When he left, he inadvertently drove several blocks toward his and Dray’s house before realizing his mistake and turning around. Passing a park where he used to take Ginny, he broke out in a clammy sweat. He detoured, heading past the long drive leading to Kindell’s garage. The . 357 fit snugly in his old hip holster. He removed it and pressed it to his thigh, felt its heat even through his jeans. The fact that he had again moved from grief to anger was not lost on him.
Anger was easier.
After driving downtown, showering, and cleaning his gun, he stretched out on his bed and finally checked the Nokia’s messages. Two, both from Dray, over the past couple hours.
She sounded discouraged on the first. “I’ve been hitting walls in every direction on the accomplice angle. I finally caved and called the LAPD detectives who worked Kindell’s priors-they were actually really kind, had heard about Ginny…” She cleared her throat, hard. “They still wouldn’t give me specifics, but they took a turn through their case logs and assured me there weren’t any trails or red flags. Almost all of what they had, they said, would be in the court transcripts, which I already have. I played the guilt card with Gutierez and Harrison, pressed them pretty hard, and they rousted Kindell for us one last time. Said he’s not talking-his lawyer made real clear that keeping his mouth shut is what’s gonna keep him out of jail. He’s a regular constitutional expert now, even ordered them off his property unless they were gonna press charges. We’re not gonna get anything from him. Ever.” A deep sigh. “I hope things are panning out better on your end.”
The sadness expressed in her voice on the first message gave way to irritation on the second, since Tim hadn’t gotten back to her. He tried her first at the office, then at home, finally leaving a vague message saying he had nothing to report on his end and explaining he’d wanted to wait until he was alone to talk to her. Hearing her voice, even on a recording, set the hook of his grief more firmly.
He took a moment to consider how lucky he was to have so much to do.
He relieved Robert at four o’clock. Robert slid out of the coffee-shop booth, leaving a clipboard full of notes and charts on the table, hidden in the Newsweek. Tim sat and glanced through his jottings. Calendar of movements, times the trash went out, security positions. It was impossible to deny Robert’s proficiency.
Tim sipped coffee and watched who came out of which exits and when. Just before five he crossed the street, passing the immense window full of suspended TVs, and entered the lobby-a large marble cavern with a grotesquely baroque chandelier, oddly dated given the building’s exterior. Just inside, a newly positioned guard directed a perfunctory glance at Tim’s license-thank you, Tom Altman, RIP-before letting him pass. A huge screen, composed of sixteen close-set TVs, formed the west wall. No side doors, no open stairs, no pillars behind which to hide. About twenty yards in from the revolving doors, a massive security console greeted visitors.
Tim took note of the cameras at each corner of the ceiling before acknowledging the security guard with a nervous smile. “Yeah, hi, I, uh, I was wondering if I could fill out a job application form. For, you know, maintenance or whatever.”
“Sorry, sir, there’s a hiring freeze right now. You might want to try ABC. I’ve heard they’re looking.”
Tim leaned forward on the counter for a moment, taking in the bank of bluish-white screens the guard was monitoring. The angles were largely south-facing, capturing the faces of visitors as they entered. Tim searched them for blind spots. “Thanks anyways.”
“No problem, sir.”
Tim turned and headed out. The security lenses above the revolving doors represented the sole cameras devoted to recording people as they exited. Tim kept his head lowered when he pushed through onto the sidewalk.
He took a new post in the window booth of a deli next door to Lipson’s Pharmacy and Medical Supplies. Munching on pastrami, he recorded the order of the office lights blinking out on the eleventh floor.
17
THE SURVEILLANCE WAS continuous over the next forty-eight hours, an endless cycle of coffee and leg cramps. Meanwhile, public outrage against Lane continued to grow, and death threats kept pouring in. KCOM had begun promoting the interview almost around the clock-ads graced buses and taxi tops, and commercials launched on KCOM’s affiliated radio station supplemented the aggressive TV campaign.
The entire city seemed to be holding its breath, awaiting the event.
