.

  “You tell them, Prez,” a lone voice rang out over the noise of the crowd.

  Ron nearly smiled. The voice was familiar. He was convinced it was the same voice that seemed to always be heard over the broadcaster’s play-by-play from Fenway Park.

  The street took a narrow curve to the right. The buildings seemed even older, the crowds heavier. He turned to see that the agents in the backup car had divided their visual coverage into sectors. Several of them swept the crowd on either side, while others scanned rooftops and windows for possible marksmen.

  He had a disturbing feeling of impending disaster. He knew there was nothing specific to warn him, only an inchoate sense that something was wrong.

  The limousine was moving at less than ten miles an hour. His feelings became more pronounced, and he felt compelled to take some action.

  Ron unsnapped a small walkie-talkie from his belt and raised it to his lips. He pressed the transmit lever.

  “Diamond One to control.”

  “Control.” It was Goldman, from the backup car.

  “Shift. I repeat. Shift.”

  “Shift acknowledged.”

  It was a simple maneuver they had practiced on numerous occasions in order for it to proceed smoothly. On command, the presidential limousine slowed and pulled as far to the right-hand side of the street as possible. The backup car sped forward and took the lead position behind the motorcycle escort. The change of position took less than ten seconds.

  The first explosion occurred after the motorcycle escort and first two limousines had rounded a curve.

  In an automatic movement, Ron Sawyer turned and heaved himself over the seat top. His hands reached for the President and pulled him to the floor of the car, where his body provided a protective shield.

  He recognized the crump of rifle grenades.

  After the third explosi
on, he raised his head over the edge of the window. Flames had begun to spout from the first limousine. The motorcycle police were in disarray. Their cycles were fanned out across the road, on their sides. Several officers lay in crumpled heaps, while a single officer, bracing his service revolver, was firing in slow cadence toward the rooftops of surrounding buildings.

  The situation was apparent to Sawyer. Men armed with automatic rifles and rifle grenade launchers had been positioned by the parapets of surrounding buildings. When the head of the motorcade turned the corner, they had begun to fire. The attackers had assumed that the first car contained the President, and their initial fire had been in that direction.

  There was a crump, flash, and explosion to the side of the car. A grenade hit the sidewalk to their flank. There were yells from civilians lining the sidewalk as screaming shards of shrapnel whipped through the crowd.

  Another crump and explosion to the front of the vehicle.

  The fire from the men on the roofs was now turned in their direction.

  Elizabeth Crescatt, sprawled across the rear seat, screamed.

  Ron snatched at the door handle. He tumbled off the President onto the hard pavement and turned to snatch at the President’s collar. “Come on!” His yell was lost in the crash of another explosion.

  He pulled the President from the car and then reached for Liz. “What’s happening?” she screamed in his ear.

  “Come on!”

  He pulled both of them by the hand and ran toward the sidewalk.

  Additional agents from the rear of the motorcade, many armed with automatic weapons, had run around the bend in the road. They directed their fire toward the rooftops.

  The sidewalk in front of Sawyer and the Crescatts was littered with dead and wounded from an exploded grenade. They hopscotched over the bodies and ran toward a narrow doorway that led to an unused loft.

  Ron’s shoulder hit the door with a shattering crunch that snapped the lock. The door slapped inward, and he jerked the President and Liz inside.

  They pressed their backs against the wall of the narrow hallway as the firing continued outside.