“The computer-chip millionaire,” I said, recognizing the name.
“It’s a single-story residence and Del Mar Road is the only access into and out of the neighborhood.”
“There is an adjoining polo field,” Christina added, “which means the president will most likely arrive by helicopter.”
“Which flies between earth and heaven . . . ,” I said.
“But the chances of you getting anywhere close to that polo field are remote,” Christina replied.
Jana continued, “Then, there’s a dinner at the convention center, which will be preceded by the president throwing the first pitch at Petco Park. The Padres are playing the Nationals that night.”
“The ballpark is at sea level,” I mused.
“There will be a designated area for protesters,” Christina said.
“The president’s third and final appearance is not a fund-raiser, but a huge send-off on Coronado Island. The president will visit the USS Ronald Reagan aircraft carrier and there will be a public rally with plenty of bands and balloons and choirs.”
“The place where you will most likely be able to get close to the president,” Sue said.
“And Air Force One takes off right there from North Island Naval Air Station,” I said.
“That’s right,” Jana replied.
“But how would I kill the president while Air Force One is taking off?” I asked.
Sue sighed. “We didn’t say we had it all figured out,” she said, “only that by putting one and one together—you in proximity to the president and him suspended between earth and heaven—the most likely scenario is the closing rally.”
“Which means I have three days in which to reach him and talk him out of it,” I said. “Thank you,” I said to all three of them. “Thank you all. At least now I know what I’m up against.”
Jana wasn’t listening. “Christina, have you ever been shopping at Fashion Valley?” she said. “I have an hour before I have to get back to the station.”
“Wait . . . Jana . . .” My mind was still on the president’s schedule. “This itinerary. It isn’t much for a three-day visit. Are there any meetings or conferences between these events?”
Jana shook her head. “Just these. People at the news station made the same observation. Usually these whirlwind tours are packed with meetings. Everybody wants five minutes with the president.”
I think I knew why the schedule was so sparse. In my mind’s eye I could see Doc Palmer working feverishly to patch together a drug-addicted president so that he would present a suitable public image for a few hours.
The girls were sliding out of the booth.
“Take care of the tab, will you, Grant?” Christina said as she passed me.
“You’re welcome,” Jana said, referring to the itinerary.
“You have good taste in women, Grant,” Sue said. “I like them. They’re fun.”
I remained behind and paid the check, but not before I got my cup of coffee.
CHAPTER 26
A senator once told me that protestors were macaws. Colorful, loud, and demanding, but harmless. “Who takes macaws seriously?”
Standing at the polo field in Del Mar, I had to agree with him. Most of the protestors seemed to operate under the assumption that if you waved a sign and shouted loud enough, the president would change any domestic or foreign policy. It was all in the volume.
I stood in the midst of a whole flock of macaws holding my sign: DOC PALMER IS ALIVE. I was surrounded by protestors of offshore oil drilling, the president’s handling of the wars in Lebanon and Venezuela, the Save Our Penguins brigade, and a man who wanted the president to investigate irregularities in the handling of his son’s Little League candy sales.
In every other attempt to reach the president, I’d struck out. A man who is hesitant about revealing his true identity has few options when contacting a head of state. This was my last-gasp effort, futile as it was. I felt ridiculous standing here.
“Nice sign, Grant,” Semyaza said.
He’d popped in from nowhere to mock me. “I have to admit, you have proven to be a formidable adversary. A protest sign. We never saw it coming. Stunning tactic. Lucifer and all his generals are huddling in a desperate attempt to come up with a strategy to stop you.”
I lowered my sign. “Does your presence mean it’s going to happen tonight?” I asked.
The president’s helicopter was approaching, stirring the macaws. The squawking jacked up to deafening decibels.
The helicopter was so far distant it looked the size of a sparrow. It hovered, suspended between earth and heaven, without incident. After it landed, there was a seamless transition as the president climbed into a limo and was whisked away.
Semyaza vanished without further comment.
Somewhere—wherever journalists were flocking—Jana was doing her part. Not only was she covering events, but trying to get word to the president on my behalf through the press corps. I watched her reports each evening on the nightly news.
Christina reinserted herself into the White House staff during the Del Mar visit after one of the event coordinators became sick from shellfish she ate in Tijuana. While Ingraham proved an insurmountable obstacle between her and the president, at least she was able to give us inside updates, on average, thirty minutes before the press got them.
The president left Del Mar the same way he came. In a helicopter and without incident.
The convention center fund-raiser was even a worse waste of time. The designated protest area was conveniently tucked away and well out of sight.
That night Jana reported on the news that the convention center fund-raiser had been a huge success. Douglas was nothing if not charismatic. To party officials he was the golden goose.
In the mornings, as the professor suggested, I read the call-to-arms verse every day and portions of the Gospel accounts. While I was familiar with some of the more recognizable accounts of Christ’s life, I had never studied the Gospels in depth. And while I couldn’t share in the world’s salvation, I saw in Jesus a heroic figure. While he couldn’t be my Savior, I determined he could be my hero.