Tim observed the intensifying circus atmosphere with equal parts awe and concern-the security machinations, gleaned through the Stork’s wiretapping and Rayner’s rooting, were ever shifting. Tim’s plan nearly had to be scrapped several times, the first when KCOM’s legal department started making noises about retracting the live aspect of the interview, wanting to prerecord Lane at an unspecified time as a security precaution. Next Lane wanted to shift the meeting to a secret location, for his own safety and cachet, but Yueh was understandably uncomfortable with this, given Lane’s history and notorious hatred of the media. With the support of the brass, KCOM security finally threw down a veto, preferring to deal with variables contained in-plant rather than opening up a new locale. For this concession Lane extracted the promise that the interview would remain live, so his gospel couldn’t get misrepresented or chopped up in edit. KCOM marketing and Yueh herself were more than happy to comply-putting a live spin on Event TV had already served to up the PR ante. To exploit the hype further, an added fifteen-minute viewer-call-in segment at the end ensured that Lane could respond to the Angry Public.
The next dogfight predictably involved jurisdiction-LAPD, KCOM security, and Lane’s crackpot bodyguard team were locked in a protracted and bellicose set of negotiations over everything from employee-and public-safety concerns to personnel screening. LAPD predictably forbade nearly half of Lane’s crew from entering the building; the hired replacements, once selected by Lane, would be vetted extensively.
Tuesday night found Tim in the Chevy van’s passenger seat, parked on the narrow street on the north side of the KCOM building, staring at the still-lit window that would have provided a view of the service elevator and the numeric keypad had the run-down truck not remained, infuriatingly unbudged, blocking any useful vantage. The last courier usually arrived between 7:57 and 8:01 P.M.; Tim’s watch showed 6:45.
In his lap he held a stack of photographs, each containing a shot of a KCOM employee, identified by name on the back. Black-op flash cards.
Humming the theme to The Roy Rogers Show, the Stork continued to fuss over what appeared to be a parabolic microphone attached to a small calculator. He fiddled with some wiring, set it down, and pulled a can of red spray paint from the center console.
“What are you doing?” Tim asked for perhaps the fifth time.
The Stork slid out from the driver’s seat. He darted across the street in an approximation of a crouch that he probably thought inconspicuous, but that in reality made him look like a constipated hunchback. He disappeared behind the dilapidated truck and moments later emerged on the far side, bent down, spraying the curb fire-engine red.
He dashed back to the van, leapt in, and sat, recovering his breath. He removed a cell phone from his pocket-yesterday Dumone had brought them all matching Nextels so they’d be operating on the same network-and flipped it open. He dialed 411 and at the prompt asked for Fredo’s Towing.
He spoke in a deepened voice. “Yes, hello. This is KCOM security, over at Wilshire and Roxbury. I have a truck parked here in a red zone we need moved ASAP. Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
He closed the phone and leaned back in his seat, pleased with himself.
“Smart idea, but even if the truck’s moved, we’re not gonna be able to see through the courier’s back to read the code he’s punching in.”
The Stork raised the cone-shaped piece of equipment he’d been tinkering with earlier. “That’s why I brought Betty.”
“Betty?”
“Betty trains a laser on the windowpane. She can pick up every
vibration in the glass.”
Tim shook his head, still not understanding.
“Every number on a keypad emits a slightly different frequency. These frequencies will cause a windowpane to vibrate almost undetectably. Betty reads these vibrations and translates them back to numbers for me.”
“How about other, stronger vibrations? Won’t they interfere?”
“It’s pretty quiet now,” the Stork said. “That’s why we’re doing this at eight o’clock. No gates rolling up, no loading going on at the dock.”
Tim gestured at the piece of equipment. “And you…you designed it?”
“Her. And I wrote the computer program she utilizes.” The Stork sniffed, and his glasses slid a notch down his nose. “Let’s just say they didn’t let me in the FBI for my bench press.”
