She typed in the search. “Eleven blocks due south of your hotel on National Mawatha. When you get near it, you’ll know it. Why are you on foot?”
“My car might be rigged with explosives.”
“Should I engage Vakind to have him warn the Sri Lankan officials in case there is a bomb?”
“Update Vakind, but there’s no time to evacuate the area. Find me the target, Bar. I’m out for now.”
“Wait, Tolen? I’ve already checked—” It was too late. Tolen was gone.
Bar sat at her PC dumbfounded. A moment of panic gripped her. She had already checked the attendees at the concert. No one had stood out, at least no one whose death should cost $100 million.
The only person that kept coming to mind was President Fane, but she was in Britain at the moment. Bar again pulled up the news video clip of President Fane deplaning from Air Force One in the UK a short time ago. On her heels was her daughter, Jessica.
Bar focused on the President’s daughter. She then did a quick Internet search and found video of Air Force One landing in France yesterday. Once again, Jessica Fane trailed her famous mother off the plane.
Bar thought of the mother and daughter. The two had been through so much with the death of Fane’s husband and father.
As she watched the video of President Fane walking up to a podium in Versailles, France, with Jessica following close behind, Tiffany noticed something. She restarted the clip to see the early moments when the camera angle was wide. Then she froze the video, staring closely at the screen.
What’s going on?
Bar quickly accessed an online search engine for recent full-body pictures of Gretchen Fane and Jessica Fane standing together. In particular, she sought pictures where she could see their shoes.
“Whoa!”
Jessica Fane was two inches shorter than she was last week.
With a shaking hand, she called Deputy Director Vakind.
* * * *
Minutes later, with Vakind on the line, Bar conferenced in Tolen.
“I’m here, Bar.”
Vakind spoke quickly. “The Secret Service has confirmed that the president’s daughter, Jessica Fane, is in Colombo at the McCartney concert. The ‘Jessica’ travelling on Air Force One is a sanctioned look-a-like. The president was in on the plan. The Secret Service admitted it when I told them we’ve uncovered an assassination attempt. The immediate problem is that the Secret Service is unable to reach the two agents escorting Jessica Fane. They suspect there may be a communication scrambler planted near their seats. There’s also no time to enlist support from Sri Lankan officials. How far are you from the arena?” Vakind asked.
“Two blocks away,” Tolen panted, “I can see it.”
“Tolen, based on the 8:43 p.m. deadline, you’ve got five minutes to get to her. She’s sitting to the right of the stage in the third tier deck, Aisle J, Seat 22. The agents are seated on either side. Was Chin working with a partner? Do you know how the assassination will be carried out?”
“No, Chin had no partner. I believe everything’s automated. Chin wouldn’t have attacked me in my hotel room a mere hour before an assassination attempt if he had to be at the venue to carry it out. ‘Charge Mother Mary’. ‘Live Jude 10.’ These phrases aren’t referring to the Bible,” Tolen panted, taking a breath as he ran. “It’s referring to automated voice commands during McCartney songs—Let it Be and Hey Jude. ‘Charge Mother Mary’ means that when McCartney sings the phrase ‘Mother Mary’ during Let it Be, a power unit hidden somewhere in the arena will be charged to a deadly dose of electricity. Then, during Hey Jude, it will be discharged, or go ‘live’. My best guess is that ‘Jude 10’ means that on the 10th time the word ‘Jude’ is sung, a fatal charge will be released. I think there’s a good possibly it’s hooked directly to Jessica Fane’s seat.”
“Jesus,” Vakind said. “She’ll be electrocuted.”
* * * *
Tolen remained in communication with Bar and Vakind via the earpiece as he ran. Sweat dripped off his face as he dodged pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Even as he ran, Tolen considered the diabolical genius of Chin’s plan. Jessica was the president’s only surviving family member. Despite the demands of Gretchen Fane’s position, a growing bond between the mother and daughter had helped them through the emotional hardship of losing family members. Tolen remembered hearing that one of the loves that Jessica had adopted from her mother, despite her age, was for The Beatles. Jessica became enamored with “Across the Universe,” a musical movie featuring all The Beatles’ songs.
