She knew that if the temperature inside the freezing unit rose or fell one-tenth of a degree, the chemical structure of the bullet would be altered and the mission would have to be aborted. The assassin had spent years perfecting this technique – building the needed equipment and formulating the deadly projectile.
A shiver of excitement tingled her skin. This kill was going to be particularly satisfying: the challenge of pulling off this operation in the heart of Washington. D.C, on a man of such political stature was a career maker. After this she would be able to name her price on the world market. She ceased her train of thought knowing that she couldn’t permit emotion to cloud her judgment. As easily as placing a can of soup back into a cupboard because she wasn’t hungry, she set aside her feelings.
Timing was critical. She wouldn’t have a second chance. She wouldn’t need one, she knew, her grip firm on the weapon. The bullet she would fire contained frozen sodium azide, a metabolic inhibitor. In solid form it could be fired from a high-powered rifle.
At a muzzle velocity of 2.798 feet per second, the round would melt after precisely one hundred yards. Upon hitting the target, it would penetrate the body like an injection, but leave no sign of entry. When sodium azide invaded the bloodstream, the substance blocked all of the cells’ ability to produce energy; the bodily functions affected simply stopped. The key was to hit the target in the chest so that the first organ to fail was the heart, giving the appearance of cardiac arrest.
The subject veered to the left, heading toward the Tidal Basin. The assassin flipped open the cooler. She grasped the metal tongs to shift the bullet to the gun. The projectile could only occupy the chamber for a maximum of 5.2 seconds.
She kept her eyes trained on the target as he crossed the bridge and followed the road to the right. Ten… nine… eight… Although excited, her hands remained steady. She’d rehearsed until her timing was ingrained. She glanced up at the target to check his progress, then down at the stopwatch. Three… Two… one… With the tongs, she picked up the bullet, loaded the rifle, and set the timer. She glanced again at her target, then drew in a calming breath.
The jogger passed a tree, then started up Seventeenth Street toward the White House. The end of the Reflecting Pool, at the base of the Lincoln Memorial, was designated as the kill zone. The assassin took aim The jogger reached the zone. She discharged her weapon, the suppressor muffling the report. The subject took a stride, then collapsed onto the lawn like a child exhausted from play.
The assassin rolled onto her back in the cool grass. She felt the tension seep from her pores and drain away. She gave herself one moment of respite, then in a fluid motion, sat up and drew her lightweight woolen cape around her body.
Without looking back at the scene, she pulled the rifle and the cryogenic cooler under the folds of her cape. These items had to be disposed of according to her plan. She made her way across the lawn of the Washington Monument, crossing Constitution Avenue and strolling quickly up Fifteenth Sheet. Her body, tense just moments before, relaxed as she cut through Pershing Park, crossed E Sheet, and arrived at the Hotel Washington where her limousine waited.
The Washington Post
April 30. 1996
Senator Dies While Jogging
WASHINGTON , D.C. – Senator William Rudly of Missouri died yesterday morning while jogging. Preliminary reports indicate the senator had a massive coronary. His body was discovered near the corner of Seventeenth Street and Constitution Avenue by another jogger. Paramedics tried to revive him, but he was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital.
TWENTY-FOUR
May 5,1996 – Jefferson City, Missouri
Jack crossed the tiled floor of his father’s kitchen, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. He thought back over the past week. The days were blurred. All he could remember were snatches of time, glimpses of the events that had transpired. He felt as if he were on remote control. The refrigerator door swung open easily. Thee cans of soda were the only contents. Jack popped the top of one of them and chugged two gulps. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat or drink anything else all day.
He sat in a kitchen chair, and set the soda can on the table. His gaze landed on the telephone. The last time he’d spoken to his father, Jack thought, he’d probably been sitting in this very spot. Jack dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his dry eyes. The tears had yet to come. Everything felt surreal, distant and detached, as if he were watching a movie in which he was the star.
Jack noted the time. 1:35 P.M. The funeral had been that morning, followed by a reception at his father’s secretary’s home. She’d made all of the arrangements, and for that Jack was grateful.
He stood, then wandered into his father’s study. The room felt cold and dead. At one time, his father’s energy had radiated in the masculine air of his office, but now that atmosphere was gone. Vanished with the one person he’d loved and respected most in the world. Jack’s heart ached, a tangible persistent pain that weighted his chest.
Bookcases lined the walls. The shelves were filled with books and the memorabilia of an accomplished diplomat and politician. Jack scanned the collection, his eyes stopping on pictures of his father standing next to various world leaders. On the fireplace mantel was a picture of himself, at age eight with his mother and father. Now, Jack thought, he was all alone.
His mother had died when he was just a boy, then his wife, and now his father. Some things were beyond his control, he told himself, yet he remained unconvinced.
He made his way around his father’s large oak desk, sat in his high-backed leather chair, and picked up the phone. The scent of his father’s aftershave lingered on the receiver. Jack closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He paused for a few moments, then dialed his secretary.