The tow truck arrived twenty minutes later and hauled off the truck, leaving the Stork a clear angle to the window. The courier arrived earlier than expected-7:53-but the Stork had Betty propped against his door and locked on the glass before the courier entered the code on the keypad. By the time the service-elevator doors slammed shut behind the courier, Betty’s small screen had rendered the code: 78564.
The Stork stroked the top of the parabola and whispered something to it.
“I have to say, Stork, pretty impressive.”
The Stork put the van back in drive and eased out from the curb. “If my aim was to impress you, Mr. Rackley, I would have brought Donna.”
•Rayner pulled Tim inside as soon as he opened the front door. “Good, good. You’re back. Come-we got the tapes you asked for.”
When Tim entered the conference room, Mitchell’s head snapped up from his work. His hair looked slightly frayed; he needed a haircut. Hunched over a phone book, he was tinkering with the explosive device. It lay dissected on the yellow cover, its tiny components spread beside it like electronic innards. Breaching reports were scattered across the table, the pages sporting Mitchell’s chicken-scratch calculations for determining overpressure. Mumbling to himself, Mitchell pried open a coil with the tip of a screwdriver.
Robert and the Stork were still out on surveillance, but the others were present.
Ananberg, cat-languid and smug, arched an eyebrow at Tim by way of greeting. She pointed to a stack of tapes with her pencil. “There’s the rest. View ’em at your leisure.”
“Thank you.”
Dumone tossed Tim the remote. Tim aimed it at the TV, and the video unfroze-a Melissa Yueh interview with Arnold Schwarzenegger from last April, about the prospects of his running for mayor.
One of Tim’s cell phones vibrated-the Nokia, left pocket, not the Nextel supplied by Dumone. He checked Caller ID and turned it off-for Dray’s protection he didn’t want anyone to hear him talking to her.
But Ananberg took note of his expression, pressing a pencil against her lips. “Trouble on the home front?”
Tim ignored her, shifting the tape into slo-mo with another click of the remote. Arnie’s laugh, viewed at eight frames per second, made him look like a man seeking to devour something. He slapped his knee, turned his head, revealing a shaving nick and the tan plug of the earpiece. The lighting made his skin look glossy.
Mitchell watched the screen, trying to figure out what Tim was looking for, tapping his tweezers against the phone book.
Rayner smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Now that we’ve done all the legwork, why don’t you let us in on your plan? We don’t know anything at this point. How are we even supposed to know when it happens?”
“Oh, believe me,” Tim said, eyes still on the screen, “you’ll know when it happens.”
•Parked in the driveway, Tim stared at the house numbers nailed just beneath the porch light, beside the front door: 96775. Years ago he’d pencil-sketched their placement before nailing them to the wall, using a framing square turned at an angle to calculate the slant. The 9 had lost its bottom nail and had swung upside down; it was now a misaligned 6.
He replayed Dray’s last message on his cell phone.
“Well, since you’re too hard to get right now, I’m leaving this on your voice mail. Don’t think you can disappear and work things out at the same time. Since I don’t know where you live, I can’t stop by and try to talk some sense into you, but I’m only gonna wait so long. Come over and let’s talk. I’m working a full schedule again, so call first to make sure I’m around.”
Her voice, hurt veiled thinly with anger, matched his mood. One part of her message in particular stuck in his head: I’m only gonna wait so long. Before she moved on? Before she came looking for him? Because of the demands of the operation, he’d put himself out of touch with her at the worst time. He could hardly be surprised that his remoteness had raised resentment in her.
He slid his wedding band off and eyed the house through it, telescope style. A succinct composition of all he’d allowed to get fucked up. His hand felt naked without the ring, so he put it back on.
He rang the doorbell twice. No answer. He’d sneaked away from Commission duties to come here. The empty house confronted him with just how much he missed his wife and how large a hole her absence left. He was angry with himself for not taking more care to make sure she was home.