Jessica’s death by electrocution would be a crushing loss to President Fane, given that it replicated the exact manner of death of her husband and her father two years before. On top of that, it would be while attending the performance by a musician that Gretchen Fane had encouraged her daughter to like and had sanctioned her attendance. Whether the president could weather the emotional toll of losing her daughter, her last family member, was unknown. Tolen knew all too well the pain of losing a family member and being alone. What was certain is that the American people, and especially investors, would see the loss as a devastating event to Fane, and, for a short time at least, the stock market would echo the nation’s lack of confidence in their leader’s ability to be effective. Shorting the market before a guaranteed stock slide could gain someone a fortune, and that appeared to be exactly what Ronald Chin had counted upon.
Tolen approached the structure that appeared more like some colossal amusement park than an entertainment venue. The towering structure took the shape of a series of massive drinking glasses abutted side-by-side to form a circle. The glass exterior accentuated the array of multi-colored lights, layered blue to pink from the top down. He checked his watch as he ran: 8:40 p.m. He had three minutes to get to Jessica Fane and the Secret Service agents.
There was no way to know the location of the junction box that would send the lethal charge to Jessica Fane’s seat, so he could not disarm it. There was also no time to reason with the Secret Service agents, even if he could reach them in time. The music would make it impossible to communicate.
Thus, his plan was simply to create a ruckus. He knew that at the first sign of trouble, the Secret Service agents would evacuate Jessica from the arena. Tolen figured that once he breeched the inside of the arena somewhere near where Jessica and the agents sat, he would fire a few harmless rounds into the ceiling and the agents would flee with their subject.
Of course, it also meant there was a chance they might try to take him out; not a pleasant thought, but it was a risk he would have to take.
In a dead run, his legs aching, Tolen neared the entrance to the south side, just as Bar had instructed him. She had laid out the most direct path through the arena for him to follow, and it was locked in his mind. He withdrew his pistol, hoping he did not have to use it on any of the security guards, but realizing he might have no choice. He would attempt non-fatal shots, if forced.
McCartney had taken the stage at eight and was well into his set. Based on a set list Bar found online, the band would just be ending one song and preparing to start Hey Jude about now. This meant the device had already been charged during Let it Be. The tenth time ‘Jude’ was sung would be during the third chorus near the end of the song.
Tolen had mere minutes left.
The outside of the arena was calm. Tolen spotted a row of turnstiles just inside several glass doors that were propped open. He cloaked his pistol under his jacket and headed for them. The look of surprise on the ticket taker’s eyes was evident as Tolen raced through the open doors and vaulted over the turnstile, never slowing. Somewhere behind him a man shouted something in Sinhala. Tolen ventured a quick glance behind but kept running. More shouting and rants ensued. He could hear the footsteps, knew a growing force of security guards and possibly Colombo police were pursuing him.
The e
scalator was ahead, and he bounded up it three steps at a time even as it cycled upward. He reached the landing and chanced another look behind. Three uniformed men had just reached the bottom of the escalator and were heading up it quickly.
Bar’s voice crackled in his ear. “Tolen, I’ve tapped into a live audio feedback of the concert. I estimate you have less than two minutes before McCartney sings the 10th ‘Jude.’ ”
“Got it,” was all he could manage to say. The eleven-block run to the arena at a full sprint had winded him, and one leg was beginning to cramp, yet he knew he had to push on. He turned to proceed up the second escalator, which would lead to the section where Jessica and the Secret Service agents were sitting. The landing was flooded with patrons at concessions and milling around the concourse. As he was about to take the first step up, he was blindsided by two men. Tolen landed hard on his right side, sliding across the polished floor, with one man still on top of him uttering broken English. With his right arm tingling in pain, Tolen lifted and pulled his gun out, but the man in uniform knocked it away before Tolen could threaten him. The gun skittered across the floor and into a crowd of people who had congregated to watch. Tolen launched his fist into the security guard’s face, sending the man to the floor beside him, but by then the second guard was nearly on top of him. Tolen rolled, evading the man, and rose to his feet. The guard pulled out his pistol, and Tolen knocked it from his hands, then toppled the man with a roundhouse kick. With both men incapacitated, Tolen desperately looked to the floor for his gun, but it was gone.