With any luck his secretary, Maureen, would be in. No matter where Jack worked, Maureen was a constant he insisted on having.
Maureen answered on the second ring. “How are you?”
“I’m hanging in.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Everything’s been taken care of.” Jack raked his fingers through his hair. “Right now, I just need to know what Today wants me to do. I can be back in Montana tomorrow.”
“You need to take some time off. Take care of yourself for once.” Maureen’s voice was soothing.
“No, the best thing for me right now is to get back to work. Sitting around here will make me crazy.”
“They’ve already assigned someone else to the Unabomber story.”
“What?” Jack slammed his hand against the desk. “I landed the interview with Kaczynski, it’s my story. Why the hell did they do that? Call those bastards and tell them I’m on it. Forget it, I’ll call them myself.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. Your father just passed away, you need to take some time. Your head’s not in the game, and you know it.”
Jack leaned back in his father’s chair. “My head is always in the game.” he muttered. That’s the problem, he almost said, but stopped. Journalism consumed him, everything else in his life took a backseat, including his wife and even his father. Now, they were gone. But everyone made choices, and his was always the career.
“Come off it. You are in no shape to cover anything.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Maureen was probably right, and he just didn’t have the energy to fight right now. “Who’d they assign to the story?”
“Marsha Reed.” Maureen’s tone was flat.
“Damn, she’ll do a good job too.”
“I’m sure she will, so why don’t you give it a rest? Take the time you need. I’m sure there are matters you need to resolve for your father. You’re needed in Missouri right now, not Montana.”
Jack glanced around the study. “There’s more to do here than I care to deal with,” he said softly.
“Are you all right? I could fly there and help you.”
“Thanks, you’re a great friend. But no, I’m fine. I can handle it.”
‘There’s just one more thing.“
“What’s that?”
“A package came for you on Friday.”
“I’ll pick it up as soon as I get back to Washington. I shouldn’t be more than a few days.”
“The package was from your dad.”
Jack rubbed his eyes. “But my dad knew I wouldn’t be there.”
“I don’t know his reasoning, but it’s here. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Open it. I want to know what it is – no, on second thought, overnight it to me. Do you think you can still mail it today?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see what I can do. If not, you’ll get it day after tomorrow.”
“Fine. And, Maureen, thanks for everything. I’m sorry I was short with you.”
“No problem Just try to get some rest. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Jack swiveled the chair until he faced the window. Talking to Maureen exacerbated his confusion. Wasn’t he supposed to cry? My God, he’d just buried his father. What did this say about him?
Had he seen so much of life that he’d become desensitized? Maybe he wasn’t human anymore. He obviously wasn’t capable of emotion. All he felt was a deep penetrating emptiness, a void. His shoulders slumped forward. He placed his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his fists as he stared unseeingly out the window. He’d never been one to run from life, but damn if this didn’t feel like the perfect time to lace up his Nikes.
***
Jack awoke to the sound of the doorbell. He read the clock: 7:20 A.M. Bare-chested, he pulled on his jeans, stumbled down the steps and swung open the door.
“Overnight mail, sign here,” the FedEx man said.
Good old Maureen, Jack thought, as he padded barefoot, with his package, to the kitchen. He ripped open the top of the large envelope and pulled out a small stack of documents and a note from his father.
Dear Jack,
Just sending these copies to you for safekeeping. At this point, I don’t know if any of this information about the Lane’s is valid. I haven’t been able to verify anything. When you have a chance, call me and we’ll discuss it. I’ve thought over our disagreement and you’re right. I’m not very good at investigating these types of things, and I need your help. Maybe you could give me some pointers?
Love, Dad
Jack glanced at the papers, most of which were his father’s notes,documenting conversations, between himself, Mort Fields, and Adam Miles, Edmund Lane ’s best friend and business associate, regarding the Lanes and specifically Carolyn. Jack stopped reading, and considered the dynamics of these men. Mort Fields was not a friend of his father’s, still it was easier to explain than Adam Miles. Not only was Adam a close friend of Edmund’s, but he and Bill frequently disagreed. What would inspire Adam to turn to Bill? Jack wondered.
Jack continued reading. Bill’s notes mentioned Winston Cain. Interesting. From his days in intelligence. Jack knew of Cain. Cain, a former counterintelligence agent for the CIA, owned and operated a private investigation agency rumored to be a mercenary-for-hire business. The notes referenced an employment contract with Cain, but didn’t include a copy of the document. Jack seriously doubted one existed. Cain didn’t make the types of agreements that one put a pen to and signed.
The rest of the papers were copies of legal forms indicating that Carolyn Lane might have done some work for Fields. The documents appeared to be from some sort of corporation or holding company, but the names of the stockholders were not disclosed. Since the papers weren’t the originals, it was hard to know if they were valid.
Why would Mort Fields turn over this information? Jack wondered. The whole scenario was odd. It made no sense for Carolyn to be involved in any contracts with Mort; she was a prosecutor, not a corporate attorney. At the bottom of the last page of notes was one handwritten word- Council- but there was no definition or reference to this word anywhere else in the papers.