According to the professor, Abdiel and many of the other angels refer to the historical Jesus as the Divine Warrior. I could see it.
On the third day I awoke early with a sense of quiet desperation. This would be my last chance to get the president’s attention.
According to the itinerary that had been given to the press, the president’s motorcade would travel south on Harbor Boulevard past the county courthouse that had been dedicated by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and then over to Coronado for a farewell rally, after which he would board Air Force One at North Island Naval Air Station.
The way I saw it, I had two chances. The motorcade route and the rally. Once the president was aboard Air Force One it was all over.
The rally would be a last-ditch effort. I’d promised Jana, Sue Ling, and Christina that under no circumstances would I go over to the Coronado side of the bay. They were afraid that once events were set in motion, there would be no stopping them and I would be swept up in history.
I intended to keep my promise, if possible. But I could think of at least one scenario that could land me on Coronado Island—by invitation of the president. If he saw my sign it was conceivable he could ask me to accompany him to the rally where we could talk, or to join him on Air Force One.
And if he didn’t see my sign?
I’d cross that bridge—pun intended, would you expect any less?—when I got to it.
I parked at Horton Plaza and walked to the bay. Finding a parking place on Pacific Coast Highway was a hit-and-miss proposition on a normal day, wishful thinking on a day like today.
When I reached Harbor Boulevard, I groaned with frustration at what I saw. A mistake from the night before had germinated and bloomed.
At the convention center a goofy-looking, bald-headed guy had struck up a conversation with me. He asked me about my
sign. I made the mistake of telling him that the sign wasn’t so much a protest, but a step toward getting an invitation to a private meeting with the president.
“You know something, don’t you?” he said.
“Something like that.”
“You really think it will work?”
“I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t think so.”
Now, as I crossed the street to the bay side of Harbor Boulevard, I saw five signs identical to mine: DOC PALMER IS ALIVE held by the goofy-looking bald guy and what looked like his wife and three children. When he saw me, he waved at me with a gaptoothed smile.
Trying to make the best of a messed-up situation, I distanced myself from my competition farther down the motorcade line. While their signs had the same message, I was the exclamation point. The fact that I knew Doc Palmer was alive put teeth in the message.
I know. I was grasping at straws. But when life gives you straws, the lemonade’s going to taste lousy.
Positioning myself at Navy Pier, I settled in for the wait. This was my last chance. One way or the other, I was going to get the president’s attention. I could think of one sure way. By stepping in front of the presidential limo.
Brake lights lit on a school bus as it negotiated the curve on the ramp from Interstate 5 north to the Coronado bridge. Jana Torres hoped they were just slowing for the curve. The last thing she needed right now was for traffic to back up.
Six months ago she’d committed herself to a breakfast speaking engagement in Chula Vista. Being a successful, articulate, and attractive Latina career woman made her popular with women’s groups. Normally she enjoyed giving motivational speeches and the station encouraged her since it was good public relations for them. However, six months ago she hadn’t known that the president would be in town and that there would be an attempt on his life.
She hadn’t told anybody at the station about what she knew. She treated the knowledge as any other tip. She’d follow it up and if it played out, she’d be in the right place at the right time. If it didn’t . . . it was just another tip that didn’t pan out. At least that’s what she told herself to calm her racing heart.
Officially, she hadn’t been assigned to the story, though she had fought for it. The station wanted her to keep her speaking commitment. Assigned to cover the story were two news crews; one was on Harbor Boulevard for the motorcade and the other on Coronado for the festivities and departure.
After a morning of smiling, shaking hands, and thanking people for watching her report the news, Jana drove toward Coronado. She believed Sue Ling was correct thinking that between earth and heaven referred to Air Force One, and she wanted to be there. If something dramatic happened, she could always grab an extra cameraman, or, if nothing else was available, a guy with a camcorder.
On the ramp ahead of her the single pair of brake lights became two, then six, then a dozen. She applied her brakes and slapped the steering wheel in frustration. Within seconds the entire ramp was at a standstill backing up onto the freeway.
She set her car radio to scan the channels in search of a news report. Flipping open her cell phone, she called her own station to see if there was an update on the president’s itinerary. The news desk told her the itinerary hadn’t changed. Neither had Christina, her inside source, left any messages.
She looked at her watch. There was still plenty of time. A couple hundred feet ahead of her the ramp curved sharply to the left, so she couldn’t see what traffic on the bridge was like. It was probably backed up into Coronado like it was every morning, when military personnel reported for duty.
Jana drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She was not going to sit here stuck in traffic while the biggest news story of the century unfolded just a few miles away.
Broken bones and casts awaited me. Men had sacrificed far more for their country. I took a deep breath, ready to do my duty and step in front of the president’s limo.
At the moment the street was empty of traffic. It had been rerouted for the motorcade.