The voices of the three men coming up the escalator grew louder. Tolen dashed to his left, racing past the concession stand, violently pushing between the hordes of people. He could hear the music penetrating the concourse. As Bar had confirmed, McCartney was now well into Hey Jude.
“Tolen, what’s going on?” It was Vakind. “We heard a disruption. The Secret Service still can’t reach their agents. Will you make it in time?”
Tolen did not respond. He knew he had less than a minute to save the life of the president’s daughter. He had lost his gun, and because he was on the wrong level and running farther away from them, he would never reach them in time.
His thoughts spun, searching for an alternative.
The music continued to filter through onto the concourse.
“Bar,” Tolen said, gasping for each breath. “Where’s the main junction box to the arena?”
“It’s on the second-level concourse: west end. There’s a closet. It’s just beyond the women’s bathroom.” There was an anxious pause. “Tolen, McCartney’s on the last verse before the chorus.”
Tolen sprinted ahead, barging through the masses, as the voices behind him drew ever closer. He reached an area where the crowd thinned, and he increased his speed, pushing himself to his limit. He saw the women’s bathroom, then a door labeled only as “Keep Out.” Suddenly, a man in uniform, a local police officer, stopped ahead of him, and froze in firing stance, blocking Tolen’s way. Tolen never slowed, crouching low, barreling into the man. The two toppled to the floor as one mass of humanity. A single shot was fired, missing Tolen, but striking a nearby male bystander in the shoulder. Tolen grappled with the man’s weapon but was unable to dislodge it as the two fought on the floor, the gun aimed over both men’s heads.
The guard was surprisingly strong, and Tolen tried repeatedly to wrest the pistol from him. When he realized he would be unsuccessful, Tolen forced the barrel of the gun to point toward the electrical closet. As they struggled, he squeezed the man’s trigger finger several times in succession.
The blasts echoed down the concourse. The shots struck the closet door and penetrated it. Tolen had hoped to short the electricity to the entire complex, but McCartney’s lyrics continued on as he sang the first chorus.
“Tolen,” Bar said nervously, “you’ve only got two more choruses.”
Tolen finally was able to gain some leverage and lifted to his knees, smashing his fist against the police officer’s face and staggering him just long enough for Tolen to pull away. Even dazed, the officer still had a firm grip on the pistol.
“One more chorus,” her voice escalated.
Tolen ran to the closet and flung his full weight into the door. It collapsed inward, throwing him off balance. Tolen wobbled backward then staggered forward and ripped the door open. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the three security guards converge on him. The bandage from his bullet wound at the hotel was tattered; his arm dripping with blood.
“He’s on the last chorus!”
Tolen eyed the circuitry for a split second. He had nothing on him to short it out.
He had no choice.
“He’s about to sing the final ‘Jude’!” Bar shouted.
Just as the security guards were about to reach him, Tolen thrust his body into the circuit board.
* * * *
Inside the arena, the lights flickered, and everything went dark and disturbingly quiet. A general murmur rose from the unseen audience. Onstage, McCartney and his band were swallowed up in black. Secret Service agents Trent Smith and Lyle Fullwood went into action, retrieving night vision goggles from their pockets and quickly putting them on. They calmly escorted Jessica Fane from her seat, and while the rest of the crowd seemed to be paralyzed by the darkness, they made their way up the stairs and onto the dark concourse.
Minutes later, they departed the arena into a waiting car. Within the hour, Jessica Fane boarded a plane to London, England.
