Game Bet

by Forrest, Richard;

  “We’re out of the line of fire,” Ron yelled as he shoved Crescatt and Liz away from the door and down the hall.

  He shielded the presidential family with his body and faced the narrow doorway with his Magnum ready.

  At the initial explosion, Frank Sommerhill had thrown himself from the car and rolled under the protection of the chassis. As the firing continued, he rolled out from under the car and ran a zigzag course toward the hallway where they huddled.

  Ron pulled the agent inside and pushed him down the hall. “Cover the rear!”

  “Right!”

  Boston City police had joined the firefight. The massive firepower of the combined forces of police and agents had begun to take its toll on the several men on the roofs.

  Sirens blanked the sound of gunfire.

  Ron turned from the street to tell Crescatt that they were regaining control.

  The shots outside the doorway faded from his senses as he saw what was happening in the narrow hallway.

  Frank Sommerhill was slowly raising his revolver until it pointed directly at the President’s forehead.

  Orville Crescatt’s eyes widened in fear.

  Liz seemed unaware of what was transpiring as she faced the street and clutched Ron’s coat sleeve.

  Sommerhill intended to shoot the President. It was only the years of training directed toward the man’s protection that made him hesitate for the briefest of moments.

  The hesitation was long enough for the President to have a full awareness of what was happening; and long enough for Ron’s Magnum to jerk twice in his hand.

  Sommerhill was knocked backward down the hall and was dead before his body stopped rolling on the floor.

  CHAPTER 22

  The plane began its gradual descent over the Sierra Nevada mountains. It broke into clear sky, and the cabin was flooded with bright sun. The torpid passengers began to stretch. Conversation became more animated. Cory was an exception to the new vitality surrounding them. He was filled with depression combined, with malaise.

  From time to time Ginny looked at him with concern and occasionally squeezed his arm. He would nod at her and try to smile. He clutched the arm rests as if the pressure of his hands would forcibly clear his mind and turn his thoughts toward the problems they faced.

  There was the question of new identity, which would be complicated by their lack of funds. After payment for the airfare and the Boston expenses, they were down to a few hundred dollars. They would only have enough money for two to three weeks of frugal living.

  The question of ID was number one on the list of priorities. A new Social Security card and driver’s license for each of them was imperative. Additional ID such as bank accounts, library cards, and credit cards would give their new identities veracity.

  The 747 landed, and they deplaned.

  “At least we don’t have to wait for luggage,” Ginny said as she hefted the small carryall from the luggage rack, which contained all their possessions.

  The headline on the paper in the newspaper rack at the end of the corridor leading to the street jumped out at Cory. His hands shook as he bent forward to jam a coin in the mechanism and snatch up a copy of the L.A. Times:

  ATTEMPT ON LIFE OF PRESIDENT FURIOUS GUN BATTLE IN BOSTON

  The headline took up nearly half the front page. Cory leaned against the wall and scanned the four-column article. He flipped to the interior of the paper and handed the front page to Ginny. Agent Ron Sawyer’s quick thinking and speedy movements were singled out as having saved the life of President Orville Crescatt. Agent Frank Sommerhill valiantly gave his life in the defense of the chief executive, as did several uniformed Boston police and five additional agents.

  Cory finished the article and tucked the paper under his arm.

  “Maybe they’ll believe you now,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  They moved out into bright sunlight and boarded a bus labeled “Hollywood.”

  The room they rented in a downtown motor inn was seedier than the Boston hotel. Their quarters would more than likely get worse before they got better, Cory thought.

  He lay on the bed while Ginny went out to find a fast-food store.

  His own feelings had outweighed what was happening around him. He had ignored her and unfairly placed her in high-risk situations, and she had not complained.

  Cory jackknifed from the bed and walked into the bathroom and began to lather his face. The hell with fast food! He would use some of their last reserve of money and take her out for a decent meal. It would be their first since the days in the oceanside cottage.

  He finished shaving and turned on the shower. He shucked his clothes and stepped into the brisk spray.

  It would be a new life. By God, he would make it a good one. There were a dozen details to work out, but it could be done. She could work as a waitress to supplement their meager funds, while he got day-laboring jobs. He knew that most cities had labor exchanges. Men were always needed to unload furniture or act as temporary warehouse help. There were such jobs, and they paid daily, without questions. It would hold them over until they were able to make long-term plans.

  The splatter of water across his body refreshed him. His spirits began to rise. He finished showering and was toweling when he heard the knock at the door.

  She must have locked herself out or was burdened with packages. He wrapped the towel around his middle and opened the door with a flourish.

  He stated into the barrel of a .357 Magnum.

  The man with the gun stepped into the room. He shoved the barrel against Cory’s naked chest and kicked the door closed. “You really got sloppy when you left Boston,” Ron Sawyer said. “You armed?”

  “I dropped my gun into a trash basket at Logan Airport.”

  Ron shook his head. He cautiously opened the closet door and then peeked into the bathroom. He pushed aside the shower curtain with the barrel of the pistol. “Where’s the girl?”

  “We split.”

  “Bullshit! She’s been with you all the way.”