He entered through the garage and wandered through the house, not quite sure what he was looking for. He stared at Dray’s bottles arrayed on the counter of the master bathroom. Sitting on their bed, he picked up her pillow and inhaled her scent-lotion and hair conditioner. He painted over the new drywall he’d patched into the living room walls. He found his hammer in the garage and fixed the house number out front, swinging the 9 back into proper position and tapping the nail lightly until it came flush with the metal. When he returned to the kitchen, his head was buzzing.
He left Dray a Post-it on the fridge saying he loved her. He was almost to the door when he turned around and left another on the bathroom mirror telling her the same thing.
18
“MY NAME IS Jed. Using my full name, Jedediah, an anti-quated name, is an attempt by the government-controlled leftist media to distance me further from the average American, to make me a zealot.” On the cluster of closed-circuit TVs suspended in KCOM’s ground-floor window, seventeen televised Jed Lanes folded seventeen sets of hands and leaned back in seventeen plush interviewee chairs. An eighteenth screen reflected back the crowd itself, an array of irate and perversely curious faces.
Rolling his bike before him to split the crowd, Tim shouldered his way through the onlookers and picketers glued to the building’s immense front window. Melissa Yueh had Lane on set upstairs and was warming him up to go live inside the half hour. As a publicity stunt, KCOM programmers had elected to air the pre-interview banter on a closed-circuit network to the crowds gathered outside the building. Another link in the chain trailing back to the limited broadcast of Tim McVeigh’s execution.
The chants had only just quieted down, so Lane’s words could be heard, but disdain and outrage emanated from the crowd like heat. LAPD kept up a strong but unintimidating presence, the dark blue uniforms interspersed among the viewers and protesters at regular intervals. Just inside the lobby, KCOM security guards were checking IDs closely before moving visitors and employees through two airport-style metal detectors.
The minuscule detonator was wedged up beneath Tim’s bike seat. He had stuck nine flat magnets to the side of the chain stay and secured a tubular remote device the size of a lighter to the right pedal’s toe clip, disguised as a reflector. In addition to wearing eyeglasses, he’d let his scruff grow into a short beard and mustache, and he’d wedged a piece of Big Red at the gum line behind his bottom lip to alter the shape of his chin. A backpack slung over one shoulder, fake ID card flapping from the waist of his khakis, gold cross dangling from a necklace, he turned the corner and headed for shipping and receiving. A flick of his arm brought his watch out from cover: 8:31.
He picked out Robert’s picket sign among the others across the street: CHILD KILLE
R FANATIC. Something was wrong-the sign’s flip side, the slogan reversed, was to serve as the go-ahead. Robert continued to chant and follow the circling picket line, but Tim noted his tension in the thick cords of his neck.
Robert tilted his sign toward the shipping and receiving dock. Two new security guards had taken over in the wake of Lane’s posse’s entry. One patted down a courier at the base of the ramp, the other holding the bike to the side. They waved the courier through but kept his bike outside, despite his protests.
Plan A aborted.
Tim crossed the street and ditched the bike up against a garbage can after removing the hidden devices. He stood still for a moment, mind racing. On the ground by the trash can was a discarded guest pass, dated today. He smoothed it against his thigh. Joseph Cooper. That would do. New guards, after all, provided as many opportunities as disadvantages. Readjusting the backpack on his shoulder, he walked down the street and ducked into Lipson’s Pharmacy and Medical Supplies. The sole worker rustled with boxes in the back. “Be there in a minute!”
Seconds later Tim rolled out in the wheelchair previously displayed in the window, his backpack hooked over the seat back. His full-fingered biking gloves, which he’d worn down on a belt sander last night to give them a tatty authenticity, doubled nicely as protective padding against the fast-turning wheels. They also ensured a print-free entry.
Tim zipped over the crosswalk and headed straight at the new guards, flashing the guest pass when the taller one raised a meaty traffic-cop hand. “Hey, guys. I’m consulting with some editors up on eleven this week. I tried to get in at the entrance, but they told me to come around here today. Couldn’t get me through the metal detector with this baby”-he patted the side of the wheelchair lovingly-“but they said you could wand me down here.”
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