Jack knew that his father’s last appointment in Missouri had been with Carolyn Lane. This too, was odd. Threads, Jack thought, these were just threads of information and certainly not enough to weave together any type of a conclusion.
The kitchen wall clock read 8:03. A realtor was due to look at the house around eighty-thirty, and Jack needed a shower. He shoved the papers back into the envelope. He had a lot to do right now, and none of it pertained to local politics. The Lanes would have to wait.
TWENTY-FIVE
November 8,1996 – Jefferson City, Missouri
Warner Hamilton Lane escorted Carolyn through the lobby of the hotel closest to campaign headquarters. Together they started up the flight of stairs that led to the mezzanine level, then stopped on the sixth stair, turned, and waved to the crowd. Carolyn raised their clasped hands high in the air as a cheer went up from the crowd.
This was the way it was meant to be, Warner thought. Carolyn was dressed in a sea foam green suit with cream trim, and her honey colored hair flowed gracefully around her shoulders. She caught his appraisal, and her eyes locked with his. Warner squeezed her hand, then shifted his gaze back to the crowd, but his thoughts remained on her.
Indeed she was beautiful, and win or lose, she had orchestrated his reelection campaign brilliantly. Carolyn had designed every aspect of their strategy, from policy making and critical timing, to personal appearances and commercials. She’d even given up her role as a prosecutor. Granted, he’d joined the Council, but they were in the background, and he couldn’t discount her efforts. If he won, it was her victory.
His smile remained fixed, but he felt a bittersweet twinge in his heart. A victory would mean the necessary step closer to the White House. With Bill Rudly’s death he’d be the senior senator, positioning him perfectly. But it would also lock him permanently into a loveless marriage. He wished he could change his feelings for Carolyn, but that wasn’t possible.
Warner followed Carolyn as she made her way up the rest of the stairs to the mezzanine, where they headed into the elevator. Deja vu, Warner thought. Six years earlier he’d made this ride to the very same suite to watch the election results come in. The difference then had been that Carolyn wasn’t by his side. Now, her presence dominated the campaign. And her popularity was undeniable. Had she made a profound difference? He was about to find out.
The Jefferson City Democrat
November 9,1996
Lane Re-Elected to the U.S. Senate
TWENTY-SIX
January, 1997 – Jefferson City, Missouri
Carolyn inspected their new home in the gated community she loved so much. She surveyed the paint job in every room on the first floor, then headed upstairs to look at the master bedroom.
Carolyn flopped onto the bed, pulled an afghan over her legs, and closed her eyes. She controlled the urge to jump up and down on the mattress in delight, and contented herself with the pleasure of lying quietly and savoring their victory. They’d done it on their own, without Warner’s father. She filled her lungs, then exhaled slowly.
Now Warner was the senior senator. As much as she had disagreed with Bill Rudly, she felt a sense of loss for the country. Bill had been an honorable man and a good senator. She knew he fought for what he believed in, and she respected that quality. Bill Rudly had been a man with an honest purpose and no favors to pay. Carolyn remained sprawled across the bed. The sound of muted voices and footsteps echoed off the hardwood floor of the main hall as movers filled the residence with her possessions.
She reflected on Warner, aware that his behavior toward her had improved. Even if she no longer had his love, she knew that she’d regained his respect and appreciation.
Now, he held the most powerful senatorial seat in Missouri. Because of their teamwork, he was on the track to the White House.
Working as a prosecutor, she had fought for justice on a case-by-case level, but, as Warner’s partner, she would be positioned to design the much needed legislative reforms in social services and drug enforcement for the entire country.
The time had come for Warner to present her ideas as a part of his political platform, his vision for the country. They both knew that he owed her that much. And she intended to collect on that debt.
TWENTY-SEVEN
February, 1999 – Jefferson City, Missouri
Carolyn sat next to her assistant. Katherine Seals, in front of her computer. “Internet lesson number nine-hundred-fifty-four.” Carolyn said with a laugh. “Will I ever digest all of this?”
“Of course.” Katherine responded. “You have to remember, I’ve been working with computers for years.”
Carolyn knew that information was the key to success. And, she had to admit, finding herself on the learning curve again was exciting.
“I know you majored in computer science in college, but how did you become so proficient?”
“My real education came from my old boss, Clayton Small, at the National Security Agency,” Katherine said.
Carolyn paused, searching her memory. “Wasn’t he part of the espionage story Jack Rudly broke? Something about trapping a German spy who tapped into our military computers.”
Carolyn saw pain flash in Katherine’s eyes.
“After I graduated, Clayton offered me a job at NSA in Information Systems Security. I worked with him for several years, and learned more about computers in that time than I learned in my four years at Berkeley. He’s an incredible man.”
“Why’d you leave?”
Katherine met Carolyn’s gaze. “I had no choice. Jack Rudly saw to that.”
“What happened?”
“I’d rather not go into it. Let’s just say that I thought my trust was well placed, but I was wrong. Never date a journalist.”
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