I gripped my sign.
“What’s the big deal about Doc Palmer?” the guy next to me asked.
My cell phone rang. “Hail to the Chief.”
“Excuse me, I have to take this,” I told him. “The president.”
“Grant?” Christina said on the other end of the line. “Change of plans.”
My heart sank.
“We’re leaving the hotel right now and taking the freeway to Coronado. We’re not going down Harbor Boulevard.”
“Really? Why?”
“They didn’t say. Sorry.”
So that was it. The only other possibility was Coronado.
“Grant? You’re not thinking of going to Coronado, are you? You promised.”
“Sorry, Christina. I can’t talk now.”
Flipping the phone closed, I dropped my sign.
“He’s not coming,” I said to the man next to me.
“Yeah, like you were really talking to the president.”
“Suit yourself, but I’m telling you his itinerary has changed. He’s taking the freeway. He’s not coming down Harbor Boulevard.”
The woman next to him, chewing gum and wearing an orange ball cap, pulled earphones out of her ears. “Radio says he’s not coming,” she told her husband. “He’s taking the freeway to Coronado.”
The man stared at me in disbelief.
I shrugged.
The professor and Sue Ling heard the news about the change in the president’s route to Coronado from a news update on the television. She sat on the sofa and the professor sat next to her with the sofa arm separating them. They watched a small thirteen-inch screen from a combination television/VCR tape player that was kept in a closet when not in use.
It was unusual that the television was turned on during the day. Its use was normally restricted to Friday nights. Sue insisted the professor take Friday nights off. It was their movie night. They would alternate between action/adventure movies and romantic comedies. The adventures for her, the romantic comedies for him.
“Poor Grant,” Sue said when she heard the news.
The professor said nothing. He stared intently at the screen as though he was trying to see things that weren’t there.
Jana’s cell phone rang. She smiled when she saw CHRISTINA on the display, her newest addition to her phone list. The two women had hit it off famously from the moment they met in the hotel hallway. “I hope you have good news,” Jana answered.
“Where are you?”
“Stuck on the on-ramp to the bridge. Traffic’s backed up.”
“It’s not traffic. The bridge is closed.”
“Closed? Already?”
“The time schedule has been moved up. We’re on the freeway,” Christina said. “Is there another way for you to get to Coronado?”
Jana looked around her. She was boxed in. “I’d have to hop a freeway divider, hitch a ride south down to Imperial Beach and come up the strand.”
“Hop the freeway divider? Do you do that here in California?”
“If I remember my high school civics lessons, I think there’s a law against hopping freeway barriers while wearing high heels.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Grant,” Christina said. “You’re beginning to sound like him.”
“Sorry. I’m frustrated that I’m stuck here.”
“What’s ahead of you?”
“It’s hard to tell, the road curves onto the bridge. There are probably twenty cars between me and where it merges with the southbound ramp.”
“The one the motorcade is taking?”
“Yes.”
“Jana, get up there. I’ll . . . try to think of something. Just be ready to jump in a black limo if the opportunity presents itself.”
“You got it, girlfriend, just remember I’m in heels.”
Abandoning her car, Jana Torres took two steps, stoppped, slipped off her shoes, and ran past a traffic sign that indicated she was on the roa
d that would take her across the bay bridge into Coronado.
Standing on the wharf, I gazed dejectedly across the bay to Coronado Island and the profile of the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan, where the farewell rally would take place. The final farewell rally in all probability.
There were two ways to get over there. The bridge, or drive all the way down to Imperial Beach, then come up from the south by way of the strand. The bridge was closed to traffic and the longer route was, well, longer. On normal days there was a ferry service, but the Coast Guard had shut it down until the president was away.
All I could do now was wait for the bridge to reopen.
Staring across the bay, I wondered what the next hour would hold. Douglas always had a flair for the dramatic. It would be just like him to throw his own farewell party as a kickoff to his assassination.
With the water lapping the pilings several feet below me, I’d never felt more helpless. Telling myself I’d done all I could was hollow comfort. How could I have not seen what was really happening at the Douglas White House? And how could I have allowed myself to be spoon-fed the research that resulted in a glamorized account of Douglas’s war record? I should have trusted less and dug deeper.
Despite the damage it would do to my career as a writer, when this was all over I was going to return to Montana and convince Doc Palmer to come forward and set the record straight.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” I muttered. “If I do write a final chapter to the biography, it won’t be the one Myles Shepherd or Semyaza or whoever he is wants me to write. It’ll be the truth.”
I glanced across the bay again and wondered how much of the final chapter I’d be able to see from here.
That’s when I saw him.
Semyaza.
It was as though I’d summoned him by speaking his name.
He stood just a couple of hundred yards away from me on the flight deck of the USS Midway, which was now a floating museum docked at Navy Pier. He just stood there looking across the water at me, his pants legs flapping in the breeze.
A Hideous Beauty Page 23