  “Boston was too much for her. Listen, Sawyer, I didn’t have anything to do with that Boston attempt.”

  Sawyer sat near the window but still kept the gun trained on Cory. “I know you didn’t. The way I reconstruct it, you were releasing the language teacher at the time of the attack.”

  Cory nodded. “Can I dress?”

  “Go ahead. Where’s the girl?”

  “Why don’t you just-tell me what’s going on? Are you taking us in?”

  Sawyer shook his head. “Nope. But I’ll tell you something. I had to have help to find you, and some of that help may not be too reliable. They’re right behind us, Cory. They’re breathing down our tails. If we don’t get out of this motel fast, we may never get out.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It sure in hell is supposed to.”

  There was a key click in the door. Sawyer threw himself against the wall and braced his gun as Ginny, her arms laden with packages, stepped into the room.

  She took a quick look at Cory and then turned to face Ron Sawyer. “Oh,” she said softly.

  “Anybody following you?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t look.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sawyer said as Cory zipped his pants and stuffed his feet into shoes. “I’ve got a rental car parked out back. Bring the food. I haven’t eaten all day. Come on! Hurry! Leave everything.” He holstered the Magnum and bustled them out the door and down the hall.

  “Will you tell us what in hell’s going on?” Cory asked as they drove away from the motel.

  “Uh huh,” Sawyer answered noncommittally as he wove in and out of traffic, keeping a constant watch out the rearview mirror. “I think we’re clean.”

  “Clean from what?” Ginny asked.

  “Being followed.”

  “By who?” she asked ingenuously.

  “If we knew that, we wouldn’t have a problem.”

  “H
ow’d you find us?”

  Sawyer snorted. “You two are a couple of amateurs. Did you really think the heat was off and you didn’t have to take care?”

  “If you found us, that means others can also just as easily.”

  “Not quite. I knew you were in Boston, and had other information that made it easier.”

  “Explain.”

  “When we get on the plane.” Sawyer swiveled the wheel to screech the car down a side street. It careened into a parking lot, circled, and came out again to head back the way they had come. He silently observed the cars they passed. “I think we’re all right,” he finally said. “At least for the time being.”

  “Damn it all, Sawyer! What in hell is going on? What plane are you talking about, and where are we going?”

  “Air Force Three,” the Secret Service agent said laconically. “And we’re going to Camp David. I’ll explain when we’ve boarded.”

  They entered Los Angeles International Airport by a circuitous route and drove to a remote portion of the runway through an unused gate. The 707 was parked near the gate. Sawyer slammed on the brakes and signaled for them to hurry. They trotted toward the loading ramp. Ginny still carried bags of Chinese food.

  As they approached the plane, Cory noticed that it was guarded by half a dozen young soldiers holding automatic weapons. He tapped Sawyer on the shoulder and pointed at the soldiers.

  “I’ll explain,” the agent said as he ushered them up the steps into the main cabin.

  Once they were aboard, soldiers clambered up the steps after them. Doors shut, and the plane began to roll down the runway.

  “We have priority clearance for take-off,” Sawyer said as they strapped themselves into seats.

  The plane rushed down the runway and quickly approached take-off speed. The soldiers moved into a rear cabin. They could dimly hear their chatter as the door between them closed.

  “Those were eighty-second Airborne troops,” Cory said.

  “Yes. We have a company of them at Camp David.”

  “You’re going to explain?”

  Ron Sawyer braced himself and grasped the edge of the seat with a grip that turned his knuckles white. “Soon as we take off. You know, flying scares the hell out of me.”

  Cory settled back in his seat and watched the ground spin away as the plane made a sweep over the Pacific Ocean and banked for an easterly heading.

  They were nearly at cruising altitude when a male Air Force steward served them drinks. Ron tore into the food Ginny had so laboriously carried during their race for the plane. He munched an egg roll and spooned shrimp chow mein into a blue-bordered plate the steward provided.

  “Okay, from the top. You know about the newest attempt on the President’s life?”

  “Only what I read in the paper. I’m sorry your friend, Frank Sommerhill, was hit. Wasn’t he the agent who drove us in Boston?”

  Sawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, he was. I should tell you that Sommerhill’s actions were what convinced both President Crescatt and me to believe your story.”

  “How’s that?”

  “During the firefight we hid in a narrow hallway. That’s where Sommerhill tried to kill the President.”

  “Good God! Then they’ve reached into your agency?”

  “Obviously.”

  “What happened to Sommerhill? The papers said …”

  “The papers printed what I told them. I killed him.” The statement was made matter-of-factly, but Cory could discern the pain lines etched in the agent’s face. He knew how Sawyer felt.

  “And that convinced you?”

  “That and the fact that a police report told me that at the time of the attack you were releasing the language instructor.”

  “That’s what put you on to us?”

  “Like I said earlier, sloppy. You mentioned a cab in front of the teacher. It wasn’t hard to put it together and trace you to California and then to the motel.”

  “You operate pretty damn fast.”

  “I had plenty of help, and that’s what worries me. We sent out a call from Washington that I was to be given the highest priority for the search … but damn, Cory! We don’t know who we can trust anymore.”

  “Which is why the President is holed up at Camp David?”