* * * *
Colombo police officer Sanduni Corea administered CPR to the black man on the ground in front of the electrical closet. The lunatic had electrocuted himself and caused a complete power failure in the midst of the concert. Four minutes later, and still unresponsive, Corea stopped CPR. It was another two minutes before the paramedics arrived. They also attempted to resuscitate the unidentified man as they loaded him on the stretcher and wheeled him outside to a waiting ambulance.
Eight minutes after taking his final breath, the man was pronounced dead as he lay in the back of the moving ambulance. The paramedic pulled the sheet over his head.
* * * *
Three days later, at FBI Headquarters in Washington, DC, CIA Deputy Director Morris Vakind opened the door to FBI Director Royce Tomlinson’s office and walked inside. He closed the door behind him.
Tomlinson, who was concentrating on some paperwork, looked up over his reading glasses. “Mr. Vakind. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Just putting the final wraps on the unfortunate incident in Sri Lanka.” Vakind approached the desk, shook Tomlinson’s proffered hand, and took a seat.
Tomlinson shook his head in disbelief. “I still can’t believe Tolen’s gone. He was a damn good man. We shared a dorm room our freshman year at Auburn. I’m sick over this whole ordeal; not to mention the Bureau getting their name smeared with the White House because of Ronald Chin’s actions. I’m just thankful Chin was not identified in the press as an FBI agent.”
“Two of our people back at Langley, one the analyst who supported the mission, Tiffany Bar, and the other, an operative, have checked into Ronald Chin’s background,” Vakind said.
Tomlinson sat up, removed his glasses. “You know we’re on top of this investigation. I’ve got a number of people dedicated to uncovering every sordid detail of Chin’s actions.”
“I know, but you understand, we lost an agent. We have to do our due diligence.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Tomlinson said, sitting back.
“You know,” Vakind said, almost smiling his admiration, “in a twisted sort of way, you have to admire Chin’s plan. Blaming millionaire Arnold R. Bowman was nothing more than a diversion so that when the assassination occurred, authorities would have their bad guy. By the time Bowman was cleared of any wrongdoing, Chin would have cashed out and hopped a plane to Rio with his millions, never to
show his face in the United States again.” Vakind’s face hardened. “Although my analyst, Ms. Bar, thought it was curious how Chin did nothing to mask his stock account when he shorted the market. In her own words, ‘it was almost too easy to find, and for only $50,000.’ You’d think that if Chin knew the market was going to plummet, he would have invested every cent he had. He still had another $38,000 sitting in the bank. It’s odd that he didn’t invest it, too, with such a sure and hefty return.”
Tomlinson shrugged. “Who can say? The man had gone off the deep end thinking he could get away with such a scheme.”
“Or maybe it was the account we were meant to find.”
Tomlinson’s brow furrowed. “I’m not following you.”
Vakind allowed a moment of silence to hang in the air. “Tolen figured that Chin was playing him. Chin lured McReynolds to Sri Lanka so that Tolen would visually confirm his attendance for a supposed meeting with Lu, then Chin faked the meeting when he knew Tolen was listening in. You’ve already seen the autopsy report that revealed McReynolds was poisoned. Probably forced to ingest it by Chin at gunpoint.”
Tomlinson placed two palms down on his desk and stiffened. “This is all old news, Vakind.”
“It was Chin’s actions that were most curious to Tolen. The moment Tolen hung up from speaking to Tiffany Bar and confirmed that Bowman, via McReynolds, was paying Lu for an assassination attempt, Ronald Chin attacked Tolen in his room. The only way Chin could have known the exact timing of when Tolen communicated Bowman’s guilt is if Chin was listening in on Tolen. Per Tolen’s suspicions, we checked the rooms on the fifth floor that faced Chin’s hotel room.” Vakind leaned in. “We found a listening device in every room. All 14 of them, including Tolen’s room.”
Before the Proof Page 3