  “Yes. We flew in a company of paratroops from Fort Bragg with specific instructions that we wanted it commanded by officers of less than field rank.”

  “Hoping that the committee hadn’t reached down into the junior officer corps.”

  “Right.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “He’ll tell you when we get there.” Sawyer picked up a barbecued spare rib and munched on it. “Hell of a mess, hey?”

  They landed at Andrews Air Force Base and once again taxied to a corner of the runway far from the main buildings. A government station wagon was waiting for them and left through a little-used gate as soon as they boarded.

  They were silent during the ride through Maryland to Camp David.

  Ginny nodded in exhaustion. Her head fell against Cory’s shoulder, and her eyes closed. In seconds she was asleep.

  “There’s a motel on the way that will be safe,” Ron Sawyer said.

  “I think she needs sleep more than anything else,” Cory replied. “She’s gone two days without it.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’ll make it.”

  It took them minutes to check Ginny into the motel. She fell across the bed and was asleep before Cory could undress her. He slipped her shoes off, pulled a light blanket over her, and slipped quietly from the room.

  At the presidential retreat gate they were stopped by two Airborne sergeants and ordered to leave the vehicle. After a close inspection and a telephone call with someone in the interior of the enclave, they were herded into a jeep and driven inside.

  Cory noticed that fifty caliber machine gun emplacements had been positioned to give the guns interlocking fields of fire. The place was an armed camp filled with grim-faced young troopers in combat fatigues and shiny jump boots.

  The President of the United States wore an L. L. Bean red checkered shirt, denim pants, loafers, and had developed a marked tic in his right eye. He paced the room with a telegraph flimsy dangling loosely from his left hand.

  He stopped before the fireplace, where low flames crackled merrily in contrast to the group’s mood. He leaned against the mantel and ran the fingers of his right hand over the tremor in his face.

  Cory and Ron Sawyer sat on a couch facing the fireplace. Al Smythe, a wheezing raillike man, chain-smoked in a nearby easy chair. He had a pad open on his thin knees. Elizabeth Crescatt sat in a matching chair on the far side of the room.

  Cory had been introduced to Smythe when they were ushered into the room. He knew from reading Time that Smythe, the President’s closest political advisor, was considered one of the most astute political minds of the century. He had been partially responsible for the populist coalition that the twice-elected Crescatt had utilized.

  “I am afraid of a coup, d’état,” President Crescatt said.

  “I believe there are only a thousand of them, sir,” Cory said.

  “Which thousand?” Smythe snapped. “They’re strong enough to have infiltrated the Secret Service. Sommerhill proved that.”

  “Assumptions,” Crescatt said. He seemed to be speaking to himself more than the group. “The Committee has been in existence for a number of years. We can assume that it has managed to place members in high-ranking military positions.”

  “And the intelligence apparatus, FBI, and CIA,” Smythe added as he doodled on his pad.

  “It would be safe to assume that one or more officers of the cabinet are members.”

  “And they’re represented in Congress.”

  “Of course,” Crescatt said. “But who are they?” He looked down at the flimsy in his hand and read it aloud. “Members of the attacking group in Boston positively identified as members of the Cuban underground. Sig
ned: Dunlap—FBI.”

  Smythe frowned. “Which Cubans? Pro- or anti-Castro, or were they our own dupes, like the Watergate burglars?”

  “Is the information reliable to begin with, sir?” Sawyer asked. “What I mean, we don’t know how far they’ve gone or who they control.”

  Crescatt wadded the flimsy and thrust it into the fireplace. He watched the paper char and burst into flames. “That’s just it. We’re in a position where we can’t trust anyone or any legitimate institution. I am sure that ninety percent of the Secret Service and other agencies are loyal and not involved with the Committee. Our problem is that we don’t have the foggiest as to who or where the remaining ten, five, or one percent are.”

  “Your opponents are going to make political hay while you’re a prisoner here,” Smythe said. “In that sense, you are as nullified as if you were—”

  “Dead.”

  “I think there’s something you should know, Orville,” Smythe said. “My sources tell me that in a few days the story will leak that you were wounded in Boston, that you are unable to continue in office.”

  “And pressure will build for me voluntarily to step aside and allow the Vice-President to assume office.”

  “On a temporary basis,” Smythe said sardonically.

  “If we only knew who they were,” Sawyer said. “A thousand! Hell! We could place them all under surveillance and isolate them in a dozen ways. We could render the whole damn Committee ineffectual.”

  “That’s a big ‘if,’ Sawyer.”

  “You’re the key, Cory,” Crescatt said. “You were in on this before anyone else. There’s got to be something you know or heard, some clue that will allow us to sever the head of this hydra.”

  “I told you, sir. They operate in three-man cells, none of which are known to one another.”

  “There has to be control,” Sawyer added impatiently. “There’s someone, somewhere, who knows who the cells are and where they are. They can’t operate completely independently or they wouldn’t be able to mount an operation like they did in Boston.”

  “The Vice-President has the most to gain,” Liz Crescatt said.

  “No,” her father said. “I’ve known the man for years. He’s not capable of duplicity on such a scale. The man just isn’t bright enough.”